crazy tales, asleep stories and other ramblings...

My makeup is dry and it clags on my chin
I'm drowning my sorrows in whisky and gin
The lion tamer's whip doesn't crack anymore
The lions they won't fight and the tigers won't roar

So let's all drink to the death of a clown
Won't someone help me to break up this crown
Let's all drink to the death of a clown

The old fortune teller lies dead on the floor
Nobody needs fortunes told anymore
The trainer of insects is crouched on his knees
And frantically looking for runaway fleas

Hay un personaje que me topé en el Youtube que hace fieles versiones de canciones (Bowie, Beatles, Mercury...) en las que, además de cantar, imita a sus intérpretes originales en voz y apariencia e incluso toca en algunas de ellas. No tiene desperdicio...
Más

Un año cumple esto.
Una vela de ceros y unos para soplar.
La esperanza ahora navega rumbo a la dispersión y a la perspectiva caótica de la realidad más próxima, en inminente intersección con la aproximación beligerante de un mundo ajeno pero afín a todo lo conocido; nada que no gire sobre sí mismo, nada sobre lo que fundar temores.

Puedes beber hasta perder la vergüenza, hasta perder las formas, hasta perder el equilibrio, hasta perder la memoria, hasta perder el conocimiento o incluso hasta despertarte en otro país...

...pero hay algo que nunca se olvida: cómo se toca un blues.

A man lives at the corner of the street and his neighbors think he's helpful and he's sweet, cause he never swears and he always shakes you by the hand, but no one knows he really is a plastic man.

He's got plastic heart, plastic teeth and toes, he's got plastic knees and a perfect plastic nose. He's got plastic lips that hide his plastic teeth and gums, and plastic legs that reach up to his plastic bum.

Plastic man got no brain, plastic man don't feel no pain, plastic people look the same.

Kick his shin or tread on his face, pull his nose all over the place, he can't disfigure, or disgrace,plastic man.

He's got plastic flowers growing up the walls, he eats plastic food with a plastic knife and fork, he likes plastic cups and saucers 'cause they never break and he likes to lick his gravy off a plastic plate.

He's got a plastic wife who wears a plastic mac and his children wanna be plastic like their dad. He's got a phony smile that makes you think he understands, but no one ever gets the truth from plastic man.

Llega la hora de que el calor, las terrazas y la brisa marina tomen decisiones en nuestras vidas.
Es una oportunidad que nos concedemos para huir de nuestra vida cotidiana, de la parte que no nos gusta de lo que hacemos durante el año, de las caras que nos aburren y de los lugares que conocemos demasiado. Vacaciones le llaman.
La vida tiene mucho que ofrecer fuera de nuestra cotidianeidad y nuestro ritmo de vida. No es justo que rechacemos su oferta.

 A veces te ves en la tesitura de tener que escoger.
Una sosegada velada con un paisano que rebosa ingenio, lleno del saber que da la vida y el talento innato del que sólo gozan unos pocos; o un día duro con una señora que rebosa ingenuidad y tiene como única misión en el mundo obstaculizarte en tu camino hacia el futuro a cambio del generoso placer de sentirse útil.
Lo más duro es tener el deber de no poder optar, de sentirse obligado por uno mismo. Sin conciencia se es más feliz.

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
Take what you have gathered from coincidence.
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home.
All your reindeer armies, are all going home.
The lover who just walked out your door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor.
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Hoy toca homenajear a un instrumento que de pequeño me encantaba y ahora, ya no tan pequeño, me fascina.
Ilustraciones de Miguel Ruibal.