Friday, July 24


Eles não me ouviram e muito menos as batidas de meu coração. Nem mesmo me viram, pois agarravam-se, grunhiam, chupavam-se, seus corpos nus resvalavam, seus braços e pernas se entrelaçavam e eles pareciam um emaranhado de serpentes brancas que contorciam seus alvos corpos à luz do luar. O cobertor sobre o qual se deitavam estava todo amarfanhado e eles se arranhavam, gemiam e suspiravam. Vi então o rosto de meu pai. Era idêntico ao semblante do diabo em cima da porta da cabana. Dei as costas e saí correndo.
— John Fante, A Oeste de Roma

Thursday, July 23 suddenly occurred to me that the songs aren't just stuff that's written on a bit of paper or put on a record. What if a song is like a person? Like a song might have some sort of — talking in a fanciful way — it might have a store of kinetic energy of a kind that we can't, that we haven't managed to quantify or identify. And it felt to me, like when we play "White Man in Hammersmith Palais", it plays itself. It wants to be played.
Occasionally I'll wake up in the night and think of a song that I've forgotten all about. It's almost like people ringing you up. I know it sounds ridiculous. It's part of your life — it's part of my life — some guy working on this block might've heard it. Imagine if on some level, like a world wide web of feelings. A lot of people kissed and smoked and danced — had their first experiences of the adult world to these songs. And they're really potent in a psychic — I mean I don't know nothing about this world — but I feel that they demand to be played. And I'm more than happy to play them.

Joe Strummer

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