SOS Venezuela

Johnny Cash - She Used To Love Me A Lot

"She Used To Love Me A Lot"

I saw her through the window today

She was sittin' in the Silver Spoon cafe

I started to keep going

But something made me stop

She used to love me a lot

She looked lonely and I knew the cure

Old memories would win her heart for sure

I thought I'd walk on in

And I give it my best shot

She used to love me a lot

I sat down beside her and she smiled

She said where have you been it's been awhile

She was glad to see me

I could almost read her thoughts

She used to love me a lot

She used to love me with a love that wouldn't die

Looking at her now I can't believe I said good-bye

It would only take a minute to turn back the clock

She used to love me a lot

I remember how good it was back then

And I said it's not to late to start again

We could spend a night together

Take up where we left off

She used to love me a lot

Then I panicked as she turned to walk away

As she went out the door I heard her say

Yes I'm in need of something

But it's something you ain't got

But I used to love you a lot

I thought she loved me with a love that wouldn't die

Looking at her now I can't believe she said good-bye

She just left me stading in there, I never been so shocked

She used to love me a lot

She used to love me a lot

She used to love me a lot ...

Sorriso

Quero ser nuvem sem forma definida

que brinca de ser monstro, bicho, coisa e flor

enquanto dança diante dos teus olhos cheios da rotina

apenas para fazer-te lembrar que o céu existe,

no meio do dia,
e que ele é o azul mais lindo de se ver.

Quero ser brisa, vento e ventania numa força sem corpo

e cheia de vida para poder mover os teus moinhos e te trazer o pão,

para espantar, nos dias de verão,
do teu pescoço e do dorso
o calor e o salgado suor.

Quero ser a tal da Maria, a Maria-sem-Vergonha, e crescer uma e outra vez

pelos teus caminhos todo santo dia,

apenas para te colorir a vida,

e fazer-te lembrar que o que não tem preço é o que merece o nosso apreço.

Quero ser borboleta, mariposa e abelha para, sem alarde, trazer-te

 pequenos e doces beijos,

e em silêncio ouvir teus sussurros, teus medos,

teus desejos.

Quero ser qualquer coisa que te faça sorrir para mim,

para que seja infinito este feitiço e,

eternamente,

eu me apaixone por ti.

Multi_Viral

Multi Viral

Calle 13

Todo empieza con una llamarada

Cuando despedimos llamas de nuestras miradas

Quieren detener el incendio que se propaga

Pero hay fuegos que con agua no se apagan

Y se acerca la linea policíaca

Los músculos se tensan

Y aumenta la frecuencia cardíaca

Suben los niveles de testosterona

Y empieza ese momento

En el que se enfrentan las personas

Cuando somos amigos del coraje

Cuando gritar se convierte en nuestro único lenguaje

A mi me ordena la razón, a ti te ordena un coronel

Si nuestra lucha es de cartón

La de ustedes es de papel

Y no nos paran

Porque un mensaje contundente

Convierte a cualquier teniente

En un tiburón sin dientes

El estado nos teme

Porque al mismo tiempo que somos 132 y 15M

Si la prensa no habla

Nosotros damos los detalles

Pitando las paredes

Con aerosol en las calles

Levanto mi pancarta y la difundo

Con solo una persona que la lea

Ya empieza a cambiar el mundo!

Codo con codo

Paso con paso

Crece la ola

Crece la espuma

Cuando cada vez más gente se suma

El que controla

El que domina

Quiere enfermarte pa' venderte medicina

Y nos endrogan

Nos embrutecen

Cualquier pregunta que tengamos

La adormecen

Son las mentiras recalentadas

Nos alimentan con carne procesada

Y la gente sigue desinformada

Una noticia mal contada

Es un asalto a mano armada

Se infiltramos

Nos duplicamos

Como las células

Nos multiplicamos

Al que no quiere caldo

Se le dan dos tazas

Somos la levadura que levanta la masa

Nuestras ideas son libres y están despiertas

Porque pensamos con las puertas abiertas

Lo que no se ve

Lo estamos viendo

Nacimos sin saber hablar

Pero vamos a morir diciendo

Codo con codo

Paso con paso

Crece la ola

Crece la espuma

Cuando cada vez más gente se suma

Julian Assange:

We live in the world that your propaganda made

But where you think you are strong you are weak

Your lies tell us the truth we will use against you

Your secrecy shows us where we will strike

Your weapons reveal your fear for all to see

From Cairo to Quito a new world is forming

The power of people armed with the truth

Codo con codo

Paso con paso

Crece la ola

Crece la espuma

Cuando cada vez más gente se suma

Calle 13 - Digo lo que Pienso

Digo Lo Que Pienso

Siempre digo lo que pienso

No quiero ser tu artista favorito

Tampoco me interesa representar a Puerto Rico

Pa' representar a mi país están los deportistas

Lo mío es soltar la lengua y que resbale por la pista

Tengo del respeto que no se compra con plata

Soy un tipo decente sin tener que usar corbata

Rimando con franqueza soy todo un académico

Soy mas polémico que Michael Jackson y su médico

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Mis letras groseras son mas educadas que tu silencio

Se equivocaron un par de novatos en la escena

Pero se disculparon no hay ningún problema

Tirar con indirectas, eso no es cosa de hombres

El que me tire a mi tiene que mencionar mi nombre

Y cuando me mencionan rimando estupideces

Los pongo a caminar en faldas como los escoceses

Con un buen manejo del vocablo

Rimando hay pocos caballos en el establo,

Diablo, la envidia los bloquea

Tuvo que venir un rockero a darles clases de cómo se rapea

[Coro:]

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Aquí no hay armas, yo me la juego inteligente

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Con dos palabras puedo tumbarte un par de dientes

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Cuando quiero decir algo lo digo de frente

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Dejar de hablar no combina con gente valiente

Baterista de pequeño, rapero cuando adulto

Por eso riman a tiempo todos mis insultos

A las mentalidades prehistóricas

Las capturo con groserías

Luego las mato con retórica

Los problemas no se dan por sentado

Y mas cuando hay abusos de parte del estado

Sería muy fácil para mi escribir un bolero

O hacer un video rapeando encima de un velero

Con mujeres en pelotas acariciándome los huevos

Sacrificar mis ideales pa' venderte un disco nuevo

Si es así mejor me quedo

No se puede escribir sobre el dolor

Cuando se escribe con miedo

Conformarse y dejar de insistir

Es como ver a alguien ahogándose y dejarlo morir

No importa si me escucha una sola persona por esta vez

Cuando conecto a uno conecto a diez

Que importa si no sueno en las radios de mi país

Tengo al mundo dando vueltas con las letras que escribí

Me censuraron por razones obvias

Por que fui mas honesto con ustedes

Que lo que fui con mi ex novia

Yo soy el que te recuerda como estamos de jodíos

Y que todos tus problemas pueden ser como los míos

Yo soy todo lo que tu escondes

Soy el que esta pa' ti, dime cómo cuándo y dónde

[Coro]

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Aquí no hay armas, yo me la juego inteligente

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Con dos palabras puedo tumbarte un par de dientes

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Cuando quiero decir algo lo digo de frente

Siempre digo lo que pienso

Dejar de hablar no combina con gente valiente

Hoy te va conocer el mundo entero

Te voy a hacer famoso pero por periquero

Alcalde drogadicto con cara de idiota

Ganarme esos Grammys fue como venirme en tu boca

Eres corrupto, tu lo sabes, yo no me chupo el dedo

Tienes cara de narcotraficante con miedo

Con el dinero de las regalías de esta canción

Te prometo que te pago la rehabilitación

No me vengas a amenazar con la CIA

Yo también tengo amigos policías

Amigos en México, Colombia y Venezuela,

Cuba, Argentina, y hablo con ellos to' los días

Tengo amigos que te han visto capeando

El perico, la coca, oliendo, olfateando

Pa' que no digan que esto es un montaje

Yo te invito a hacernos la prueba de dopaje.

Do lado de lá do lado do que cá está

Uma das coisas mais difíceis nesta vida é definir exatamente, claro e sem sombra de dúvida alguma, o que é o certo a se fazer nesta ou naquela situação. Saber se estamos certos, cheios e donos da razão, ou se estamos completamente equivocados em nossas decisões e atitudes durante a vida é muito mais complexo e custoso do que parece ser a princípio. Vamos, tal cegos de Saramago, a tatear pela vida e a mostrar que a nossa natureza humana não é tão boa quanto cremos ser. Isso de sermos falíveis e imperfeitos tem sua beleza, eu sei. Mas o fato é que o ônus que tais qualidades trazem pesa demais às vezes.

Certo é que há os tais dos dez mandamentos e que as leis estão cá para que as cumpramos. Entretanto, entre matar alguém e cobiçar a mulher do próximo há uma distância gigantesca, e os pecados grandes ou pequenos são cometidos a miúdo sejam eles movidos por boas ou más intenções. E na maioria dos casos a questão não reside em saber se as intenções são boas, contudo em perceber por intenção de quem é que elas são.

Sempre me achei uma boa pessoa, apesar de apenas meio ciente de minhas imperfeições e limitações, verdade. Mas, ainda assim: boa. Nunca matei nada para além de formigas e baratas, e procuro não magoar as pessoas, apesar de saber que, às vezes, o faço. Porém, tal como o inferno, eu estar cheia de boas intenções talvez não seja uma garantia atestada da bondade e beleza d’alma que me habita. Sei que não sou um monstro, não é disso que se trata. Porém, percebo, em contradição com o meu dramático egoísmo costumeiro, que não sou o anjo de pessoa que por vezes imagino ser.

E se já nos é um tanto doído perceber que não há tanta beleza do lado de fora ao nos olharmos no espelho, perceber que pode haver a feiura cá dentro dói muito mais. E entendemos que não nos conhecemos tão ampla e à luz do dia como no dia a dia nos parece ser. 

Então, noutro dia, quando ouvi alguém afirmar que, com o tempo e o distanciamento, ele pôde, afinal, perceber a quão feia a menina é por dentro apesar de por fora não o ser; assustei-me. Não que o dito tenha sido explicitamente dito para mim. Talvez sim. Talvez. Mas isso não importa.  O que importa é que, desde então, ando a olhar-me no espelho a tentar enxergar o quão feia sou, ou não, por dentro. Feito a Alice, ando a vasculhar no reflexo o que há do lado de lá do lado que cá dentro está.

How to Write about Africa - B. Wainaina

Page 1 | How to Write about Africa | Granta 92: The View from Africa | Archive | Granta Magazine

How to Write about Africa

DISCUSSION (925)

This article was originally published in Granta 92.

How to Write About Africa

Always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky’, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’. Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people’s property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa’s most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or ‘conservation area’, and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa’s rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You’ll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care. ■