1. |
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We will never have any memory of dying.
We were so patient
about our being,
noting down
numbers, days,
years and months,
hair, and the mouths we kiss,
and that moment of dying
we let pass without a note—
we leave it to others as memory,
or we leave it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we even keep
the memory of being born,
although to come into being was tumultuous and new;
and now you don’t remember a single detail
and haven’t kept even a trace
of your first light.
It’s well known that we are born.
It’s well known that in the room
or in the wood
or in the shelter in the fishermen’s quarter
or in the rustling canefields
there is a quite unusual silence,
a grave and wooden moment as
a woman prepares to give birth.
It’s well known that we were all born.
But of that abrupt translation
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and weeping and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition, that quivering
of an electric presence, raising up
one body more, like a living cup,
and of that woman left empty,
the mother who is left there in her blood
and her lacerated fullness,
and its end and its beginning, and disorder
tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers
till everything comes together and adds
one knot more to the thread of life,
nothing, nothing remains in your memory
of the savage sea which summoned up a wave
and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree.
The only thing you remember is your life.
P. Neruda
|
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2. |
Omphalomancy
06:05
|
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|
There was a man
Who was a navel-reader
He gazed at people’s navels
And could tell their fortune backwards
He could only guess the past
Everyone was so impressed
And they paid lots of money
To listen to their life story
Again and again and again
One day he met someone
Who was half man half goldfish
He only had
Half a navel
Half a memory
Half a life story
And he paid half the money
To listen to the other half
The half that was missing
The half he couldn’t remember
Again and again and again
Till the half was a whole
Till the past wasn’t past
Till the man couldn’t tell his fortune backwards
Anymore
A. Minou
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3. |
Bizdibocul
05:43
|
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4. |
A Carnival of Words
02:02
|
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5. |
A Promise is a Promise
06:06
|
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|
I promised not to forget.
So I must remember not to forget.
I must not forget to remember not to forget that I promised not to forget.
I must forget not remembering to remember not forgetting that I promised not to forget.
So I must forget not remembering to forget that I promised not to forget.
I must forget forgetting that I promised not to forget.
I must forget that I promised not to forget.
I must forget.
I promise.
I forget.
A. Minou
|
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6. |
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7. |
Omlettio ad Absurdum
05:49
|
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|
Eggs look so innocent
Eggs look so enigmatic
Every time I see an egg
I just want to break it
To see what’s inside
But it looks so innocent
It breaks my heart
To break it
And it looks so enigmatic
It breaks my brain
Not to break it
But it looks
So innocent
So enigmatic
Broken heart
Broken brain
Egg still unbroken
A.Minou
|
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8. |
Gledalec
11:41
|
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9. |
(and here who there who)
04:44
|
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10. |
Canto XI
14:51
|
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|
text by Pablo Neruda
|
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11. |
The Builder
06:52
|
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|
text by Pablo Neruda
|
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12. |
Epilogue
05:42
|
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Kaja Draksler Kranj, Slovenia
I was born in a small village in Slovenia and grew up in the countryside.
At the age of 18
I moved to The Netherlands to study music. A few years later, I was immersed into the rich world of Amsterdam’s improvised music scene, which complemented my studies of classical composition in a great way. After 13 years in Holland, I now live between Copenhagen, Denmark, and Trboje, Slovenia.
... more
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