A little snooping in Chinatown will turn up the little opium dens stuck down an alley (not recommended without police escort). Actually, the smokers shown in this picture do it legally. Each den is licensed for so many pipes. Each pipe costs a rupee, a phial of opium five rupees. Average smoker consumes aphial a day and there are about 186 pipes licensed in Calcutta.
MILES DAVIS Ascenseur pour l’èchafaud - Lift to the scaffold Paris, 4-5.12.1957 Original Soundtrack
01. Generique 02. L’Assassinat De Carala 03. Sur L’Autoroute 04. Julien Dans L’Ascenseur 05. Florence Sur Les Champs-Elysees 06. Diner Au Motel 07. Evasion De Julien 08. Visite Du Vigile 09. Au Bar Du Petit Bac 10. Chez Le Photographe Du Motel Total time 73:45
Miles Davis- trumpet - Barney Wilen- tenor saxophone - René Urtreger- piano - Pierre Michelot- bass - Kenny Clarke- drums
Audio CD (October 2, 2003) Label: Universal
01. Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees - (take 1) 02. Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees - (take 2) 03. Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees - (take 3) 04. Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees - (take 4) 05. Assassinat - (take 1) 06. Assassinat - (take 2) 07. Assassinat - (take 3) 08. Motel 09. Final - (take 1) 10. Final - (take 2) 11. Final - (take 3) 12. Ascenseur 13. Le Petit Bal - (take 1) 14. Le Petit Bal - (take 2) 15. Sequence Voiture - (take 1) 16. Sequence Voiture - (take 2)
17. Generique 18. L'Assassinat De Carala 19. Sur L'Autoroute 20. Julien Dans L'Ascenseur 21. Florence Sur Les Champs-Elysee 22. Diner Au Motel 23. Evasion De Julien 24. Visite Du Vigile 25. Au Bar Du Petit Bac 26. Chez Le Photographe Du Motel
Tinha fome de letras. Comia o “s” dos plurais, o “d” dos gerúndios, o “r” dos verbos. Insaciável, deu também para comer palavras inteiras, até se tornar incompreensível. Não satisfeito, passou a devorar frases, orações e períodos completos. Restaram-lhe grunhidos e interjeições. Em pouco tempo, roeu-os até a mudez total. Agora só lhe resta devorar o silêncio.
even the miraculous ones. For the miraculous we do our best, sometimes they swarm like insects and leave not a sting but a kiss. They can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on. But they can be both daisies and bruises. Yet I am in love with words. They are doves falling out of the ceiling. They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap. They are the trees, the legs of summer, and the sun, its passionate face. Yet often they fail me. I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren. But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.
“Life is a lot like jazz . . . It’s best when you improvise. . .”
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