Aqualung

Up, Down.

this all came to mind before yesterday looking at the comments on a Globe editorial and it has been there ever since ... it has to do with guilt, and that gets complicated eh? :-)

Aqualung's appeal is all in the phrase, "Aqualung, my friend," that and Ian Anderson's exaggerated & apparently coke-inspired gestures in the video (but that came later) - I have yet to vet the translation completely but I noticed 'pântano' for bog so there is some work to do there for sure ... 'mictório'

Sir Thomas Wyatt (português), 1503-1542, old stuff, and his poem, except for the last stanza which seems ... what? a silly moralistic boy feeling sorry for himself? ... but the first two stanzas are ... not, this is just about where I started blogging, second post ever was a few poems ...

Pogo, 1974 was it? ... 1971, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

there are more than a few steps between that and "Nobody cares if you live or die," and the end of a bourgeois son

anyway, I am not the only one who is reverting to prayer and other vestigial 16th century behaviours around hopes for the events at Copenhagen in December.

Jethro Tull, Aqualung (legendado).
Sitting on a park bench Eyeing little girls with bad intent. Snot running down his nose Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. Drying in the cold sun Watching as the frilly panties run. Feeling like a dead duck Spitting out pieces of his broken luck. Sun streaking cold An old man wandering lonely. Taking time The only way he knows. Leg hurting bad, As he bends to pick a dog-end He goes down to the bog And warms his feet. Feeling alone The army's up the road Salvation à la mode and A cup of tea. Aqualung my friend Don't start away uneasy. You poor old sod, you see, it's only me. Do you still remember December's foggy freeze When the ice that Clings on to your beard is Screaming agony. And you snatch your rattling last breaths With deep-sea-diver sounds, And the flowers bloom like Madness in the spring.		Sentado em um banco de parque, Olhando as garotinhas com más intenções Ranho escorrendo de seu nariz Dedos engordurados ensebando suas roupas rotas. Secando ao sol frio, Assistindo enquanto as calcinhas frescas correm Sentindo-se como um pato morto Cuspindo pedaços da sua sorte arruinada O Sol desponta frio Um velho vagueia solitário Passando o tempo Do único jeito que ele conhece A perna doendo muito, Enquanto ele se curva para pegar uma ponta Ele vai até o mictório E esquenta seus pés. Sentindo-se só, O exército está pronto para a cavalgada Salvação "à la mode" E uma xícara de chá Aqualung meu amigo Não fuja a fora intranqüilamente Seu pobre e velho apoio, você sabe, sou só eu Você lembra ainda A geada nebulosa de dezembro Quando o gelo que Se grudava em sua barba Estava gritando em agonia E você luta pelos seus últimos desesperados suspiros Com sons de mergulhador de mares profundos, E as flores desbrocham Em loucura da primavera.
Thomas Wyatt
They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, "dear heart, how like you this?" It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.		Elas fogem de mim mas antes me procuravam Com os pés nus, espretando o meu quarto Eu as via gentís dóceis e humildes E agora são selvagem e não lembram Que elas se punham em risco as vezes Pegando pão na minha mão, e agora elas vagueiam Procurando ativamente em contínua mudança Agradeço pela boa sorte de ter sido ao contrário Vinte vezes melhor, mas uma vez especialmente Em roupas leves depois da diversão agradavel Quando sua camisola solta caiu dos ombros E ela me apanhou nos braços longos e finos E então me beijou meigamente E sussurrou "meu coração, como você gosta disso?"

yes, our Aqualung, the old pervert ... it's only a matter of time before someone nominates this blog as unfit ... so it goes ... if you don't want to see this - don't look at it:

it is the two smiles in the second-last frame that caught me, say 'cheeze' smiles have a certain quality ...

And the Phantom's shouting at two skinny girls, "Get outa here if you don't know Casanova is just being punished for going to Desolation Row."
     Bob Dylan, Desolation Row.