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It is right to give glory to my dad, showing the crib by himself created this Christmas.
The video is not much, but trust me ... really nice!

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Greetings! It grows

compulsory for the post cards. I hope you spend good holidays and that after the Epiphany be ready to leave for a new year full of satisfaction!
Well, after this aparte semi-serious, we can move on to things that suit me the most:

Clicking here you can see my greetings to you all.

then move on to some videos. I do not think those stylish resume that I posted a year ago ( Go and see), so I worked for you and I found these, I hope they are to your liking:

's greetings Grey, very fashionable in these times.


Best wishes from a group of sweet pup.

We hope to ritrovrci
not all like that! ^ _ ^

And finally a nice video that has as its background one of the most beautiful Christmas songs in history (let us sing it together!):

Il Complesso Misterioso feat. Graziano Romani and Elio e le Storie Tese

Text:
I am in the room and waiting for Santa Claus for.
Suddenly, by night, They will arrive;
can not you feel the typical cling cling cling cling cling?
Presents for the good, coal for the bad:
just like my mom said.

Christmas with the yours, Easter what you want.
Peace Between Blur and Oasis.
Christmas with the yours, Easter What You Want;
Dont't throw atomic bombs Because It's Christmas time.

Panettone is on the table, and everybody's drinking Moscato.
Go to buy a tree, but not a true tree Com Because It Would die die die die die
Panettone is on the table But it is another one;
fact is that without candied fruit.

Christmas with the yours, Easter What You Want Peace Between
Lino and Cecchetto.
Christmas with the yours, Easter what you want. Do not drop atomic bombs
at least at Christmas time.

Just like my mom said.
know what my mom said?
Christmas with the yours, Easter what you want.
Peace Between Lino and Cecchetto.
Christmas with the yours, Easter what you want.
Livin 'the refreshing world of Christmas.
Monsieur Chirac, garde la bombe chez toi.

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Besides now I can boast a career as a successful blogger (^_^), now I can boast of having been published in Italians, note book kept by Beppe Severgnini on Corriere.it.
In fact, the publication is not particularly bright and interesting, but as they say, the important thing is to start.
thanks goes to the -ren-so I reported the happy event ... ah, if you do not know what to do, since I now write rarely, go read his blog or the other of the many irlandiani that found in the blogroll of my "old" Ireland Project.
What? Do you want the link to my letter? Cercatevela, so in the meantime you have a chance to try the Italians is interesting!

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Fountains in Piazza Duomo Milan

From the time Mayor Letizia Moratti surprised citizens and tourists with great initiatives, just to draw attention to the city. For example, it has long standing project to arrange a ' Expo 2015, with attached several new modern skyscrapers to make the skyline more and more advanced and construction (finally) of new lines underground.

initiative in recent days, however, is really great: create a system of fountains in the square's most famous and visited the city, right in front of the Duomo!
In preview I have the honor of showing the first pictures of the project, implemented under construction.














source: corriere.it

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Irish

These days, Milan is very similar to Cork. Two full days walking in a gray drizzle impalpable typically Irish. Missing only the Lee River ... maybe the comparison in the Navigli area is impressive. Today
exploit the continuing possibility that the city offers: I was able to get some free tickets for the show "The Light Surgeons - New Adventures in Folklore" to be held tonight at the Teatro degli Arcimboldi, to Zelig. I looked on the website and the event sounds interesting ... at least I hope so!

Ah ... just as long as it is in Milan I had the wish to review some photos taken in Ireland. Unfortunately, my Premium Account on Flickr expired, so only few photos are visible. I will shortly review the renewal so they can be.

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In Green

Cheryl McClure, Blue / Green 16x16 "

I hid my soul in the underwear drawer ,

because no one came secretly to break free.

So I happen to go there every now and wear it for a moment,

to see what it's like looking in from outside .

It's been so long since I did the music and blue, I made us think,

she was still in the same place, well-folded and starched.

I slipped on a silk pajamas (which I never had),

left me signs of wearing a hair shirt (which I never gird).

Listening: Miles Davis - Blue In Green

Pierced Female Genetalia

Usual Unusual

"Any reference to existing people or real events in the story that follows is purely coincidental"

"... the humor starts to fly around the city. A 'sign mint-green promise me whiskey-bar, a juke-box whispers: 'Uasciuariuà'..."

Goods Bocu, Sergio Caputo

' What do you serve? The usual? ' asked Oswald, with his characteristic courtesy.

'No' I replied, with my typical air of laconic.

A bar a little 'kitsch, as are all the bars that we can not - objectively - describe as' a nice bar '. With a luminous very flashy, but no one seems to notice the traffic of the day, rather than the lust of the night, apart from its unique ' aficionados'.

A counter embroidered with mirrors that reflect and multiply in a multitude of diamonds dulled by time and oblivion. Mirrors everywhere, even to the ceiling, chairs red and purple taste of everything for free 80. High stools, a TV set on a shelf, high, low tables, the process in the lower right looking the jukebox. A fantastic jukebox, of course, 80, who plays only Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, Level 42, Chic, Earth, Wind & Fire, Imagination, U2, UB40. To name a few. I studied him for a good night I had little sleep and even there I found 'and I Rino' of Segio Caputo. Again: amazing.

But back to Oswald, to his and his typical kitsch bar courtesy. Osvaldo is a bartender of 63 years. I did not say 'a man of 63 years': it has more the appearance. Only a bartender or a senator, can carry a show off as his own. That makes his typical kindness, his bar kitsch and its teaches electric blue more pulp. Pulp is the typical adjective I can, and I could, I give to my look and my laconic irony do. But believe me, I could never think of not seeing Osvaldo Tarantino's cinematic masterpiece, and its reporting that sometimes danced kidnapped by vortices air of a ceiling fan is a bit 'tired. And his jukebox and purple and black and red chairs. And his round-heads as his belly. And yet the old hooker that disintegrated cigarette butts in an ashtray sitting on her tiny ass huge. And the smell of rancid. There was a beautiful fauna by Osvaldo and I were a bit funny ' all. I spent all the hours for brioche and cappuccino for a coffee, a sandwich, a beer ... or maybe more than one, for a good rum. The characters were a bit 'always the same at different times and so colorful that I could write long, but this is not my goal. There I was talking about my dear bar kitsch, the dear Osvaldo with his courtesy and do my laconic observer.

But to think a moment, I just can not leave out my story in the description of a very colorful character who every day did step down at the bar. At 7:45 every morning Thomas asked for a bottled beer. 'A Raffo, Ossssvaldo! Bella fressssca eh? and supported his pennies stacked on the counter when he could pay. But no ... if you talk about Thomas, his sibilant s, his nervous tics and its aimless wandering, we night.

I was telling you that bar of pulp that I attended, the operator of his Oswald and carried the time that I was going to sit and observe and write with my look and decided womanizer.

It is well ... like the time I missed the trip with the football team for those two Calabrian ... oh God no.

I drank it willingly, in that bar with the kitsch neon blue and metal ceiling fans and the blue lamp hanging from the mosquitoes that stick-side window. I drank alone in that place when there were existential reasons, such as problems with women, or having to watch from the stands to my team, or the stress of university exams. Mix with beer and other spirits of the long soliloquies I hugged the toilet bowl. What good times. But because an alcoholic is so fascinating? Then instead I drank with friends because I was happy. Or maybe we were sad but did not know. Buy beer at the supermarket or the storage of beverages and tinkling we walked away with bags from the town to rave under the moon and the Milky Way. Bucolic images that I can not remove from memory. The bar Osvaldo disgusted with my friends, so we just went by myself. With them went to the Irish pub and we broke through the liver with gallons of cider. And sometimes we threw darts at him. Those were good times. And when at night I stop before returning home to Oswald, he stared into my face and asked me, in the Apulian dialect, 'Na birr, uagliò?'. She knew there was something that kept me on the brain and that made me restless, and I did not want more than a dark beer, a stout-bodied and alcoholic. I told him about something, with his head in his hands and elbows on the counter, and he listened patiently, perhaps looking at the corner of a game for Milan. Do not say anything most of the time. That was what I wanted, who did not speak and who watches over me while I was incapable of discernment. He liked to listen to me because I spoke good Italian, and almost none of his regular customers did. He smiled at my shit and spent all the time a piece of cloth on his neck and forehead. It was a beautiful place that bar so kitsch, pulp and dare I say, with a sign flashing and mirrors everywhere, operated by Oswald with his reporting, the smile like a piano keyboard and a friendly courteous done heavy lines in dialect, and lots of patience. I also loved that guy who never spoke shady and set a lithograph of James Dean as he teased the incisors with a calling card. He was wearing a t-shirt, was always the same, with the inscription: "My heart beats only for the slices of horse." One of the few times that I was over there with another friend of half drunk, I was talking to this religion, Christs and Madonnas and logs of happiness, and he - without saying a word, took off his shirt and let us see the tattoo that occupied the full back: the Virgin Mary and an inscription all around: "Madona protegimi. Yes, you read that right. Find out more Later that had him tattooed in prison .

When I presented myself in the company of a woman Osvaldo took me a little 'to do the pimp around and gave me of her, pretending to be too servile. I asked in Italian, 'What the servant, the usual?' and I wore the usual Tennent's with the usual courtesy.

'No' I said that time, displacing the stomach and faithful friend, who stood still, thrilled and thoughtful.

'Today I want a blonde. Media. Indeed, very beautiful '. said, smiling at the beautiful creature who accompanied me, with a tone and intent that would have seemed comical kitsch only out of that bar. Out of this romantic, bucolic and pulp, with round woven wicker chairs, the neon blue electric hood and cigarette smoke.

'Okke' he said with an air of laconic guappo.

'From now on I will ask only blondes in this lovely bar in the suburbs' said I beamed with kindness and inexplicable.

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The garden of the scholar

The cat sleeps

the face of my study in despair.

The Crow

disturbs the quiet of my study

summer.

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FMF (End of Message Fantasy)


Ugh,
are all out of breath.
I'd like a falafel, a toffee, coffee.
I have shortness of breath, he mumbled.
fascinates me the effect of amphetamine asphalt.

Godfrey

Listening: Sergio Caputo - Hemingway Caffè Latino

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Persistence aftertaste

Ah ... my senses are all scattered earth, now that it's just gone.
Rest a little 'sitting up in bed to contemplate.
observe her voice touch my ears, sometimes without guilt, an excess of modesty.
I listen to his eyes that call me to get lost in that blue without limits, and forward to dive into its depths. Dissonant with my shades, so damn magnetic.
Taste the excitement of his tight smiles, flushed skin, bodies leaning.
sniff the tension that assails us for the time, inexorably, we are separating.
With fingertips caressed the images - indelible - between the letters of his name, that intoxicate me warm and round again, in silence, in the vacuum of expectation, which is made of fire in the chest, hung with intent aromas and scents of his mouth, his body.

Listening: Fever

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Read

Image personal Modulor Revisited, paper cartonplum (2mm/5mm), (c) 2007 Dromedary

Reading is different.

When you read something is different than when you hear people say something or when you see happen a moment. Reading has one of its components without intimate rivals, which leaves you with the impulses of your brain. Often what you read is a bit 'less obvious things you can hear you say, and not just because ' Verba volant, scripta manent ', but mainly because it seems damn hard to talk. The speech is a direct transitive, ie assumes contextual involvement of the sender and recipient of the message, as well as various sensory perceptions. How many times have you had, properly prepared and revised, the best speech of your life in mind, and then you could not say even one of those words that seemed so simple in their perfection? Or how many times have you remained silent and paralyzed in the face of something too good to be an appropriate response? The presence of others inhibits us, for many reasons that are not able to justify.

But when you read a message or a letter you are alone. A solitude more or less natural and more or less sophisticated, but allows us to react freely and consistently with our instincts. Only with our weaknesses feared, our foolish pride, our intimacy untouchable. With time to think or not think, without focusing to reduce or mask. Joy or rage alike.

The fact remains that say it out is a gauntlet that I can not collect.

Reading is different.

Listening: Mo 'Horizons - Flyin' Away

White Discharge Week Before Period

Trauma

is over. seemed eternal, immense, endless. I wake up this morning and no more. and who expected it? I no longer feel her scent, which once gave meaning to my days. lead into a deep despair This Sunday will mark indelibly sad sad as my boxer shorts in bright colors. I Went down into the bed of melancholy, and worth a look volubly box useless. the shutter down half-lets in the warm rays of a morning adult, I am invited, but declined every courtship. I sink my face in the pillow and almost bit into it, almost crying, shaking hands with the head of the bed. from the bone comes out of not thinking a thought, I set out to write a Bash against the table, with the result, nevertheless bloody tones, to pass on his back a day Mezzomorto unconscious. mathematically can not predict whether that means, in the sense of symmetric part of one, can become the unit, all, so logic suggests to me that at least the game is not worth the candle. light a candle, vanilla, only for poetic creativity. abandon the supine position and the thalamus and the audience complicit triumphs, tragedies giustappunto and dream journeys. after a brief scuffle with the force of gravity is perfectly upright on two legs. in a manly impulse, do a little scratching to the Netherlands, who promptly sent me an ambassador who does not carry penalties. I got up, I'm not awake. inspected the unmade face in the glass of the cupboard, but I do not trust. too unrealistic reflections that come to my eyes still on the danger list. vague for the kitchen, which does not seem the same. this is too cumbersome new absence. I had to prepare, one day, such a miserable event. how could I be so careless, so blind, superficial?! is a sun damage and the bells did not help me to provide any solutions. I'm lost, desperate, practically in their underwear. I dress. I stumble in my and her clothes. the curse. but I say ... what? back in the kitchen with his hands in his hair pseudo-traumatic feline daughter of awakenings. stagger, but not wet. I am going to open the fridge for a last desperate attempt, when she surrounds me from behind and kisses me back. a voice that only I can tell from that when it is drunk, turns me candidly, 'Honey, expecting me for breakfast ?....' Then I turned and found the despair that darkly painted my face, he continues, 'Hey, what's the matter? Do not tell me who died Flappy! '. 'No, quiet, the cat is ok, but not kill me if I tell you that it's over the supply of coffee ... ... ...'

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If

Jean Michel Basquiat Self Portrait

If only I were talking more.

Or at least if I did not speak at all.

missing something, right? The information on the structure we Campania 'IF / THEN / ELSE'. But I am not able to close the loop. If

if

itself.

If only I could avoid ever using the word if . It would be nice to live without being slaves to the hypothetical periods. It would be nice?

Your canvas again.

Have you photographed with your digital camera and, as always, you have sent me into a high-resolution files. This time it's really huge. I used the computer to download the study, it would take me a life using my slow connection. Slow as the white clouds that run on the buildings on this day after all sunny. I'm listening to an Elvis concert when I look at it, but I have a lot of music to play and a deluge of urgent work to complete. I made a request that does not enter anyone in my office, so everyone will think I'm concentrating to complete the draft of the new advertising campaign for the region of Puglia. When I was a student I never imagined that my study could look like so much to my room. As for disorder, that is. My secretary is bigger than me and reminds me of my mother when she scolds me for the chaos that through water while working. Now also allows you to say that this is unprofessional, because it is right.

note carefully the last your creation, and surely I empty a packet of cigarettes. Turn down the volume on your stereo.

been months since we've seen. Apart from the cafe 'hello how are you well and good hello'. For months we produce paintings and I send pictures. Then call me in the middle of the night asking for an opinion. For months we'll send you the haiku I write, but do not ever give me some advice. For months we talk about the perverted taste to savor the memories associated with those and those harmonic frequencies hour mix from the phone line. And while so that mannequin resembling yourself sipping a macchiato, playing a pre-recorded message about the new expressive techniques that were experiencing I stared at the perfect copy of your eyes, concentrating on the lip-read and interpret properly to what I was saying. I admit I have failed miserably. They spoke too fast your eyes, and when they saw that I was one step away from following the thread, go down embarrassed. So I tried to break that my silence, which lasted who knows how long, to say something that would go well in any situation, not the dummy suspicious ...

And now I have put aside the role of the musician, even before those of the advertiser, to enter the part of scientific investigation. I look at the copies of your pictures and take notes. Then I read the reports previous works on trying to build a network of links inexorable, forecasts of possible logical explanations. No. 'madness. Neither logic nor the most modern technological resources available to the forensic science could lead to resolution of this case. Want to talk to me through the marks on your canvas through the colors, always too icy, too sad. And then that red sign . There is always a red mark. There was never a red in your pictures before you knew me. When I have my own aesthetics theorized red. I can feel guilty / responsible. So I find myself stroking the PC screen, in those hot spots where you have decided to place where you left a clue hunt torment. I feel stupid and presumptuous to draw any emotional signs so strong, so linked to the image of me that lives in you. But I just have to cling to other, linked by a rope-tampered-that is about to give the scent of your hair, which is sometimes a shake to wake up in bed at night, then running away like a coward in a sidecar with the warmth of your body cold.

And the words evaporate in the sunshine of a summer ever lived. Superfluous as a trick that might spoil your face so fascinating. Lengthy and unnecessary addition of water in a risotto that cooks ever. Water that evaporates in the sun to the remoteness and silence only to be replaced at a new conversation clinging to the mirrors 'I do not know' and 'you know'.

Words that do solidify in the cold winter that never ends, in order to obtain perfect cubes with which to build robust, elegant symphonies of nothing. Haiku, poetry, short stories paradoxical. I just have to play with words. And play with my image reflected in a bottle of the past, sweet surrender to the night my days too dopate caffeine and incomprehensible laziness. I make a mold in the cork and enjoy it in series in my accomplishments. Every once in a different sauce. Sdogati my Binge image in a thousand forms which stirs the beast in me. To feed on demonstrations of esteem, pleasure, sexual attraction. But it's just a beast that I defend, but making me unapproachable. It 'a dog barking. Bites too, but has no teeth. It does not hurt. It does much more harm his indifference. He just needs to be approached with courage and confidence, even that he should stop barking. But then someone comes to climb over the fence of my heart, without permission. Then the beast before devastate the victim, is to tear me.

And then I would start to swim forever in silence in a low key. The silence of two dumb that they see the words flowing from the objects and the eyes of people who feel the emotions through the wrong notes in a solo jazz, breaks through the cacophony, the notes collected at the foot of a God who does not exist but that comes from transport, those notes that make you stop the beat heart for a few seconds and then you push it at an accelerating pace, those notes that you are sure you have not chosen voluntarily and that make you be so proud at that moment by the illusion of being the creator of all this huge whirling asylum.

If I were God, at this point I realize I'm a bit 'sadist. Ask someone to send me to that country and that country would begin to think of a more honest life.

XXXVI

If I 'do not return the hatred of Love,

that he will not' for Heaven

the 'ho' n the woman that I 'heart seated,

that, who said: - We fo' emperor,

and is 'who do not see indeed du' hours -

them so I would say - 'Go, thou art slain! -

and seeing her, "They parted

of all that is called pain.

Inasmuch ch'i 'of what I n'ho mixed

to see what that agony I tolla:

which is more that makes me frat'Angioliere,

for one thousand hours to be 'n on the glue;

already ten years that rupp'un glass:

even maladìciarmi not spring.

LXXXVI

If I 'was fire, arderéi' the world;

s' i 'was wind, storms;

if I' were water, the 'drowning;

if I' were God, mandereil'en deep

if I 'had Pope,' then joyful,

because all Christians Imbrighi;

if I 'had' mperator, you know 'what to do?

All mozzarei the head in a circle.

If I had died, my father andarei;

if I 'was life, flee from him:

faria similarly to me 'mother.

If I 'were Cecco, is' I am and I was,

torreo young women and gracious:

and old and ugly Lassere others.

[Cecco Angiolieri - Rime]

IF x;

THEN y;

ELSE z.

Another canvas

another if ;

the circle closes.

In ascolto : Via con me - Paolo Conte

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Seen It All Before

“Go ahead baby, run away again

I’m growing tired of chasing you

I know you only have time to love me

When you got nothing better to do.

…You know that I’ve seen it all before

I ain’t gonna be your fool any more…”

Amos Lee – Seen It All Before

“..ma la mia memoria scivola

mi ricordo limpida la trasmissione dei pensieri

if the nsazione that in a moment

whatever you think might happen

And then what happened

wait or forget

see you now

after nearly five years .. "

Federico Zampaglione - The description of a moment

" She loves me and hates me when I'm strong when I'm weak "

Georg Levin - Mrs Superficial

Seen it all before.

Take a picture of me today.

Today I am pretty, today I am strong.

Make me what you want today.

Watch me, hold me, tell me.

Do it today I do not know.

today that my eyes fill you with fear, embarrassment, and safety.

Make a snapshot of me that smiles today.

Do it now because tomorrow will be different.

let years pass before this cover photo.

And maybe you'll understand that it had loved me, but for a moment.

Listening: Seen It All Before - Amos Lee
The description of a moment - Tiromancino
Mrs. Superficial - Georg Levin

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That evening we both had been drinking a little too much. Maybe even two. They had to be passed when I put the 3 in a hurry my papers and my books inside the bag, I paid the bill and walked out from the wine bar. I do not even realized he had left more than ten euro tip.

We went to that place because I needed a meeting, a clarification and understanding. She had agreed, as always, and had followed me like a shadow up to the little known but very popular tavern. I had not even need to ask for confirmation and I ordered two glasses of Falanghina. A group of twentysomethings from the air snob obviously prepared to take a round of absinthe, with small glasses ready on the counter after the quick combustion. A guy on my right quaff a stout, alternating with short sips of Polish vodka cherry and cursing in a language that I recognized to be Portuguese. I should not seem too strange, then crossing the room with two glasses of white wine between his fingers. Always choose a small table near the entrance, so as to facilitate the numerous outputs to smoke cigarettes. Or maybe he chose her, I do not remember. The particular element of that place was the music. Predictable and non-classical jazz, which by the way I loved how my life, but electronic music very well selected. In this place the ancient and modern meet in a way that I can not explain without becoming verbose.

She had not expressed until then, too focused on jazz-quell'electro so refined as blasphemous to the ears of some purists. I also listened and sipped wine. I looked around. I looked around. Watered my narcissism curarmene but without much, as I was so taken by some personal obsessions. We went outside to smoke their first cigarette, because I was hoping that a little 'of nicotine to help me with concentration. On the narrow stairs, other people talking and smoking near the door. I smoked without talking about setting three-quarters of a clouded moon. She seemed quiet waiting to see where I wanted to end up, I put forward. Back below, taken from my bag that I used to work in a notebook of sketches and notes, a wallet with some prints of documents beaten the computer and some hand-written letters with red ink. It was a collection of material written by me and a woman who had loved in a happy time in my life. Letters, notes on interesting conversations, drawings made at the time, listened to records and recommended and even messages sent by mobile phone. I thought it would be like with the sequences of a movie with quiet concern after it was shot, being able to linger with a point of view more 'objective' about things escaped the previous visions. I had to relate the movie to see if I could girarne a new or burn the film and I had to start all over again the same script. It 'obvious that she was demanding whether they regarded the film as an unedifying, not to forget, but rather to pass it without delay. He began to talk to me like a raging torrent; of a Suddenly I was surprised at how far the silence before his monologue. After I read each sentence and as new parts were added to the memories then flown over, you make matters worse. I was already on his second glass of white and we were fourth in practice. I could hardly hold back my tears, realizing how much the situation had gone out of my control, and the same as all the glory had not been removed by me after all this time, but had continued to flow under the skin, enriching the fantasies created by ' failing that, by distance, by doubt. You would have to help me in all this chaos within. I think they want his opinion, of being able to accept the objectivity that I have always recognized, but those tears Falanghina deleted and the third made me realize that I could not hear it. I did not want, even if I could. And this marvel to see me upset, convinced he wants to put to rest, I made my blood boil and plunge in a chronic state of catatonia. Now his 'Shoot out' and his 'forget' the mingled sound of glasses, cutlery, laughter. I knew it was because he loved me, why he was there to save me, but my reasons, I feel stronger, even though, paradoxically, much less stable. I had always learned to trust my instincts when I was convinced, and I had always gone well.

Contemplating neon on the sign of a brand of beer, I jumped up and placed all my things in the bag. I waved to one of the barmen and left the money in the account on the table, without waiting to rest and receive the ticket. She followed me like a cloud of words around the head. I started to shout at him, climbing the stairs, and ask her to leave me alone and go away. People who saw me out on the street looked with puzzled looks. 'Please, stop, shut up'. the repeated whining like a hysterical. 'Where were you when I needed you? Eh? Reply! ' Add after each claim or request for silence. She screamed words that seemed to insult, but not lost, as was I was doing, the calm. I was exhausted, tired, disappointed, I ran away to pee, I had a headache and the world around me had decided to rotate around me. Spectacular manifestation of my ego. I lay down next to a fountain with a large bath and large illuminated statues now scroll left hours squirt water from their perfect shapes of the Hellenes. So was my body that I seemed to start spinning in the background property of a plaza paved with stone and visceral fears. She was going to attack me again, when I got up on his legs and began to chase it around the edge of the tub. He was able, or perhaps imagined to succeed, and to grasp began a violent confrontation. For each shot infertole I felt more tired and I could see less, I felt terrible pangs of body and my mouth was dripping with blood and saliva alcohol.

I pushed her into the water. Only a few tens of centimeters deep, but they were enough to fill his mortal body of water and resentment.

Thus ammazzai my conscience.

And so I took off my life that night I had drunk a glass too. Maybe even two.

Listening: That Night (Wahoo Mix) - Jazzanova

Bottomless Babes What Men Want

Raining That Night between us

ripples

in puddles,

along the roads of mud

leading the refuge.

drops or words?

Rain or altercation?

A wet silence

that paves the way between you and me.

Only the scent

bark soaked

and leaves

green for a short while

remind me that I am alive

while my body

battered by a flood

silent.

October 2006

Listening: Apollo Nove feat. Ceu - Inexplicata

Denise Milani Big Boobs Nipple

Another smile

Kizette Sleeping (aka Sleeping Woman) -1934 Tamara De Lempicka

I try to envision the idea of \u200b\u200bme in the imagination of your loved ones.

The always look carefully, you know, your friends, meeting them and embarrassed when people ask me how I am. When we lost sight of, I met Laura at the station, and did not know whether to hope that ascended on a carriage away from the mine or to come and sit beside me, so you can ask of you. I laugh when I think of the strange and absurd form of embarrassment. Now I've got peer Ivan, when we take you to our meetings. It 'was always so friendly with me, still greets me with that smile that I always considered the result of a sincere and even the slightest consideration, but as it moves away I wonder how you talk about me when you put your trust. I do not know if you do, really, but I guess so.

Perhaps because, probably, if I were a close friend for years, I would tell you to be careful to draw closer to someone you've already visited and in some how did you feel bad. True friends behave like this. Must do so, says the contract of friendship that you sign when you unknowingly shaking hands and decide to be friends. Some clauses that recite the friend can also be used to lie if this is to avoid the trouble to another person provided the policyholder. In the sense that you always say things to protect his friend, sometimes no interest to analyze the situation objectively. So I would also be able to appreciate it, Ivan, if I say I'm a bastard and me not to be trusted. For a while 'time I may have even hoped that he did not ask me now because, until then I realized that is not true in any way, and that was a stupid thought.

The things you said, you know, there was a period in which I have self-served up in a diluted, but dry, precise. I had the time and how to think very carefully about the things I had reproached and which at the time I had given little weight. That part of you that I did not understand was the part of me was looking for. Elasticity mental I call it, but it is simplistic and inaccurate. My mind is already perceived as very elastic, and fortunately very trained in different disciplines, but I lacked that touch of 'lightness' that I never understood that and then I read in the light of the depth I went chasing. Things then I realized through all my tracks, or tracks from people who have crossed my path led me to untie a bit 'from the constraints of certain fixed ideas I had. And my idealism took a turn more 'realistic'. Like at the bottom of my being small, imperfect and limited. My dreams are still there, intact, but I will be more peaceful if not achieve. How many saw mental, eh? Did I read that publication about, remember? When you know you recognize certain mental processes, it is nice to see them clearly formed in your head and secure them on paper. The moment, in this way, you have them, dominate them, can not more than you fear. You can set them aside, because you know you do not need them, even if you were fond of us.

And so I smile, even when I am surprised to observe for longer than you had the eyes of someone who knows you and knows me too. It 's just a stupid little game of my mind and can not trigger in me more than a smile.

"What are you laughing, you fool?" I tell you, coming.

"Nothing ... is that today you seem more beautiful" I think, recovering from distraction.

But I do not say I say nothing, and with another smile.

Listening: Grace - Jeff Buckley

Complete Version Of Shiny Gold

Pulp serials

Chimicassassina .

1. We make war?

How do I tell him? How do I?

She is already on. Very. Too much because I can tell you a thing now. I shall of itself as a tramp who has just found a bottle full of grappa in a garbage can, and does not want some of your colleagues carried it off. Grips my right side with his left hand, sinking her nails red-glazed and well cared-in living flesh.

How do I say that is a matter of chemistry?

His right hand meanwhile investigates stealth inside my shirt, exploring how a ship equipped with sonar to map the sea bottom. I leave scratches on his chest, occasionally, so, just for good measure.

He stands on tiptoe to kiss his neck, clutching me with her legs long and slender, I bite his ear. I feel a fire within each movement and a violent storm in the lower abdomen. As a firebrand she burns with every touch, her cheeks are red - I see them as spoiled and bad eyes - as well as his belly 'Mediterranean', so soft now that he is let go, which is warmer, and the rose tattoo near your navel becomes more of a red lit. Certainly does not want to kiss me good night.

Criminology, is understood to be investigating, rounding up every inch of my body. His tongue is in charge of my mouth, without any mercy puts it upside down looking for evidence, evidence of my perdition.

How - do - now - to - say - that - no - I can?

And that is a matter of chemistry? ...

I see all this from above, over our bodies tangled. The animal part of me goes on without hesitation, without being too young psychologist of the counterattack. The rational part of my body turns away to analyze the situation, which can surrender at any moment. I see a cold sweat. Not too sure of my actions and very clumsy. Small droplets condense on the surface of my nose, then collect falling on the tip with a 'Plick' right in the neckline of her. Difficult now to convince that being down there thinking that asking for an interview, but it's time to close. There are times in life when you have to take the tough decisions in a very short moments. As in those critical situations where you are in danger of dying. 'Forces of despair' call. What I'm thinking, thinking being that the top is thinking, it is much more than a hypothesis or a probability. And 'what is irretrievably to happen unless you take the situation under control quickly.

"You have to get an idea come to salvage. It's better not to make the figure of the cock. Shoot the first plausible bullshit that goes through your head and then scoured home. Hurry up, damn it! "

was my conscience, the entity that took care of me, talking to me now. Certain hormones, I would keep the nose for weeks, obviously, but 'risk' in that situation was a misnomer, because it was completely impossible that the event would evolve in a positive way prejudice there. I would, indeed, should have known right away, a few minutes before, when we had stopped in his house to greet us, and suddenly I felt strange, as if I had a lightning struck from the inside. But I had resisted the charm of this bastard pin-up capable of producing very thoughts made sense. Perceptive, talkative, and with a seating multilingual. Despite my pacifism convinced, I could not not take up arms to launch a challenge: "We make war." And now, despite myself, I was forced to make a strategic retreat paradoxically.

I tore a decision by the suction of his lips and with a certain apprehension I was told: "Opporcodiungiorgedabliubusc! Jaco! My dog! I left him home alone and without anything to eat. Go crazy if I do not go to him at once and carry it out. E 'locked up at home for several hours, poor fellow. What a bastard I am. Excuse me darling, maybe I do in a hurry and get back to you in a flash. Also if you do not mind ... "

" Of course I'm sorry! "I growled her shocked and withdrawing the hand that had just crept into my pants. He looked at me stunned for a few seconds, his mouth open in an expression strongly opposed. Then a smile appeared on her lips sweet, ironic, evil and resigned, saying that all that now I had magnetized her and could not do without me that night.

"If you do not return within half an hour, I'll kill you." I said, crossing his arms and holding the shoulders back slightly, but still with that sexy grin and criminal. "Sure," I replied, while another flash blinds my view, anything goes in war, after all "and made her a wink (or maybe both eyes closed, I would love to be able to use the English word to blink ).

As soon as she pulled herself together, combed her hair and giving himself a gathering that had taken off his shoes and walked toward the front door, I will not hesitate to run like a maniac to my car, parked in the second row. At that time - and in that neighborhood, I thought - no fine, fortunately. It was full of children that neighborhood, and people still on the streets to enjoy even a bit 'to cool before losing to another hot and sleepless night in mid July. There I noticed as I turned the key in the framework and sets in motion. Under normal circumstances, I would not have given more than 35 seconds old. As in the cartoons Ken , who confided to his enemies the remaining seconds of life before their bodies explode into a smoothie bowel under the blows of his fists Hokuto '100 '. I never thought of cartoons of my childhood.

Listening: Nightclubbing - Iggy Pop

2. Histrionic gesture.

"I just hope I do not run into a shootout," I thought, absurdly, with a candid smile and idiot turned the rearview mirror. In the area of \u200b\u200bBari, robberies and settling of accounts were no longer just a cliché or a sad reminder of the past. The violence had exploded once again for a short time and with unprecedented ferocity. They had already paid the cost affiliated with various clans that were fighting the various criminals trafficking in different districts of the city, and some - but by now-too many innocent citizens who had only the fault (bad luck?) to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At that moment I thought that 'being in the wrong place at the wrong time' was always one of my prerogative.

Think waterfall.

While this has always been my prerogative. I sometimes have the impression of a blind draw in the deck of thoughts crowding my head every moment. Every detail of external causes me bunches feelings and thoughts, which usually have the character to create a network of associations between perceptions and flash memories or facts. "But think about driving, you idiot!" Said a voice suddenly without sound. I had to exit quickly from that neighborhood and I would gladly hit the car with those 'Gremlins' disguised as children playing with a soccer ball 'to the German', then downloading violent ball against the gate of a garage.

arrogant, conceited. Most of them had a relative as a model drug dealer or 'mouse' (pickpocket thief-mugger-flat). Unconscious and helpless children of the vicious cycle of poverty / ignorance / unemployment / wrong policy planning and allocation of housing. I worked on a multi-disciplinary study on a ghetto neighborhood on the outskirts, where a new left-wing administration was interested in his urban redevelopment (especially social), so I knew very well all those dynamics. But sometimes it was better to have a healthy fear of these creatures, which have grown as mavericks, they did not have any regard to the results of violence, and about respect for others. I knew, in a sense, to have their respect, because I was in their territory and that I wanted to free my car it came out (I add also that I was dying to engage in a fight with kids ten years ... regardless of the situation in terms). So I mentioned only a slight sense of disapproval by folding upwards the right corner of the mouth when one of them pulled me - on purpose (that angel ...) - a ball against the side. I began to count to ten slowly and listening to me breathe in and out. Scoured out again. In my mind Ken Shiro began to impose a series of punches to the body spinning those obnoxious pests that one by one they took his head in his hands, and this was beginning to swell and deform up to explode spreading everywhere shreds of its bloody content . It would be nice to have Ken as a bodyguard, mad, as I disentangle the meaning of the quarter forced Madonnella. I had little way to go to reach my house, but only by reasoning as the crow flies. I continued my sweats and cold chills down my spine, anticipating doomsday scenarios. A tamarro in a yellow Mini Cooper S annoyance proceeded at a crawl and snaking between the two lanes. Too stoned I do not know what combination lysergic acid and the remix of Gigi D'Agostino, who sported in the car, a volume to be stopped immediately. I tried to overtake from the left, then right, but nothing. I looked in the mirror wet and green as the Hulk. 1 .. 2 .. 3 .. 4 .. I'm exploding. I fucked up. The interlayer in Bari the traffic light: I started with trumpet horn. The type did not seem to notice at all. At that point he was able to join him and asked me to go to space. He looked at me hard and slow with his piggy eyes, almost a disgrace to God's superiority, pretended to hold me then I let go, as if to say "I'll grant you, plebeian."

I let myself take pride and rifilai a nice middle finger to the mirror.

not do it.

The forced you angry, starting in pursuit. He had to make me pay, that was an affront that does not let go so. And I could not afford such a mistake in that moment of levity. It seemed that in one way or another that evening, death would come to reclaim my soul. The type I was at their heels and head out the window, I screamed a little veiled death threats. Many words in the dialect not understood, so he spoke fast. At another time I would have enjoyed even in trying to test driving a car, chased by a madman through the streets of the city, but I had other thoughts on his mind. I was almost at home, fuck, now I passed the dashing and strangely ignoring the red light still on at that hour. I fed away from the intersection with Via Amendola Capruzzi.

Yes

Wrong. Fortunately, only two girls went on a scooter and I just cursed the dead. I wanted to sow it, but my Alfa Sud was not anything against his fucking Mini S. I had to use your head. We are on the main road now and I wonder why they are so fool by bringing him out of town. Actually I knew that, now on the run, I could combine business with pleasure ... The beast up beside me shouting, "You're a piece of shit, stop that I'll break your ass."

than I wanted to stop me, because I wanted to stop first, and get him to shut the mouth of a sewer. I could not shit, I could not. I put the arrow to go out of Sammichele, then suddenly came from the deceleration lane, but the bastard did not bait the trap. I risorpassò and skidded a bit, 'as to send me off the road. He must have had the advantage of the engine, but he did not know who had to do ...

Listening: Travelling Without Moving - Jamiroquai

3. 'The Peacemaker'.

'The Peacemaker'. It 's so I called a boy, and this epithet was certainly not the positive value you can imagine. Nothing to do with 'the pacifier' ... but to understand it must have seen the film 'The Peacemaker' with George Clooney and Nicole Kidman. In a scene high in special effects, the grizzled most famous film spectacular developments throttled with a Mercedes SL during a mad chase with some dangerous spies, and squeezes a bag of your custom-sheets, but saved our butts. It was soon after the release of the movie and the vision of those sequences that my closest friends began to call me that. To be precise, it was immediately after I had used in a series of maneuvers to immediate withdrawal of the license, one night I had too much alcohol. That time I even got on the sidewalk with my Fiat Panda to shit in a stupid fear that had been preferred to me from the idiot of the most beautiful country. When this had ended his grueling flight on foot to stop terror with a corner, I was broken and scoured leaving smoke behind me, shreds of tire and laughter of his fellow ape revelry. My partners car was petrified and remained silent for ten seconds, then began to laugh without stopping, to shout and make noise like dogs hysterical. From that evening, and for several years, I was 'The Peacemaker'.

All of us in the group we have always had a passion for driving. This has led us, in the early years from novice to do a lot of shit behind the wheel of the cars our parents, seriously endangering the lives our young people are thirsting for excitement.

I was thinking about that time that I arrived a few inches from plunging over a cliff, I realized that I had to invent something in a hurry to get me out of this absurd situation. I glanced at the brake lever of understanding in hand, eyes narrowed into slits that sparkled with excitement. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a river and a heat unclean weighed me down eyelids, which were occasionally shaken by nervous tremors. I had done so many times to play with friends in the parking lot of the Stadium (and once I even had to pay to my father the gems of the rear lights that I had destroyed), but now that this maneuver could save my life or choke it off in a bloody manner did not make me laugh so much. I had to concentrate and try to reduce some 'speed because otherwise I would have flipped for sure. I tried to understand its trajectory by looking at the round headlights in the rearview mirror. I began to reduce the pressure on the gas pedal and move in the fast lane, almost having to get him to pass from the right side. Hurt my forearms as the firm was taken the steering wheel and the sweat made my solidarity to the seat back. The chicken took the bait and was about to close, when I moved back up slightly to the right and pulled the lever, with the same care taken when handling the detonator of a bomb. It was just amazing. I ran the whole scene in front of the viewer as if I were an action movie. I felt like Duke, and Moe, or as Michael Knight in Knight Rider ... why not a little 'McGyver! My Alfa green bottle perfectly turned 180 degrees, in the best performance by a professional stuntman. ...

[more]

Hairdressers Hair Colour Chart 8

Fire Fatuo

I kill myself because you did not like
because I've not loved. I kill myself because our reports were cowards,
to tighten our report. I'll let you on
an indelible stain.

Fatuo Fuoco.

As snow hot coals into his nostrils
veins
fatuous fire cuts through the heart.
Music and blood from his fingers
love life and death mingle in
syncopated bass.

feeling in the morning is not the name and image is not
but insomnia at night.
Hope and unconsciousness,
latency fragrance,
presence-absence. Like black snow hides

and burn the entrails burning
blurs and then blinds the mind.
constant and then increasing
contracts and tends
Precious. Inconsistent
pleasure drunk and drowns
space and time
in ephemeral bodies of dichotomies. Dissatisfied
keep looking tired even
to create.
Convinced already wrong.

Dario

dissatisfaction> what?> When?> Why?> My age is permitted to> what is lawful and what is not?> What is really important?> Is allowed at my age? > where do you cling to avoid falling?> ah yes, the important thing is that there is someone> but whatever anyone?> and when you stop?> is realized, and when did you stop?> and if I felt really weak> would be better?> would be easy> it is easy to feel weak, inadequate> disease eliminates liability> is really right?> is really funny?> maybe not> I need to create something that is born of joy> I try> I have to fly> or die> is easier> Like hell! <

Listening: a dialogue from the film 'Le Feu Follet' (Fire Fatuo) [1963] Louis Malle.