Au Bunker de la dernière Rafale

............le blog de Norkhat 0_O ...sous le signe du Capricorne et du hasard-objectif...

28 avril 2007



"Ta voix, tes yeux, tes mains, tes lèvres.

Nos silences, nos paroles. La lumière qui s'en va, la lumière qui revient.
Un seul sourire pour nous deux. Pas besoin de savoir.
J'ai vu la nuit créer le jour sans que nous changions d'apparence.
O bien aimée de tous, bien aimée d'un seul, en silence ta bouche a promis d'être heureuse.
De loin en loin dit la haine, de proche en proche dit l'amour.
Par la caresse nous sortons de notre enfance.
Je vois de mieux en mieux la forme humaine, comme un dialogue d'amoureux.
Le coeur n'a qu'une seule bouche.
Toutes les choses aux hasard, tous les mots dits sans y penser.
Les sentiments à la dérive.
Les hommes tournent dans la ville.
Les regards, la parole et le fait que je t'aime, tout est en mouvement.
Il suffit d'avancer pour vivre, d'aller droit devant soi vers tous ceux que l'on aime.
J'allais vers toi. J'allais vers la lumière.
Si tu souris, c'est pour mieux m'envahir. Les rayons de tes bras entrouvraient le brouillard. "

in Alphaville.


Posté par norkhat à 23:37 - Commentaires [0] - Permalien [#]

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas


San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of
. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.
My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .
And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean of military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

-Hunter S. Thompson-

Posté par norkhat à 23:30 - Commentaires [0] - Permalien [#]