re... photos on Flickr

I took all 6 grand kids to see this by myself today. We had a ball.. Augusta Cronicle took pics of the lil grand daughters and should post on their site tomorrow.. spotted.augusta.com

re-tratando by Maria Fernanda Ángel Martínez

Re-Edicion by jose manuel quintana

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Fotografía - José Manuel Q

Modelo - Debora vetancourt

Maquillaje y Peinado -José Manuel Q

RE EDIT by KEL

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A rocker - A poet - A writer - A revolutionary = MUSIC by Loana Ibarra

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Every so often, the universe throws together a curious little jam session. People who never met, never shared a stage, never drank from the same bottle and yet somehow, they’re playing the same tune.

Take Jim Morrison our always and forever Lizard King himself. A poet trapped in a rock star’s body, scribbling wild words about love, death, and that strange carnival called America. Now, somewhere along the way, Morrison gets his hands on a book by a Swedish guy, Carl Michael Bellman. Yeah, Bellman, he’s from the 18th century, when men wore wigs and drank their weight in schnapps. He wrote songs about drunks, sailors, and lost souls, all stumbling through Stockholm like they were looking for the next tavern or the next revelation. Sound familiar? Morrison must’ve thought so too, because he left notes all over that book like he was talking back across the centuries.

- A staggering connection had emerged in connection with an auction taking place in London. Various books and notes by Jim Morrison were to be sold, and one of the items was a book by the swedish national poet Carl Michael Bellman. Morrison himself had scribbled notes next to the translated texts.

/2010 -

Now Bellman, he was a poet with a guitar before they called it a guitar. Strindberg, August Strindberg, he picked one up too, though he mostly played with words. Guy was a storm in human form. He wanted to tear down heaven and rebuild it out of broken dreams and bad marriages. You could say Strindberg was Sweden’s first punk, throwing bottles at the establishment, just to hear them shatter.

And then, far from Stockholm and farther still from the Sunset Strip, there’s Emiliano Zapata, the stylish man with that big mustache and the manifesto. He didn’t write poems, but he lived one. ‘Tierra y libertad’ yes that translates to land and liberty. The revolution was his rhythm, the rifle his guitar.

So what do these four have in common? Bellman sang for the lost. Strindberg wrote for the damned. Morrison howled for the free. And Zapata, well, he fought for them all. Different centuries, different languages, same song. The melody’s called defiance and the key is always minor.

So the next time you think poetry don’t matter, remember that sometimes it shows up in the strangest places. In a Swedish tavern, a Mexican battlefield, a Paris hotel room, or even scrawled in the margins of a secondhand book sold in London.

High res-_DSC6539 by Sevenoaks School Summer Programme