From baby to a hundred year old in in Spanish. This project was filmed in Barcelona, where we asked 100 people to say their age in the camera. And since Barcelona is the capital of Catalunya, we asked people to say their age both in Spanish and Catalan.
Ik zag vrijdagmorgen j.l. in een half uur van 10:43-11:13u.: in mijn eigen tuin in Varsseveld 1 gaai, 2 koolmezen, 3 merels, 2 houtduiven. Mijn vrouw zag daarna op de zondag ook nog een pimpelmees, een roodborstje en meerdere vreche kauwen die in 'enen knooi' er met de vetbollen vandoor gingen.
Europe is lost, America lost, London lost Still we are clamouring victory All that is meaningless rules We have learned nothing from history
The people are dead in their lifetimes Dazed in the shine of the streets But look how the traffic's still moving System's too slick to stop working Business is good, and there's bands every night in the pubs And there's two for one drinks in the clubs And we scrubbed up well Washed off the work and the stress And now all we want's some excess Better yet, a night to remember that we'll soon forget All of the blood that was bled for these cities to grow All of the bodies that fell The roots that were dug from the earth So these games could be played I see it tonight in the stains on my handsThe buildings are screaming
I can't ask for help though, nobody knows me Hostile, worried, lonely We move in our packs and these are the rights we were born to Working and working so we can be all that we want Then dancing the drudgery off But even the drugs have got boring Well, sex is still good when you get it
To sleep, to dream, to keep the dream in reach To each a dream, don't weep, don't scream Just keep it in, keep sleeping in What am I gonna do to wake up?
I feel the cost of it pushing my body Like I push my hands into pockets And softly I walk and I see it, this is all we deserve The wrongs of our past have resurfaced Despite all we did to vanquish the traces My very language is tainted With all that we stole to replace it with this I am quiet Feeling the onset of riot Riots are tiny, though Systems are huge Traffic keeps moving, proving there's nothing to do
'Cause it's big business, baby, and its smile is hideous Top down violence, and structural viciousness Your kids are dosed up on medical sedatives But don't worry 'bout that, man, worry 'bout terrorists
The water level's rising! The water level's rising! The animals, the elephants, the polarbears are dying! Stop crying, start buying, but what about the oil spill? Shh, no one likes a party pooping spoil sport Massacres, massacres, massacres, new shoes
Ghettoised children murdered in broad daylight By those employed to protect them Live porn streamed to your pre-teens' bedrooms Glass ceiling, no headroom
Half a generation live beneath the breadline Oh, but it's happy hour on the high street Friday night at last lads, my treat! All went fine 'til that kid got glassed in the last bar Place went nuts, you can ask our Lou It was madness, road ran red, pure claret And about them immigrants? I can't stand them Mostly, I mind my own business They're only coming over here to get rich, it's a sickness England! England! Patriotism! And you wonder why kids want to die for religion?
It goes work all your life for a pittance
Maybe you'll make it to manager, pray for a raise Cross the beige days off on your beach babe calendar The anarchists are desperate for something to smash Scandalous pictures of fashionable rappers
In glamourous magazines, who's dating who? Politico cash in an envelope Caught sniffing lines off a prostitutes prosthetic tits Now it's back to the House of Lords with slapped wrists They abduct kids who fuck the heads of dead pigs But him in a hoodie with a couple of spliffs Jail him, he's the criminal Jail him, he's the criminal It's the bored-of-it-all generation The product of product placement and manipulation Shoot 'em up, brutal, duty of care Come on, new shoes, beautiful hair, bullshit Saccharine ballads and selfies and selfies and selfies And here's me outside the palace of me Construct a self and psyhcosis Meanwhile the people were dead in their droves And no, nobody noticed, well, some of them noticed You could tell by the emoji they posted
Sleep like a gloved hand covers our eyes The lights are so nice and bright and let's dream But some of us are stuck like stones in a slipstream
What am I gonna do to wake up?
We are lost, we are lost, we are lost And still nothing will stop, nothing pauses
We have ambitions and friendships and our courtships to think of Divorces to drink off the thought of The money, the money, the oil The planet is shaking and spoiled And life is a plaything A garment to soil The toil, the toil I can't see an ending at all Only the end How is this something to cherish? When the tribesmen are dead in their deserts To make room for alien structures Develop, develop And kill what you find if it threatens you No trace of love in the hunt for the bigger buck Here in the land where nobody gives a fuck
Eva Schuurman | de Gelderlander | editie Achterhoek | 16 januari 2020
Dichter van dienst in januari is Eva Schuurman. Zij bracht een ode aan het vakmanschap van de mannen en vouwen die het vuur te lijf gaan voor onze veiligheid. Dit n.a.v. de actualiteit in de Achterhoek de bezuinigingen op het regionale brandweercorps. Zie hier meer⇲
De opmaak bij de krant lijkt door een robot te gebeuren. Hieronder de versie zonder wees.
Brandweervrouw
Later word ik brandweervrouw
al is het nog geen woord,
ik weet zeker dat die term
in mijn toekomst thuis behoort.
Ik prop mijn borsten met gemak
in mijn ruim zittend tenue
en als het noodlot toeslaat
passeer ik de revue.
Dan rijd ik in zo’n wagen
als Pluk van de Petteflet,
met het roet al op mijn wangen
heb ik dan een kat gered.
Ik eet mijn brood wel op de ladder
want mijn dag is drukbezet
en in mijn nek rust dan zo’n flapje,
er ligt een pieper naast mijn bed.
In mijn kamer is een raam
waaruit ik tuur naar al dat later,
met mijn niet te blussen dromen
over vlammen, redding, water.
Tot sirenes me plots wekken,
er een pluim reist door de lucht
en ik uitruk naar beneden
waar ik in mijn moeder vlucht.
Eva Schuurman meer Dichter des Achterhoeks op 'sMelssleMs' hier>
Op mijn oudejaarsavond van mijn 69ste levensjaar lees ik het droeve bericht dat bijna evenouder Jan Buter donderdag j.l. uit de tijd is gekomen. 't Mocht niet mogen. Ik las zijn columns in het huis-aan-huis-blad Achterhoek Nieuws over taal- en streekcultuur met veel plezier. Ik zal ze missen. Zie ook hier⇲ en daar⇲ en zijn laatste column⇲ en Uut 't Wald⇲
