Donna Summer roller disco party presents alternative vision of 1970s Boston - The Boston Globe -
City Hall Plaza’s most infamous moment came in 1976, when an anti-busing protester swung a pole bearing an American flag at a black lawyer. But an alternative vision of the ’70s, and of much-maligned City Hall Plaza, came to life Friday evening — at the free Donna Summer Memorial Roller Disco Tribute Party sponsored by the Walsh administration’s Office of Arts and Culture and the annual dance music festival Together Boston. The famous disco singer, who died in 2012, grew up in Dorchester; the accident of her stage surname was enough to justify a tribute party on a crystal-clear night in July.
Looking west from 7th and Union. Bike lane.
Probably Dona Placida did not speak when she was born, but if she did, she might have said to the authors of her days, ‘Here I am. Why did you summon me?’ And the sacristan and his lady naturally would have replied, ‘We summoned you so that you would burn your fingers on pots and your eyes in sewing; so that you would eat little or nothing, rush around, become sick and then get well so that you might become sick again; sad today, desperate tomorrow, finally resigned, but always with your hands on the pot and your eyes on the sewing, until you wind up in the gutter or in a hospital. That is why we summoned you, in a moment of love.’ — The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas by Machado de Assis
Beliefs can’t be shaken short of a major shock, in which case, a fairly complete mental disruption results. Mild cases - hysteria, morbid sense of insecurity. Advanced cases – madness and suicide. — Isaac Asimov, Foundation and Empire (via agaywalksintoabar)
In the late sun, the rivers and the mountains are beautiful,
The spring breeze carries the smell of flowers and grass.
Above the melting mud, small swallows fly,
Mandarin ducks sleep on the warm sand.
After the battle, many new ghosts cry,
The solitary old man murmurs in his grief.
Ragged low cloud thins the light of dusk,
Thick snow dances back and forth in the wind.
The wine ladle’s cast aside, the cup not green,
The stove still looks as if a fiery red.
To many places, communications are broken,
I sit, but cannot read my books for sorrow. — Tu Fu (712–770)
I wish I had the abilities of the most refined scholars, so that I might tell you in the noblest verse, or else in learned prose, that you will always be, in spite of everything that may be done, the very same you have been all your life; that is to say, a scatter-brain, a man of distempered reason, always perplexed, wanting common sense, a man of left-handed judgment, a meddler, an ass, a blundering, hare-brained, giddy fellow,— what can I think of? A… a hundred times worse than anything I can say. This is only an abridgement of your panegyric. — The Blunderer by Moliere
I have triumphed over both life and death because I no longer desire to live, nor do I any longer fear to die. I want nothing. I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. Therefore I am free. — Woman at Point Zero by Nawal el Saadawi
Aug. 17, 2013. Adan Sheikh Abdi Sheikh, who has been sentenced to death for the murder of journalist Hassan Yusuf Absuge, stands tied to a pole before he is executed by shooting at close range at the Iskola Bulisiya square in the Somali capital Mogadishu. Photo by Feisal Omar.
incorpóreo paseo del sol a lo umbrío
agua música en la sombra viviente
atravieso la afilada vagina
que me guía de la ceguera a la luz
bajo la alta cúpula sonora
en este colosal simulacro de nido
toco el vientre marino con mi vientre
registro minuciosamente mi cuerpo
hurgo mis sentimientos
her hips wiggled the tide
caught in jazz gravity
lordess of post-noel
hard cider sundays when
man numero uno put her
on planetary spin then pulled
her into orbit did smooth math
on boozed brunette in possession
of dangerous heels and such snap
rubbed bones lit a spark
over a vamp thawed icy december
outside her dress a magnolia
burnt at the rim silhouetted
against the solar flare that ribboned
from each electric pluck
duke robillard played chief
as grad students crowded
the bartender threw nickels
for last call and some south
american spanish upstairs
latin night stomped the twilight
frost into condensation that dripped
to a sidewalk freeze before the sun
went down and moon brought it to
a molasses beat and our girl
got salt and vinegar with
man number two a little rough
around the rest but with a
budweiser belly adequate for
maintaining centrifugal force
they wobbled a dancing eclipse
tightwire ostinato snow stragglers swung
open the front door and a winter
draught caught the duet mid temptation
tightened waist against waist
the hard dueled night dissolved at the hip
the loser blown back to infamy
which is to say all the way back
to the original syncopation
how ancient is anybody’s guess
but the ritual still sends moonquakes
shaking up our spines
what is the ethos of electronic dance music? full disclosure: most of it gives me a headache. what i see is mostly men standing on altars that may be a pedestal. in front of him is his equipment, his microphone, and before him are the masses, his proletariat, in a room so open and vast it could be a central city square. he is guiding there movements, they are cheering, he is speaking through rhythms and synthesizers and heavy, practically violating bass. his hand is a cursor. they haven’t marched on washington or but they fall down for their evita. aestheticized populism.
or with headphones in? impenetrable. a sometimes oppressively juggernaut of a beat, unrelenting. the type of pulse that would heartburst. batteries or at minimum required for the commute to and from work and during lunch breaks, for charging.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn. — Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus (via ennuiaboo)