Há concerto esta noite

«Há concerto esta noite. É o acontecimento. Vibrações sonoras estendem-se, movimentos periódicos percorrem o extenso com seus harmônicos ou submúltiplos.»
– Deleuze, “A Dobra – Leibniz e o Barroco”, cap. 6. [“Que é um acontecimento?”], p. 123.

«The most ordinary event casts us as visionaries, whereas the media turn us into mere passive onlookers, or worse still, voyeurs. Groethuysen said events always take place, so to speak, when nothing’s happening. People miss the amazing wait in events they were least awaiting. It’s art, rather than the media, that can grasp events: the films of Ozu or Antonioni, for example. But then with them, the periods in which nothing happens don’t fall between two events, they’re in the events themselves, giving events their depth. II have, it’s true, spent a lot of time writing about this notion of event: you see, I don’t believe in things. The Fold returns to this question from another viewpoint. My favorite sentence in the book is “There’s a concert tonight“. In Leibniz, in Whitehead, there are only events. What Leibniz calls a predicate is nothing to do with an attribute, but an event, “crossing the Rubicon.” So they have to completely recast the notion of a subject: what becomes of the subject, if predicates are events? It’s like a baroque emblem.»
– Deleuze, “Negotiations”, p. 160.

El tiempo ha sido mi Demócrito

La vejez (tal es el nombre que los otros le dan)
puede ser el tiempo de nuestra dicha.
El animal ha muerto o casi ha muerto.
Quedan el hombre y su alma.
Vivo entre formas luminosas y vagas
que no son aún la tiniebla.
Buenos Aires,
que antes se desgarraba en arrabales
hacia la llanura incesante,
ha vuelto a ser la Recoleta, el Retiro,
las borrosas calles del Once
y las precarias casas viejas
que aún llamamos el Sur.
Siempre en mi vida fueron demasiadas las cosas;
Demócrito de Abdera se arrancó los ojos para pensar;
el tiempo ha sido mi Demócrito.
Esta penumbra es lenta y no duele;
fluye por un manso declive
y se parece a la eternidad.
Mis amigos no tienen cara,
las mujeres son lo que fueron hace ya tantos años,
las esquinas pueden ser otras,
no hay letras en las páginas de los libros.
Todo esto debería atemorizarme,
pero es una dulzura, un regreso.
De las generaciones de los textos que hay en la tierra
sólo habré leído unos pocos,
los que sigo leyendo en la memoria,
leyendo y transformando.
Del Sur, del Este, del Oeste, del Norte,
convergen los caminos que me han traído
a mi secreto centro.
Esos caminos fueron ecos y pasos,
mujeres, hombres, agonías, resurrecciones,
días y noches,
entresueños y sueños,
cada ínfimo instante del ayer
y de los ayeres del mundo,
la firme espada del danés y la luna del persa,
los actos de los muertos,
el compartido amor, las palabras,
Emerson y la nieve y tantas cosas.
Ahora puedo olvidarlas. Llego a mi centro,
a mi álgebra y mi clave,
a mi espejo.
Pronto sabré quién soy.

– Jorge Luís Borges, “Elogio de la Sombra”, 1969.

Falcon

if you’re going to break my heart
then please just do it fast
if you’re going to crush my hopes
then hurry while they still last

i know you wish you could just run
but, honey, so does everyone

i’ve given up hope
i’ve given up on us
i’ve given up hope on you

if it’s going to be like that
then please just act your age
if you’re going to be like that
at least you do it offstage

i know you wish you could just run
the world won’t stop for anyone

i’ve given up hope
i’ve given up on us
i’ve given up hope on you

i know you wish you could just run
the world won’t stop for anyone

– Minta & The Brook Trout, “Falcon”, from Olympia, 2012.

The lonely hunter

«Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him — and, dreaming, whispers, “Follow!”

Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;
White is the hunter’s quarry, a lost-loved human face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath,
Led o’er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sun-ripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, “Follow, oh, Follow, Follow!”

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing.
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.»

– “The lonely hunter” by Fiona MacLeod, a.k.a. William Sharp.