Pictures of you

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you that I almost belive that they're real. I've been living so long with my pictures of you that I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel. Remembering you standing quiet in the rain
as I ran to your heart to be near, and we kissed as the sky fell in holding you close how I always held close in your fear.

Remembering you running soft through the night, you were bigger and brighter and wider than the snow, and screamed at the make-believe, screamed at the sky, and you finally found all your courage to let it all go.

Remembering you fallen into my arms crying for the death of your heart you were stone white so delicate, lost in the cold, you were always so lost in the dark. Remembering you how you used to be, slow drowned you were angels, so much more than everything. Oh hold for the last time then slip away, quietly open my eyes but I never see anything.

If only I had thought of the right words
, I could have hold on to your heart.
If only i'd thought of the right words, I wouldn't be breaking apart all my pictures of you. Looking so long at these pictures of you, but I never hold on to your heart. Looking so long for the words to be true, but always just breaking apart my pictures of you .

There was nothing in the world that I ever wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart. There was nothing in the world that i ever wanted more than to never feel the breaking apart all my pictures of you.

Robert Smith, Disintegration, The Cure.

Just Like Heaven

"Show me how you do that trick,
the one that makes me scream" she said
"the one that makes me laugh" she said
And threw her arms around my neck

"show me how you do it,
And I promise you, I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"

Spinning on that dizzy edge
I kissed her face and kissed her head
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow

"why are you so far away?" she said
"why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you
That I'm in love with you"

Soft and only
Lost and lonely
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You're just like a dream

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe her name
I opened up my eyes

And found myself alone alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me

Soft and only
Lost and lonely
Just like heaven

Robert Smith


High Fidelity - Land of sexual neurosis

But when we get to her place,
she asks me if I want to break
into her duty free,
and I find that I do. So.

I speak quietly, slowly, thoughtfully, I express regret,
I say nice things about Laura,
I hint at a deep ocean of melancholy just below the surface.
But it's all bollocks, really, a cartoon sketch of a decent,
sensitive guy which does the trick
because I am in a position to invent my own reality
and because — I think —
Marie has already decided she likes me.

I have completely forgotten how to do the next bit,
even though I'm never sure
whether there's going to be a next bit.
I remember the juvenile stuff,
where you put your arm along the sofa
and lee it drop onto her shoulder,
or press your leg against hers;
I remember the mock-tough adult stuff
I used to try when I was in my mid-twenties,
where I looked someone
in the eye
and asked if they wanted to stay the night.
But none of that seems appropriate anymore.
What do you do when you're old enough to know better?
In the end it's a clumsy collision
standing up in the middle of the living room.
I get up to go to the loo,
she says she'll show me,
we bump into each other,
I grab, we kiss,
and I'm back in the land of sexual neurosis.

Why is failure the first thing I think of
when I find myself in this sort of situation?

Why can't I just enjoy myself?
But if you have to ask the question,
then you know you're lost:
self-consciousness is a man's worst enemy.

Look at all the things that can go wrong for men.
There's the nothing-happening-at-all problem,
the too-much-happening-too-soon problem,

the dismal-droop-after-a-promising-beginning problem;
there's the size-doesn't-matter-except-in-my-case problem,
the failing-to-deliver-the-goods problem...
And what do women have to worry about?
A handful of cellulite? Join the club.

A spot of I-wonder-how-I-rank? Ditto.

High Fidelity - Not what are like, but what you like.

A while back, when Dick and Barry and I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like, Barry proposed the idea of a questionnaire for prospective partners, a two- or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music/film/TV/book bases. It was intended
a) to dispense with awkward conversation, and
b) to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with someone who might, at a later date, turn out to have every Julio Iglesias record ever made.

It amused us at the time, although Barry, being Barry, went one stage further: he compiled the questionnaire and presented it to some poor woman he was interested in, and she hit him with it. But there was an important and essential truth contained in the idea, and the truth was that these things matter, and it's no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently, or if your favorite films wouldn't even speak to each other if they met at a party.

Walk Away

I swapped my innocence for pride
Crushed the end within my stride
Said I'm strong now I know that I'm a leaver

I love the sound of you walking away,
you walking away

Mascara bleeds a blackened tear, oh
And I am cold, yes, I'm cold
But not as cold as you are

I love the sound of you walking away,
you walking away

Why don't you walk away?

No buildings will fall down
Won't you walk away
No quake will split the ground
Won't you walk away
The sun won't swallow the sky

Won't you walk away?
Statues will not cry
Why don't you walk away?

I cannot turn to see those eyes

As apologies may rise
I must be strong and stay an unbeliever
And love the sound of you walking away,
Mascara bleeds into my eye, oh
And I'm not cold,
I am old

At least as old as you are

And as you walk away

Oh, as you walk away

High Fidelity - The music or the misery

Some of my favorite songs: 'Only Love Can Break Your Heart' by Neil Young; 'Last Night I Dreamed That Somebody Loved Me' by the Smiths; 'Call Me' by Aretha Franklin; 'I Don't Want to Talk About It' by anybody. And then there's 'Love Hurts' and 'When Love Breaks Down' and 'How Can You Mend a Broken Heart' and 'The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness' and 'She's Gone' and 'I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself 'and . . . some of these songs I have listened to around once a week, on average (three hundred times in the first month, every now and again thereafter), since I was sixteen or nineteen or twenty-one. How can that not leave you bruised somewhere? How can that not turn you into the sort of person liable to break into little bits when your first love goes all wrong?

What came first, the music or the misery?
Did I listen to music because I was miserable?
Or was I miserable because I listened to music?
Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands, of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.

High Fidelity - Charlie Nicholson

And she liked me. She liked me. She liked me. She liked me. Or at least, I think she did.

We went out for two years, and for every single minute I felt as though I was standing on a dangerously narrow ledge. I couldn't ever get comfortable, if you know what I mean; there was no room to stretch out and relax. I was depressed by the lack of flamboyance in my wardrobe. I was fretful about my abilities as a lover. I worried that I was never ever going to be able to say anything interesting or amusing to her about anything at all. I was intimidated by the other men in her design course, and became convinced that she was going to go off with one of them. She went off with one of them. I lost the plot for a while then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the intermission, my popcorn, the credits, and the exit sign.

High Fidelity - Foreplay

Read any women's magazine and you'll see the same complaint over and over again: men — those little boys ten or twenty or thirty years on — are hopeless in bed. They are not interested in 'foreplay'; they have no desire to stimulate the erogenous zones of the opposite sex; they are selfish, greedy, clumsy, unsophisticated. These complaints, you can't help feeling, are kind of ironic. Back then, all we wanted was foreplay, and girls weren't interested. They didn't want to be touched, caressed, stimulated, aroused; in fact, they used to thump us if we tried. It's not really very surprising, then, that we're not much good at all that. We spent two or three long and extremely formative years being told very forcibly not even to think about it. Between the ages of fourteen and twenty-four, foreplay changes from being something that boys want to do and girls don't, to something that women want and men can't be bothered with. (Or so they say. Me, I like foreplay — mostly because the times when all I wanted to do was touch are alarmingly fresh in my mind.) The perfect match, if you ask me, is between the Cosmo woman and the fourteen-year-old boy.

High Fidelity

Esta probablemente sea la única vez (o una de las pocas) que yo escribiré personalmente. Primero, porque este blog se llama Coleccionista de Palabras, porque justamente de eso se trata: de recopilar esas palabras que merecen ser guardadas y a su vez difundidas, y no creo que nada de lo que yo pueda escribir merezca semejante distinción. Segundo, porque no lo creé para los demás, sino que, en una actitud totalmente egoísta, lo creé para mí, y poco me interesa leerme a mi mismo.
Terminada la aclaración, el comentario: High Fidelity es un libro de un autor inglés llamado Nick Hornby, en la que está basada la película homónima protagonizada por John Cusack. Nick Hornby también es el autor (entre otros libros) de About a Boy, en la que está basada la película homónima protagonizada por Hugh Grant. En ambos casos, las adaptaciones son buenas, pero los libros, infinitamente mejores.
Sobre High Fidelity encontrarán numerosas entradas, dada la imposibilidad de poner el libro entero en el blog, libro que se encuentra en mi "top five all time favourite books" (los que leyeron el libro o vieron la peli sabrán entender).


PD: Mi top five se completa con Lord of the Rings (los cinco, pero los cuento como uno), Harry Potter (los siete, pero los cuento como uno y aunque todavía sean seis), La sombra del viento (Carlos Ruiz Zafón), La melancólica muerte del niño ostra y otras historias, de Burton (matan los dibujitos) y el quinto High Fidelity, obviamente. Entre los que quedaron afuera de la pelea están: Bioy (Historias Desaforadas, una colección de cuentos, ranquea alto, aunque también podría ser El Sueño de los Héroes), El Prestigio, de Christopher Priest (¿vieron El Gran Truco?) y Lemony Snicket Una Serie de Eventos Desafortunados (los 13, aunque sólo haya leído 5, y aunque la peli esté en mi top five all time favourite movies).

Behold the Metatron!

Like I was saying - I am the Metatron.
Metatron. Don't tell me the name doesn't ring a bell?
You people. If there isn't a movie about it,
it's not worth knowing, right?

I am a seraphim. The highest choir of angels?
You do know what an angel is, don't you?
Metatron acts as the voice of God.
Any documented occasion when some yahoo
claims to have spoken with God,

they're speaking to me.
Or they're speaking to themselves.

Dogma (1999), Kevin Smith.


Vanilla Sky

Look at us.
I'm frozen, and you're dead.
And I love you.
It's a problem.
I lost you when I got in that car.
I'm sorry.
Do you remember what you told me once?
That every passing minute...
is another chance to turn it all around.
I'll find you again.

I'll see you in another life...
when we are both cats.



Til Kingdom Come

Steal my heart... and hold my tongue
I feel my time... my time has come
Let me in... unlock the door
I never felt this way before

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummer begins to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know which way I've come

Hold my head... inside your hands
I need someone... who understands
I need someone... someone who hears
For you I've waited all these years

For you I'd wait... 'Til Kingdom Come
Until my day... my day is done
and say you'll come... and set me free
just say you'll wait... you'll wait for me

In your tears... and in your blood
In your fire... and in your flood
I hear you laugh... I heard you sing
I wouldn't change a single thing

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummers begin to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know what I've become

For you I'd wait... 'Til kingdom come
Until my days... my days are done
Say you'll come... and set me free
Just say you'll wait... you'll wait for me

The Marine Biologist

George, I was just reading this thing in the papers, it's amazing!

I know, I was telling them the story.

Come on George, finish the story.

The sea was angry that day my friends,
like an old man trying to return soup at a deli!
I got about fifty-feet out
and then suddenly the great beast appeared before me.
I tell ya, he was ten stories high if he was a foot.
As if sensing my presence he gave out a big bellow.
I said, "Easy big fella!"
And then as I watched him struggling,
I realized something was obstructing his breathing.
From where I was standing
I could see directly into the eye of the great fish!



Well, what did you do next?

Then, from out of nowhere, a huge title wave lifted,
tossed like a quark and I found myself on top of him,
face to face with the blow-hole.
I could barely see from all of the waves crashing down on top of me,
but I knew something was there,
so I reached my hand and pulled out the obstruction

(George pulls out of the inside pocket a golf ball)

(Jerry and George just stare to Kramer)

What is that, a Titleist?
A hole in one, eh?

Well, the crowd must have gone wild!

Oh yes, they did Jerry, they were all over me.
It was like Rocky 1.
Diane came up to me, threw her arms around me, and kissed me.
We both had tears streaming down our faces.
I never saw anyone so beautiful.
It was at that moment I decided to tell her I was not a marine biologist!

Wow! What'd she say?

She told me to "go to hell", and I took the bus home.


Hattori Hanzo

I'm done doing what I swore an oath
to God 28 years ago to never do again.
I've created, "something that kills people.”
And in that purpose I was a success.

I've done this,
because philosophically
I'm sympathetic to your aim.
I can tell you with no ego,
this is my finest sword.

If on your journey,

you should encounter God,
God will be cut.

Revenge is never a straight line.
It's a forest. And like a forest
it's easy to lose your way...
to get lost...
to forget where you came in.
To serve as a compass,
a combat philosophy must be adopted,
that can be found in the secret doctrine
of the Yagu Ninja.
And now my yellow haired warrior,
repeat after me;

"When engaged in combat,

the vanquishing of thine enemy
can be the warrior's only concern...

This is the first
and cardinal rule of combat...

Suppress all human emotion and compassion...
Kill whoever stands in thy way,
even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself...
This truth lies at the heart
of the art of combat.
Once it is mastered,
Thou shall fear no one...
Though the devil himself
may bar thy way.”


Remember, remember, the fifth of november.

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reasonwhy the gunpowder treasonshould ever be forgot."
Those were almost the very first wordshe spoke to me and, in a way,that is where this story began, four hundred years ago, in a cellar beneath the Houses of Parliament.

In 1605, Guy Fawkes attemptedto blow up the Houses of Parliament.He was caught in the cellars with enough gunpowder to level most of London.

Sometimes I wonder where we would be
if he hadn't failed.I wonder if it would have mattered. I suppose the answer is in the rhyme. More than the man, what we must remember is the plot itself. For in the plot we find more than just a man,we find the idea of that man,the spirit of that man, and that is what we must never forget.


These choices are what life's about.

Life isn't about keeping score. It's not about how many people call you and it's not about who you've dated, are dating, or haven't dated at all. It isn't about who you've kissed, what sport you play, or which girl or guy likes you. It's not about your shoes or your hair or the color of your skin or where you live or go to school. In fact, it's not about grades, money, clothes, or colleges that accept you. Life isn't about if you have lots of friends, or if you are alone, and it's not about how accepted or unaccepted you are. Life just isn't about that. But life is about who you love and who you hurt. It's about how you feel about yourself. It's about trust, happiness, and compassion. It's about sticking up for your friends and replacing inner hate with love. Life is about avoiding jealousy, overcoming ignorance, and building confidence. It's about what you say and what you mean. It's about seeing people for who they are and not what they have. Most of all, it's about choosing to use your life to touch someone else's in a way that could never have been achieved otherwise. These choices are what life's about.

Just do it

Too often we are scared.
Scared of what we might not be able to do.

Scared of what people might think if we tried.
We let our fears stand in the way of our hopes.
We say no when we want to say yes.
We sit quietly when we want to scream.
And we shout with the others
when we should keep our moths shut
After all

we do only go around once.
There's really no time to be afraid.
So stop.
Try something you've never tried.
Risk it.
Enter a triathlon.

Write a letter to the editor.
Demand a raise.
Call winners at the toughest court.

Throw away your television.
Bicycle across the United States.
Try bobsledding.
Try anything.
Speak out against the designated hitter.
Travel to a country where you don't speak the language.
Patent something.
Call her.
You have nothing to lose.
and everything,

everything to gain.

Just do it.


Double Life - PlayStation

For years, I’ve lived a double life.
In the day, I do my job, I ride the bus,
roll up my sleeves with the hoi-polloi.

But at night, I live a life of exhilaration,

of missed heartbeats and adrenalin.
And, if the truth be known, a life of dubious virtue.

I won’t deny it, I’ve been engaged in violence,
even indulged in it.

I’ve maimed and killed adversaries,
and not merely in self-defence.
I’ve exhibited disregard for life,
limb and property, and savoured every moment.
You may not think it, to look of me,
but I have commanded armies,
and conquered worlds.

And though in achieving these things
I’ve set morality aside,

I have no regrets.
For though I’ve led a double life,
at least I can say – I’ve lived.