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RAMBLIN' WAYN - ROCK & ROLL - ART
Music- Poetry- Painting *************** Musica- Poesia- Pintura LIVIN' IS AN ART - VIRTUAL GALERY
A DECENT STORY - THE WORLD TURNS CRAZY AGAIN - RAMBLIN WAYN
foto by Paul Rondagh
'....Sometimes I ponder and my thoughts reach the absurdities of life. The poverty, misery, the impotence of silence, the rejection of capitalism, the dirty talk of the multi-national. Children dying of hunger, insecurity, exploitation, and there are some people getting mad of grief. The're politicions whom talk is downright full of demoniacally, what makes the world sometimes completely unnatural and confused. It's God his task? But the man upstairs looks down and let some suffer in violent disaster. Look at the movies, television, and all insanity. Madness my friends! and God is in a discussion with the devil. Who will save nature? Do we know after all why we are still here? All these facts made me composing some songs, these are my thoughts, that made me shudder now and then. Who am I? Man of beast? Lonesome? Viking? Alien? But I also remember the good things, like pure love, my mother, and the time I was a friend of Mustangs and I rode beside Geronimo. And we are simply just not all a Shakespeare, not even a hillbilly. Therefore I wrote this song to myself to convince me of the filth of our society. But thanks Lord there are good people.. with the heart in the middle.. So, when I feel the need, I drink to see all these pictures as an idiotic movie passing by... and than.... damned...
SCULPTURES FROM HAN VAN WETERING 1948, MAASTRICHT, NETHERLANDS PART 1
'... Han is a artist straight from the heart, his sculptures are images that do not tolerate opposition. His work is full of colors which he sets out... the indian, musicians... characters with penetrating impulsive expressions... Would man understands him?...' Wayn Pieters
Round Han's neck hangs a wreath, a bronze cast of pre-historical lower teeth found during excavations on the main square of the old city of Maastricht, Netherlands
(When asked about writing from personal experience) "That's really an easy way to write a song. The subject matter's right before you. All you have to do is give it meter and rhyme."
"I think there's something inside you that just says 'You gotta write a song. Whether you want to or not.' I think most of the time, I start writing with a feel. As for inspiration, well, personal feelings about members of the opposite sex, I think, inspire most of the songs I write."
Favorite recordings of songs he wrote: "He Stopped Loving Her Today," George Jones 1980, "Womanhood," Tammy Wynette 1978, "Nashville Tears," John Anderson 1993
ANTWERP - A complex chemical reaction forms the basis of the color of the yellow paint that Vincent van Gogh used.
The journal Analytical Chemistry published the results (14-02-11) of a study by an international team of scientists led by University of Antwerp. That yellow paint due some some discoloration to sunlight was in the 19th century allready known, but not all paintings have experienced the same varies degree of discoloration. Scientists previously suspected that the discoloration was related to the use of chromium in the yellow paint used by Van Gogh. Of the two paintings ''Field of Flowers near Arles" (1888) and "Bank of the Seine (1887)" was a microscopic piece of paint examined. In addition, the researchers have aged paint from old paint tubes, with a UV lamp.
WITH THE AFTER-TASTE OF WHISKEY - Column by Ramblin Wayn
I dreamt last night that the world was getting better. A world without war. Because wisdom and prudence is better than any instruments of war and greed. A world without poverty, without pain and sadness. A world without blues. It was raining.
I was alone in bed with the after-taste of whiskey. Bourbon. Although the Scots compete with Irish that you have to spell whiskey otherwise with ' y ', a tag. But I prefer corn-liquer, o my Cherokee land, country of the harvesting, land of ancestors, when the white-faces has not yet had taken possession of the mighty plains and millions of bisons wandered about the endless meadows. Until skin became their death, their tongues as a delicacy in the major cities, their bones glue and finally their excrement for fuel. Meat was there to rotten. It was raining.
I was alone in bed with the after-taste of whiskey. Bourbon. Jack Daniels. And dind't chose God Brazil as the country to spent his vacations? Country of birds, plants, animals of God his kingdom. O paradise, he said, but look what kind of people I sent over there. Trampled by loners. Now it become a nation of football and samba. Land of Indians and slave children. Favelas, Shanytowns, shacks where the bullets fly as signs of insanity, mothers, children, beneath their beds of fear. Police glories to revenge. In my dream horses run in fierce areas under the flurry of white birds. The forests were greener than ever, a realization that Indians managad to begun. That one man should not be denied by the other, where the peaks are like breasts of a magical witch. In my dream where poverty is a phenomenon of another time. When there were only natural laws and mankind was allready evolved from the sea. The fish crawled ashore and became something like us, slow as a snail. Fins, legs, upright, walking, thinking, monkeys, manipulated. Billions of years ago. Millions. Being realistic is a vague concept. So what is the present of men whom aspires are to be a winner? Nothing.
A dust particle, nothing more. Poverty and wealth exists as the outgrowth of envy. He who doesn't have enough of what mother earth gives him. We must realize that the time shall come when we fade to splinters. We are simply here to survive and not to be to survived. Destruction is already present, look at the disasters, the tidal waves, trembling earth. Hunger, war, destruction and the Dafur conflict in Sudan is slightly different from the Canary Islands. My God! Is this a warning or just an omen? Shall we, all of us, have to think about the future world? Will the world of tomorrow for children be a yesterday option? There is salvation! It was raining. I was alone in bed with the after-taste of whiskey. Bourbon. Jim Beam. But then everyone have to stick out his neck. Smoke of chimneys and gases of cars, who want to change? Smog of Sao Paulo, Mexico city, New York, Bogotá or Tokyo. Who cares? The leaders? Sleepy heads, egoists, manipulated by capitalist. We are at the mercy of the gods. We live in a consumer society. Eating, drinking and consuming. This will never works out. Each one of us, have to make for themselves that point, what the closest thing to natural life. Love? Understanding? Up in the sky is peace (In caleos quis), but who wanna go to heaven? Or go to hell? Who wants to return? Reincarnation of the superhuman. and maybe I will return like in the shape of a mustang, running over the plains. Wild, restless, free! Life on Earth is a privilege, but not to everyone. The most dangerous idiot is the brother of arrogance, the man without scruples. He who thinks that only he can walks. "Let the dead rest said the Eagle to the Raven," and he devoured a lively fat pigeon.
He will perish on high madness. A study is not difficult, the poverty created by humans will become equality in the sense of the word. The capitalist will admit once again that he is a solitary guest in his own home. He who who walk with a money suitcase under his arm. Po' man. Righteousness will win, even though I might be too optimistic. But the notes on my vocals will be tough. The scientist will be better to think it all over. The philosopher will have too scratch himself behind the ear, while the soul doctor should learn from the insane. Sometimes i am embittered by humanity, the laxity, the ignorance of people, who call themselves leaders. The dirtiest pigs always want the best straw.
I dreamed that the world became better. It was raining. I was alone in a bed with the after-taste of whiskey. Southern Comfort? I was dreaming. I fell in love with a black woman. She rode a white Mare She sang like an Angel. She sang like an Angel. Songs of 'saudade', an indescribable word, like desire. Songs of Maria Bethania. Songs of Bahia. Love songs of the country with timbres. Africa. It was raining. I was alone in bed with the after-taste of whiskey. Jack Daniels.