Naples
those of the early '90s. I was little, I do not remember how old I was. My grandfather was still alive. We had rented a vacation home in Mondragone, along with my father's sister, her husband, and indeed my grandfather. My mother was so That young man was reading, if anyone still remembers it. He sent me aedicule front of house to buy newspapers and the Harmony of puzzles, but they were especially for me. We still had puppy, maltese dog of my childhood, able to free ride five seconds in a bowl of ice cream Cassata, leaving intact all the candy. On the beaches we are still games like Street Fighter, or imitation, the coin-operated machines with those tires round and colorful, and the jukebox.
The resort, in the family, was traditionally made in Caserta. Our only resort was just in Mondragone, but in the summers preceding and following ones, often on the weekends we went to Castel Volturno, aunt of my father, who rented a villa on two floors that we, children, it seemed huge, with those high ceilings, giant cobwebs in the corners, resulting in size and spiders, the terrace and the garden where we ran games doing that now do not even remember. My aunt rented every year, the umbrella at the Lido Scalzone, always the same. The water was dirty, and after lunch we always had to wait before we could travel back four. I remember days on the bike with my cousin, I sat behind the luggage rack, running around the garbage of the city in search of cans of Coca-Cola with the flags of participating teams at the World Cup. Now I also remember the year 1994. On the beach the jukebox transmitted not love me, Zombie The Cranberries, Four friends, that piece chain disco-country-Joe tamarissimo something, and, through my own dime, turns the ball Felice Caccamo.
I have a vague memory of other friends of mine, who instead had a vacation home in Green Bay, or Bay Domizia, I forget. Not too far, in fact. Even then, the street called Domitian had a certain reputation, and I heard about almost censorious, I should not feel too much. Perhaps the area of prostitution, stuff too strong for my baby's ears. It was August, I was hoping to questions about the shooting stars see one, never knows what to ask then, I do not think there was already a girl in my thoughts at the time. There was the television at Naples, in a summer tournament, with Juventus or AC Milan in the middle. Maybe there's already talk of moving to the north.
One evening, when we resort to Mondragone, we passed a dead man on the street, and police around. My mother, as always in these situations, I think he told me not to look. I remember that telelgiornale broke the news the next day, a bit 'in passing, referring to biker killed by a stray bullet. I remember very well the expression stray bullet, literally, for the pun now vacant Naton bullet. Napoletanizzato talk more now, and I thought "scamazzare" word was very Italian. Jocelyn was on television in the afternoon with a quiz with calls from his home, and the evening was Mai dire banzai and Bathing Beauties , or a similar title, with former player Schnellinger between conductors . Raf went on the radio with that song title from the long ( Are we alone in the vast emptiness that is ), and perhaps with Leone di Lernia I do not know what nonsense. My World Masters were the toys that I brought with me, ice cream, slides. My uncle Frank was sleeping with my mouth open, and it made me laugh in the car would always listen Italian songs of the Sixties ( Your kiss is like a rock , Tied to a grain of sand , twenty-four thousand kisses , Taste salt , The sky in one room). We also launched always away at sea, in what was called lu 's bomb Saddam Hussein ; often I almost drowned in some ditch too deep for me. I never learned to swim. But my uncle has been enriched by the pizza fries.
When we left Naples and its suburbs, was for work and not work. My father, after the failure the company he worked, he could choose between layoffs or absorption in the Italian Post Office, a place to state so, but with the transfer. I remember well that he often talked about emigrating to Australia, so he had no trouble accepting the transfer to the North. Bologna, before ending a period in which I saw only on weekends, a time when he was asleep by the priests, in cheap hotels, or car (l 'Hotel Duna of a holder of Resto del Carlino ). Then I do not know how it ended in Piacenza, and it was there that we all moved. I took the transfer with such enthusiasm, dreaming that I had new friends, eager to see new things. I was not yet been touched by the disease Leopard (came soon after, in the north, or perhaps better with adolescence). I was not yet thirteen. I
Naples magazine occasional events: Christmas and New Year, the year after our move. Then only weddings, or funerals. In thirteen years I went there four or five times. It is now half of my life that I spent away from Naples.
points of my villaggiature a child, however, I did not see each other again. I read them in the chronicles, associated deaths, massacres, to a spiral of blood and blood for this indifference.
often think back to Naples at this time. When I read the newspapers. When anyone asks me about Gomorrah (the movie). When I read that Saviano wants to emigrate. When someone tells me that he found Gomorrah "ugly," he raged. Those places, those people, I have glimpsed as a child.
My father, then, is Secondigliano. To go home to my grandfather always walked past the sails. At that time, however, the lost children of my relatives could be at most drug problems, or petty crime, such as contraband, or stolen furniture for resale marketplace. No one I know has ever challenged a gun. I wonder if they would grow in those neighborhoods today could really avoid it, or not. That mentality would have. And I also wonder how I grew up I if we had remained in Naples. How would grow my brothers, who attended normal school at Ponticelli, while I was sent, although there were not even the means, the nuns in the center, and slept at my grandmother's house. I wonder how my parents would grow, when my mother emigrated to the north, for example, was thirty years. It was not obvious what would become the forty it is now. Under my house organized street racing cars that I saw running from the window, and the park in front of the house, shortly after being inaugurated was the area reserved for drug addicts, and found syringes on the ground much more than I've ever seen in my life then.
The first time I was migrated to ten years. I emigrated from the elementary school I attended a private school at Ponticelli in Naples of the same name of a prison, Regina Coeli. I emigrated because of the bullies and my character prone to rage furiously, and on the advice of the masters. Then I emigrated in Piacenza, with my parents. Recently I moved to Paris, which is not emigrate Piché is a choice, but it is another departure. Naples has changed, and I dare not come back and watch. I keep my memories warm bass where old clothes that seemed nailed to the same chair has always turned television and the smell of cooked sauce with nzogna from the kitchen. I keep too many negatives, but everything is relativized. At that time it seemed normal that my mother asked me to go and buy cigarettes from smugglers down the street, I had nine or ten years. I went in the fifth grade and some of my classmates already had smoked a cigarette, others, repeating the thirteen, came quietly to buy just finished school. My height was always the object of scorn and derision and the source of theft of a backpack, which was then flown out of the hands of a companion to those of a another, with which I jumped pathetically, in between, without ever being able to achieve.
arrived in Piacenza in one day in October, days before a pchi Piacenza-Napoli 0-1 solved from a free kick by André Cruz, I saw the curve of Galleana from behind the door. In September, my mother first enrolled in ninth grade in the class of our wretched suburbs. I think I took them (often without reason), and dates in those three weeks than in the rest of my life. Survival. In class looked at me as a sort of thing funny, nerd who does not speak Neapolitan, who has made the school by the nuns, a small, bespectacled and shy. Then I met when I showed to know all the players Series A, and to be able to hit the ball fairly kick. I did do well in class, and I was not pulled back, the ball in the air, I gave my acrobatic show by bouncing the ball against the walls of the classroom. But then kicked me in the balls out of school, from complete strangers, who avvicinvano a pretext whatever, to me they launched the coup, and then fled on a motorbike.
do not know why I remember it all. It will be that of Castelvolturno, Domizia Bay of Naples, Gomorrah, he talks so much during this period. It will be that when it comes to leave, from Naples, Italy, I feel involved, and I can not understand. Then I see videos like this , and I grieved, and I think now is a world too far from me, I can only remember the good things and what's rotten I've seen and experienced, or that I understood and that will always be far away. It is no longer the Napoli of Maradona, Pino Daniele when he was still singing the blues in Naples, of Troisi, the first election of Bassolino, then dashed hopes of many. Yet adda step 'to Nutt, even for my poor Naples.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
How To Wear A Shirt Loose Tie
Save as draft: The text message of the Nuit Blanche
The white night, sleepless night, he saw a script to take place so classic that it is now worn out: Wine - exaltation - Wine - quiet - wine - frustration final.
course, if the excitement is expressed through dance or verbal assaults ipoteticissime prey, and the calm is not expressed precisely, frustration, discouragement, depression, always compel me to write. At the end of the night
white, isolated from the crowd, step ten minutes celular. Reflections to be concentrated in 160 characters. A long pause to note that my cell phone and threw out But you're writing a novel? , and I And why not? . Yeah, why not? Maybe call it "alcoholic depression", or "The drunk depressed."
Draft # 1 03:58
Only among people who more or less fun, as everyone is lonely group. In my usual prey to obsessions and paranoia. Confirmed that always true.
Draft # 2 04:01
Because when everybody has fun in some way but I started to depress? The night helps dark thoughts. Life is endless tedium.
Draft # 3 04:03
My shyness is shameful, guilty as an original sin. I had taken a vow of self-destruction before 30 if nothing had changed. Nothing has changed
Draft # 4 04:05
Kill the old self seems impossible. Continues to thrive. Replace it with something better, so hard. Always the same outer and inner emptiness.
Draft # 5 04:09
I look around. Do not act. Always something unspoken. The same old Tare. Something eats me inside. I do not know find out, kill him. And I can not accept it.
The strange thing to think about it, is that at 4 am the wine into the body that stimulates even the late-adolescent depression, including thoughts, I began to set on the only thoughts that support me in that moment seemed to be used , the mobile phone. I adapted the form of my thoughts to the space of a text message. And despite a minimum of drunkenness, the style is the same as if I had been on autopilot. (In Actually, this proves that I was not really drunk, who has received email from me, written by very drunk, knows that style begins to slip away). That even then I lose my writing sms quote, more or less openly, the Leopards as Morrissey, this is almost scary, honestly.
The white night, sleepless night, he saw a script to take place so classic that it is now worn out: Wine - exaltation - Wine - quiet - wine - frustration final.
course, if the excitement is expressed through dance or verbal assaults ipoteticissime prey, and the calm is not expressed precisely, frustration, discouragement, depression, always compel me to write. At the end of the night
white, isolated from the crowd, step ten minutes celular. Reflections to be concentrated in 160 characters. A long pause to note that my cell phone and threw out But you're writing a novel? , and I And why not? . Yeah, why not? Maybe call it "alcoholic depression", or "The drunk depressed."
Draft # 1 03:58
Only among people who more or less fun, as everyone is lonely group. In my usual prey to obsessions and paranoia. Confirmed that always true.
Draft # 2 04:01
Because when everybody has fun in some way but I started to depress? The night helps dark thoughts. Life is endless tedium.
Draft # 3 04:03
My shyness is shameful, guilty as an original sin. I had taken a vow of self-destruction before 30 if nothing had changed. Nothing has changed
Draft # 4 04:05
Kill the old self seems impossible. Continues to thrive. Replace it with something better, so hard. Always the same outer and inner emptiness.
Draft # 5 04:09
I look around. Do not act. Always something unspoken. The same old Tare. Something eats me inside. I do not know find out, kill him. And I can not accept it.
The strange thing to think about it, is that at 4 am the wine into the body that stimulates even the late-adolescent depression, including thoughts, I began to set on the only thoughts that support me in that moment seemed to be used , the mobile phone. I adapted the form of my thoughts to the space of a text message. And despite a minimum of drunkenness, the style is the same as if I had been on autopilot. (In Actually, this proves that I was not really drunk, who has received email from me, written by very drunk, knows that style begins to slip away). That even then I lose my writing sms quote, more or less openly, the Leopards as Morrissey, this is almost scary, honestly.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Mario Salieri - Vietnam Store
Pieces: Chapter VI (Domestic, Bratislava, dreams)
[6] - 25/9/2008, from a personal email
Cara [..],
from Bratislava I came back and, believe it or not, even with something new. The new features are basically two: I have more hours at work, and change roommates [...].
We start from the second, just to mock the order: back at home, listening to the voice mail and messages there is between that of my landlord asks me to explain: it seems the neighbors have complained for a night of noise, much noise, people in the backyard at 5 am, and then things are incomprehensible to my French but including phone seems to have understood the word "police", which I did not need translation. The next morning, I leave for work that they sleep (at least fall routinely at 4 am) and leave them a sheet that said, the owner called me and told me that the neighbors have complained, it is recalled that in day to find out more, which was not at all happy. Among other things there is to know that there had been problems with neighbors (as well as with me ...), and that was the first time they complained that happened in eight months. And I had already made the speech to the girls that our living together could also stop there, and that they had asked me a second chance. Well, I come home, and next to my spreadsheet is also a booklet with addresses and phone numbers marked. Beak girls, ask their explanations, and then very calmly say it's time to stop: the answer is that they are already looking for another apartment. The red card if they are given alone, in fact. And so finally return, I get up a weight.
News number one pass from 21 to 33 hours. Practically a full time job. A full-time I will concentrate on unnecessary work, no intellectually stimulating and they do not give a damn: excellent results of my studies. But that's okay for now rest in Paris, and I keep on wondering what to do with my life, hoping someday to have a sudden illumination, and never know that the money they put aside working I could help them to also ' lighting, when it presents itself.
[...] When I travel, however, have an obligation to bring the magnet then the mother (at home there a whole collection of all magnets magnetically attached to the boiler). In Bratislava it was pretty easy, but not always the case. In Morocco I found quite by accident last shop I entered the last day just a few hours before taking the plane. In Romania, however, is not the custom, apparently, the only place where I happened to find one is Brasov, the mountain resort town in central Romania, in full Carpathians, where among other things it was bitterly cold (like less than fifteen or so), and that seems to be one of the most tourist destinations in Romania popular (especially for skiers). Then I go to the kiosk, taking the magnet of Brasov (which reminds me 'when his name was Aldo says Ayeye Brasorf in Three Men and a leg) and try to put it to the seller my presence, with magnet in hand, and my intention to pay. Five minutes, and that I do not shit. Then I'm leaving. With the magnet, passed easily in your pocket. In practice, a time when all the media campaign in Italy rode anti-Romanian, Italian I've stolen a magnet in Romania, in front of my friends (one Italian and one Romanian), which of course they laughed out loud the obvious paradox.
then Bratislava (Slovakia, a bit 'to the east of Austria, type low hour from Vienna), not the 'I have even seen. We have plenty of time to eat and drink in pubs. Mangiatone meat and various local dishes, and drinking beer czech and various local spirits (one with pears, plums another, another cherry, and one frankly I did not understand - but wikipedia says these indecipherable to me fruits). In short, we were always stunned at the end of the evening. We have seen a lot of tv Slovak, czech and Austrian capendoci not nothing in any of the three cases, and we even had a movie night where we have seen before in a comedy czech sottotiolata English, very funny, and then a film of Bud Spencer and Terence Hill, who apparently in Central Europe are considered real myths (the guy had at least a dozen of their DVD, I'm even including the Hippopotamus). Meanwhile, every new person we meet, the friend I went down there could not tell the story of my match against the bouncer, which has now become something of a legend. It ends up that I will become a kind of Andy Kaufman (if you've seen Man on the moon ).
My dream life is rather more developed than ever. I dreamed a lot of things: sex dreams, weird dreams (my brother was carrying around a Paris that was not Paris, bus, and then the driver disappeared and I put I driving with a kind of joystick round), even more strange dreams (a giant octopus that lowers the Musée d'Orsay, and all who take refuge on the species of large rocks, while on a giant flood - do not ask We guessed that these scenarios with the marine museum ...). Then I also wanted to develop a subject for a film with not remember who was there, and suddenly I was thinking about the lighting of a road movie on a motorcycle around Europe, with references and innuendo De André, De Gregori and Guccini: type at some point we go to hell the main character in Genoa on Via del Campo. [...] I must be crazy
[6] - 25/9/2008, from a personal email
Cara [..],
from Bratislava I came back and, believe it or not, even with something new. The new features are basically two: I have more hours at work, and change roommates [...].
We start from the second, just to mock the order: back at home, listening to the voice mail and messages there is between that of my landlord asks me to explain: it seems the neighbors have complained for a night of noise, much noise, people in the backyard at 5 am, and then things are incomprehensible to my French but including phone seems to have understood the word "police", which I did not need translation. The next morning, I leave for work that they sleep (at least fall routinely at 4 am) and leave them a sheet that said, the owner called me and told me that the neighbors have complained, it is recalled that in day to find out more, which was not at all happy. Among other things there is to know that there had been problems with neighbors (as well as with me ...), and that was the first time they complained that happened in eight months. And I had already made the speech to the girls that our living together could also stop there, and that they had asked me a second chance. Well, I come home, and next to my spreadsheet is also a booklet with addresses and phone numbers marked. Beak girls, ask their explanations, and then very calmly say it's time to stop: the answer is that they are already looking for another apartment. The red card if they are given alone, in fact. And so finally return, I get up a weight.
News number one pass from 21 to 33 hours. Practically a full time job. A full-time I will concentrate on unnecessary work, no intellectually stimulating and they do not give a damn: excellent results of my studies. But that's okay for now rest in Paris, and I keep on wondering what to do with my life, hoping someday to have a sudden illumination, and never know that the money they put aside working I could help them to also ' lighting, when it presents itself.
[...] When I travel, however, have an obligation to bring the magnet then the mother (at home there a whole collection of all magnets magnetically attached to the boiler). In Bratislava it was pretty easy, but not always the case. In Morocco I found quite by accident last shop I entered the last day just a few hours before taking the plane. In Romania, however, is not the custom, apparently, the only place where I happened to find one is Brasov, the mountain resort town in central Romania, in full Carpathians, where among other things it was bitterly cold (like less than fifteen or so), and that seems to be one of the most tourist destinations in Romania popular (especially for skiers). Then I go to the kiosk, taking the magnet of Brasov (which reminds me 'when his name was Aldo says Ayeye Brasorf in Three Men and a leg) and try to put it to the seller my presence, with magnet in hand, and my intention to pay. Five minutes, and that I do not shit. Then I'm leaving. With the magnet, passed easily in your pocket. In practice, a time when all the media campaign in Italy rode anti-Romanian, Italian I've stolen a magnet in Romania, in front of my friends (one Italian and one Romanian), which of course they laughed out loud the obvious paradox.
then Bratislava (Slovakia, a bit 'to the east of Austria, type low hour from Vienna), not the 'I have even seen. We have plenty of time to eat and drink in pubs. Mangiatone meat and various local dishes, and drinking beer czech and various local spirits (one with pears, plums another, another cherry, and one frankly I did not understand - but wikipedia says these indecipherable to me fruits). In short, we were always stunned at the end of the evening. We have seen a lot of tv Slovak, czech and Austrian capendoci not nothing in any of the three cases, and we even had a movie night where we have seen before in a comedy czech sottotiolata English, very funny, and then a film of Bud Spencer and Terence Hill, who apparently in Central Europe are considered real myths (the guy had at least a dozen of their DVD, I'm even including the Hippopotamus). Meanwhile, every new person we meet, the friend I went down there could not tell the story of my match against the bouncer, which has now become something of a legend. It ends up that I will become a kind of Andy Kaufman (if you've seen Man on the moon ).
My dream life is rather more developed than ever. I dreamed a lot of things: sex dreams, weird dreams (my brother was carrying around a Paris that was not Paris, bus, and then the driver disappeared and I put I driving with a kind of joystick round), even more strange dreams (a giant octopus that lowers the Musée d'Orsay, and all who take refuge on the species of large rocks, while on a giant flood - do not ask We guessed that these scenarios with the marine museum ...). Then I also wanted to develop a subject for a film with not remember who was there, and suddenly I was thinking about the lighting of a road movie on a motorcycle around Europe, with references and innuendo De André, De Gregori and Guccini: type at some point we go to hell the main character in Genoa on Via del Campo. [...] I must be crazy
Best Prosumer Microphones
Pieces: Chapter V (Household , Dublin, marianz against the bouncer)
[5] - 16/9/2008, from a personal email
[...]
My August was, on balance, pretty boring. Apart from the brackets of some lonely day in Dublin, I worked at the museum, and made some out from time to time. In mid-August my roommates (who were already successors to the original occupants) are matches and I had to find new roommates. I very labored, but eventually I found two, except that I definitely missed the shot, and now they are unhappy with having choices. Two drunken youths who live at night and very little during the day, falling early in the morning making a lot of revelry, leading people to stay at home, and have a disorderly sexual life with men and women. Even in my house, and even when I try to sleep. Now seems to have subsided, but the slightest thing wrong I guess Sbrocco and kicked ass.
The problem perhaps is that I'm getting old, and I more and more sour. Not that I ever was a philanthropist. But perhaps this solitude too long, and this uncertainty in my life, they begin to weigh. Here I do not know what I'm doing exactly. I continue to sew the museum, and in his free time sleeping, or I lose it on the internet. I'd like to activate a bit ', to do something, to react, but I can not. And then I wonder if I'm here because I like it, or because I was running away from something, and I think the most likely truth is that both things are true.
I bought and I did bring a lot of books, but we'll see if I can read them. Without lead, because I had the pleasure of hosting a few days my mother and my brother. I made them walk a lot, and I've also brought in Indian food. If you come in November, will also lead you to eat Indian in my neighborhood is a kind of obligation, there are only shops and Indian restaurants (actually, Sri Lankans, but oh well ...). Spending a few days with my mother and me faretllo relaxed but the two days immediately after I have gone crazy with my coiquiline half, but maintaining an Olympian calm calm calm I made a speech where he revealed my intention to throw them out. We said that a second chance should be given to all and now we'll see how things go in the second half of this month.
Sometimes I cook to relax. Almost the first dishes only reality. Tagliatelle alla Bolognese, baked rice pudding with sausage gravy and peas, penne with salmon, pasta and lentil curry pasta with cabbage and baked (not fine, however, came in second on the right of the reality ...); with tomato provolone (provolone course scope my mom). [...]
In Dublin, however, I spent a lot of money in Guinness. At a certain time left to do is to do is go around the pubs, because there are hundreds. But very much alive, lots of live music, and even if they are enough attractions, the indigenous presence is always there, and it is warm. There were a couple of nights when I just made the idiot with strangers and unknown in the pub. There were, however, also times when I attacked what of sadness that after a while 'beer starts to get into fights with enthusiasm, and sometimes wins. In general, however, I would say, that was nice. Among
[...] some day I will still take a 3-4 days of vacation time I go to Bratislava. I go there with a friend, and we are a friend of his, and the program is rather to celebrate ... I do not know if maybe escapes even a trip to Vienna, which is an hour's train ... but this time I will not predict anything.
Paris starts to fall. The evening is the earliest, and the clothes are getting longer and weigh down. It also has its own charm in reality, and so I had not seen it yet. It 's the first time in four years that I see in September, at the gates of autumn. Who knows how it will be in October. Not that it much more time to walk, I move to work in the morning I sleep much the night I'm up late. I even stopped writing for a long time. Every time I tell myself that I have to start over, but then I do not. It took me time to even write to you.
I have in mind a scheme of the novel done only by email, epistolary novel type of new generation. Would be divided into two parts, one called Sent Items, and other mail received. The protagonist is a guy that you do not know anything, disappeared, and which shows the registration of the e-mail to understand something more.
Then there are the evenings. I am very exited with a friend of mine Tuscany, in August, and now he has gone on vacation for a month (the best scenes with him that the two of us sing Captain stretched out loud in the deserted Parisian night), but returned instead to another friend of mine was two months in Italy (the same one that I will go to Slovakia), and now I go out a lot with him. A few nights ago I had a fight in a bar with a bouncer, and despite the very tense atmosphere, come to think after a scene was not without a comically grotesque blatantly wrong that I have a beer on me in this great big man to me twice, visibly angry, and after that wants to kill me. Two days later I wanted to enter the bar in front, always for this story, and there was the first bar bouncer who knows how I had seen standing in the dark move (who knows what will lead me to dream) and indicated by waving not let me. After a quarter of an hour and a council of the two bar bouncer (against me) and the owner of the second bar, with my friends (who were already inside) came out to see what was happening and to calm myself, I finally have ushered.
[5] - 16/9/2008, from a personal email
[...]
My August was, on balance, pretty boring. Apart from the brackets of some lonely day in Dublin, I worked at the museum, and made some out from time to time. In mid-August my roommates (who were already successors to the original occupants) are matches and I had to find new roommates. I very labored, but eventually I found two, except that I definitely missed the shot, and now they are unhappy with having choices. Two drunken youths who live at night and very little during the day, falling early in the morning making a lot of revelry, leading people to stay at home, and have a disorderly sexual life with men and women. Even in my house, and even when I try to sleep. Now seems to have subsided, but the slightest thing wrong I guess Sbrocco and kicked ass.
The problem perhaps is that I'm getting old, and I more and more sour. Not that I ever was a philanthropist. But perhaps this solitude too long, and this uncertainty in my life, they begin to weigh. Here I do not know what I'm doing exactly. I continue to sew the museum, and in his free time sleeping, or I lose it on the internet. I'd like to activate a bit ', to do something, to react, but I can not. And then I wonder if I'm here because I like it, or because I was running away from something, and I think the most likely truth is that both things are true.
I bought and I did bring a lot of books, but we'll see if I can read them. Without lead, because I had the pleasure of hosting a few days my mother and my brother. I made them walk a lot, and I've also brought in Indian food. If you come in November, will also lead you to eat Indian in my neighborhood is a kind of obligation, there are only shops and Indian restaurants (actually, Sri Lankans, but oh well ...). Spending a few days with my mother and me faretllo relaxed but the two days immediately after I have gone crazy with my coiquiline half, but maintaining an Olympian calm calm calm I made a speech where he revealed my intention to throw them out. We said that a second chance should be given to all and now we'll see how things go in the second half of this month.
Sometimes I cook to relax. Almost the first dishes only reality. Tagliatelle alla Bolognese, baked rice pudding with sausage gravy and peas, penne with salmon, pasta and lentil curry pasta with cabbage and baked (not fine, however, came in second on the right of the reality ...); with tomato provolone (provolone course scope my mom). [...]
In Dublin, however, I spent a lot of money in Guinness. At a certain time left to do is to do is go around the pubs, because there are hundreds. But very much alive, lots of live music, and even if they are enough attractions, the indigenous presence is always there, and it is warm. There were a couple of nights when I just made the idiot with strangers and unknown in the pub. There were, however, also times when I attacked what of sadness that after a while 'beer starts to get into fights with enthusiasm, and sometimes wins. In general, however, I would say, that was nice. Among
[...] some day I will still take a 3-4 days of vacation time I go to Bratislava. I go there with a friend, and we are a friend of his, and the program is rather to celebrate ... I do not know if maybe escapes even a trip to Vienna, which is an hour's train ... but this time I will not predict anything.
Paris starts to fall. The evening is the earliest, and the clothes are getting longer and weigh down. It also has its own charm in reality, and so I had not seen it yet. It 's the first time in four years that I see in September, at the gates of autumn. Who knows how it will be in October. Not that it much more time to walk, I move to work in the morning I sleep much the night I'm up late. I even stopped writing for a long time. Every time I tell myself that I have to start over, but then I do not. It took me time to even write to you.
I have in mind a scheme of the novel done only by email, epistolary novel type of new generation. Would be divided into two parts, one called Sent Items, and other mail received. The protagonist is a guy that you do not know anything, disappeared, and which shows the registration of the e-mail to understand something more.
Then there are the evenings. I am very exited with a friend of mine Tuscany, in August, and now he has gone on vacation for a month (the best scenes with him that the two of us sing Captain stretched out loud in the deserted Parisian night), but returned instead to another friend of mine was two months in Italy (the same one that I will go to Slovakia), and now I go out a lot with him. A few nights ago I had a fight in a bar with a bouncer, and despite the very tense atmosphere, come to think after a scene was not without a comically grotesque blatantly wrong that I have a beer on me in this great big man to me twice, visibly angry, and after that wants to kill me. Two days later I wanted to enter the bar in front, always for this story, and there was the first bar bouncer who knows how I had seen standing in the dark move (who knows what will lead me to dream) and indicated by waving not let me. After a quarter of an hour and a council of the two bar bouncer (against me) and the owner of the second bar, with my friends (who were already inside) came out to see what was happening and to calm myself, I finally have ushered.
Diagram Of Plugs And Wires For V6 2001 Mustang
Pieces: Chapter IV (Thoughts drunk, variations on the theme and digressions)
[...] [4] - 23:07:08, notebook
so long that I do not write ... The excitement of a new book, hundreds of blank pages to fill, and alcohol accumulated at three passes in the night: why we wanted to make me start again? They are sweating, too much for the dance, and perhaps smell, who knows, I do not have consciousness of my odors or smells, like the protagonist of Suskind's Perfume I have not even smell anything, but certainly I have a fire inside that is not and only one alcohol is a fire burning so many things together: a great desire that together make the same burning flame.
In this period of silence so many things, and none have happened. No special event, no unexpected encounter, no auspicious or inauspicious incident has radically changed my life. Rest of the same place, with the same job, to say the same sentences with the same doubts, the same indecision. A story in summary of what was then a few months ago does not differ too: indeed, in essence, would be the same story, always the same story building. Happiness at times and uncertain future, and it is always the case, it seems almost a universal rule that still applies. The script does not seem to change, but change the photo, the secondary characters, the scenery seems to have something different despite the apparent immobility. Above all, there are new variations on the theme, and new digressions.
Variations on a theme: change the girls but the result does not change, as there was a transient property. Human relations and knowledge of various kinds and types, no significant innovation. The interpersonal difficulty is the same for 25 years, and exceeded it seems so far away. The mood then it is always so variable, cheerful look drunk bitterness Leopardi all shades and ragging are possible even within a few minutes. Only with myself, as always, I'm bored, I do not have a book to read maybe a girl who eat the brain, an uncoordinated dance music or shouting up to running out of the lungs. Well, I am still me, neither more nor less, useless to hope for something different. Waiting for Crypton, have not Clark Kent turns into Superman, then oh well, in this case was the opposite, it is known (cf. Kill Bill vol. 2), who plays Superman is degrading to Clark Kent. What it is: they are always away from both. I live my life in Paris in the middle of uncertainty, without any future program, while imagination as much. Super-doctor, super-tramp, publisher or apprentice sorcerer's apprentice, then everything changes, there is no role for me in the cast of winners, perhaps one of the beautiful losers, if there has been something beautiful here, in my day in my life so anonymously. Most
digression that instead I programmed in this life so devoid of plot were days in Morocco, the apotheosis of everything that contemporary phenomenon called tourism these days I will briefly, very quoting elsewhere, in another time. Of course tourists from these regions have not changed anything in me, no experience of life has handed me a different, new, to our old (and much loved by me) West. Too little time, sure. And too many attempts to fuck me money. I come out more skeptical than before, I had not even taken into sublet the barrel of Diogenes. But the taste for travel remains strong, and the desire to move to other places, this insatiable hunger for new places to see, still is. Even the digression Nouva after all, refers to old needs.
The old and new, in the end, I sides of the same false coin. Where falsehood is inevitable, even in things: past and future are so close together, but this is changing in every situation, and is now passed, there is almost as past and is therefore useless. Maybe I'm just drunk thoughts, but it's worth to get them, put them in black and white. How much instinctive joy every time a thought flows, overflowing even, good or bad, and incalanaliamo within the banks of these white sheets. Writing is the only true satisfaction that the world can still give me after I did so as the nature are psychologically very fragile.
Speaking of what is past, and sometimes remain as present, the future seems to call to find their own dignity, maybe even through which can be conditioned. I have lots of future ahead of me. Infiniti, maybe. There will be one that satisfies me? Maybe my best I have yet to build the future from a better present. Year after year, this is such a better future, for now, and never becomes the present. I convert almost too irrational to eschatological beliefs.
Only dreams keep me satisfied, and even more ...
[...] [4] - 23:07:08, notebook
so long that I do not write ... The excitement of a new book, hundreds of blank pages to fill, and alcohol accumulated at three passes in the night: why we wanted to make me start again? They are sweating, too much for the dance, and perhaps smell, who knows, I do not have consciousness of my odors or smells, like the protagonist of Suskind's Perfume I have not even smell anything, but certainly I have a fire inside that is not and only one alcohol is a fire burning so many things together: a great desire that together make the same burning flame.
In this period of silence so many things, and none have happened. No special event, no unexpected encounter, no auspicious or inauspicious incident has radically changed my life. Rest of the same place, with the same job, to say the same sentences with the same doubts, the same indecision. A story in summary of what was then a few months ago does not differ too: indeed, in essence, would be the same story, always the same story building. Happiness at times and uncertain future, and it is always the case, it seems almost a universal rule that still applies. The script does not seem to change, but change the photo, the secondary characters, the scenery seems to have something different despite the apparent immobility. Above all, there are new variations on the theme, and new digressions.
Variations on a theme: change the girls but the result does not change, as there was a transient property. Human relations and knowledge of various kinds and types, no significant innovation. The interpersonal difficulty is the same for 25 years, and exceeded it seems so far away. The mood then it is always so variable, cheerful look drunk bitterness Leopardi all shades and ragging are possible even within a few minutes. Only with myself, as always, I'm bored, I do not have a book to read maybe a girl who eat the brain, an uncoordinated dance music or shouting up to running out of the lungs. Well, I am still me, neither more nor less, useless to hope for something different. Waiting for Crypton, have not Clark Kent turns into Superman, then oh well, in this case was the opposite, it is known (cf. Kill Bill vol. 2), who plays Superman is degrading to Clark Kent. What it is: they are always away from both. I live my life in Paris in the middle of uncertainty, without any future program, while imagination as much. Super-doctor, super-tramp, publisher or apprentice sorcerer's apprentice, then everything changes, there is no role for me in the cast of winners, perhaps one of the beautiful losers, if there has been something beautiful here, in my day in my life so anonymously. Most
digression that instead I programmed in this life so devoid of plot were days in Morocco, the apotheosis of everything that contemporary phenomenon called tourism these days I will briefly, very quoting elsewhere, in another time. Of course tourists from these regions have not changed anything in me, no experience of life has handed me a different, new, to our old (and much loved by me) West. Too little time, sure. And too many attempts to fuck me money. I come out more skeptical than before, I had not even taken into sublet the barrel of Diogenes. But the taste for travel remains strong, and the desire to move to other places, this insatiable hunger for new places to see, still is. Even the digression Nouva after all, refers to old needs.
The old and new, in the end, I sides of the same false coin. Where falsehood is inevitable, even in things: past and future are so close together, but this is changing in every situation, and is now passed, there is almost as past and is therefore useless. Maybe I'm just drunk thoughts, but it's worth to get them, put them in black and white. How much instinctive joy every time a thought flows, overflowing even, good or bad, and incalanaliamo within the banks of these white sheets. Writing is the only true satisfaction that the world can still give me after I did so as the nature are psychologically very fragile.
Speaking of what is past, and sometimes remain as present, the future seems to call to find their own dignity, maybe even through which can be conditioned. I have lots of future ahead of me. Infiniti, maybe. There will be one that satisfies me? Maybe my best I have yet to build the future from a better present. Year after year, this is such a better future, for now, and never becomes the present. I convert almost too irrational to eschatological beliefs.
Only dreams keep me satisfied, and even more ...
How To Make Your Own Double Sided Headboard
Pieces: Chapter III (Moby Dick)
[3] - 16/7/2008, from a personal email
[...] As for me, I'm reading now almost a month Moby Dick (too too long), and continuing with the usual museum. Today I had a very contradictory situation: I did an interview for an internship (where I was perfect), but I can not take because I am a student and can not make any agreement stage ... This is a strange world ... and I feel older, me too.
For the rest, today begins the film festival en plein air, but this year that you pay, you cursed, all other years it was always was free. Tonight I'm going to see me Lulu, with Louise Brooks.
If not, tell you that. My life is in a state of calm (shit, I infects Moby Dick!), And does not move an inch. Nothing new. I think I have a mind to give me maximum time, if nothing has happened yet, I decided to rentrare. Although I have no reason to rentrare. [...] We'll see what happens, as always.
[3] - 16/7/2008, from a personal email
[...] As for me, I'm reading now almost a month Moby Dick (too too long), and continuing with the usual museum. Today I had a very contradictory situation: I did an interview for an internship (where I was perfect), but I can not take because I am a student and can not make any agreement stage ... This is a strange world ... and I feel older, me too.
For the rest, today begins the film festival en plein air, but this year that you pay, you cursed, all other years it was always was free. Tonight I'm going to see me Lulu, with Louise Brooks.
If not, tell you that. My life is in a state of calm (shit, I infects Moby Dick!), And does not move an inch. Nothing new. I think I have a mind to give me maximum time, if nothing has happened yet, I decided to rentrare. Although I have no reason to rentrare. [...] We'll see what happens, as always.
Nintendo Points Generator
Pieces: Chapter II (Morocco)
[...] [2] - 11/7/2008, from a personal email
Hello [...],
tell you that .... is a bit 'of time that are blocked, in all: in what I'm doing here in Paris, inspiration, relationships.
After six months here at home I changed roommates and now my balance is completely changed and I have not yet adapted. Do not write messages and emails from if not too much time: I figured that I have not written even a line of journey to Morocco. And then reappeared dissatisfaction fund, the more I try to overcome the more I see not one, particularly in terms of relationships.
For the rest, I am continuing to work at the museum. In general, everything is resolved to tell people how much they cost, to explain how they work, and answer questions like where are the toilets, where are the Impressionists, van Gogh where he is, where are the escalators, or send them to the information desk when they ask things that I do not know or do not want to answer. Oh well, basically it gets worse.
I started looking for a job for the fall, but everything is resolved to accept offers of internships. If all goes "well", so at most I find myself with yet another stage to go, hoping that maybe for once, past exploitation, I assume. To return to Italy I have no intention at the moment, and no reason to.
I have little motivation at this time, I do not know why, or maybe yes. Is there something I'm missing.
My trip to Morocco, you wanted to know. Sympathetic, but basically nothing more: the circumstances were not the most favorable. The first day I arrived in Rabat (where I was basic to my friend) about midnight, and at that time the only thing you can do in Morocco is going to sleep. So after the rumors of ritual I went to sleep.
first real day I went to Meknes. In reality, the place where you should go would be Fez, but it is too far from Rabat (Meknes am already two hours by train). In any case, my friend could not get away from work and I had to go alone. Solo Traveller in Morocco means that every two minutes you stop to try to tap money. I've been told a thousand times welcome to Morocco, where I was asked a thousand times, thousand times and tried to give me directions (sometimes quite imaginary) to be my guide ... I mean you can not turn calm and I made the visit quite stressed. The only time I did give an indication of a type, I found out after a few seconds it was a seller, which of course then he "showed" his store from which I could not get out (after a quarter ' now type) without buying a carpet ... Among other things, was also the evening of Italy and France, which I saw on big-screen live on Al Jazeera ....
Second day, I remained in Rabat to walk around the city. Unexceptional, fairly modern, being the capital ... In short, nothing picturesque, whereas it was Meknès, but stressful. Bella the Casbah, but otherwise nothing really shocking. It seems to be down in Sicily.
Third day, we all went to the sea. My friend has run away from work, and we went to the beach with her roommate and a friend of them indigenous. Bello: my first swim in the ocean. In short day of total relaxation and total far-nothing.
fourth day, we leave. Greetings all, I take the train to Casablanca. Casablanca it's not the city of the film: a modern city, fairly anonymous. Some beautiful avenue in some beautiful building, but all more or less reassembly, and almost nothing else to see. The "medina" (the old part of town surrounded by walls, with all suk, and in general usually the most picturesque part of each city and Moroccan Arabic in general) is set to that of one of the Rabat more modern and less interesting in Morocco. The same Moroccan friend of my friend told me that there's nothing to see Casablanca and that is not a city for tourists. And oh well. But I had a good meal of fried fish. At my friend's house instead there was the cleaning lady / cook Moroccan, so I could eat local, and is very good as a kitchen. Except that there is in Paris ...
Time to go to Marrakesh there was not too too far away. And everyone tells me that the best part of Morocco is further south, but oh well. I always travel to where I can get the bases and then that's okay, it was a nice trip anyway. Photos I have not made many, the most interesting but I would have been able to do so I did not trust in Meknes pull out the camera, you know ...
So much for the trip to Morocco. I have seen several movies lately, there was the Film Festival with two entrances €, and I saw eight movies in two days ... All small films in Italy certainly will not leave anything, plus two American movies that I had recovered ( Into the wild and No Country for Old Men, both very nice) and spent an animated film at Cannes ( Waltz with Bashir : a masterpiece) but I do not know if it will pass in Italy.
And now I leave you, I hope to have recovered a bit 'of Lost Tales.
I am sending you a big hug and a kiss strong
Mariano
[...] [2] - 11/7/2008, from a personal email
Hello [...],
tell you that .... is a bit 'of time that are blocked, in all: in what I'm doing here in Paris, inspiration, relationships.
After six months here at home I changed roommates and now my balance is completely changed and I have not yet adapted. Do not write messages and emails from if not too much time: I figured that I have not written even a line of journey to Morocco. And then reappeared dissatisfaction fund, the more I try to overcome the more I see not one, particularly in terms of relationships.
For the rest, I am continuing to work at the museum. In general, everything is resolved to tell people how much they cost, to explain how they work, and answer questions like where are the toilets, where are the Impressionists, van Gogh where he is, where are the escalators, or send them to the information desk when they ask things that I do not know or do not want to answer. Oh well, basically it gets worse.
I started looking for a job for the fall, but everything is resolved to accept offers of internships. If all goes "well", so at most I find myself with yet another stage to go, hoping that maybe for once, past exploitation, I assume. To return to Italy I have no intention at the moment, and no reason to.
I have little motivation at this time, I do not know why, or maybe yes. Is there something I'm missing.
My trip to Morocco, you wanted to know. Sympathetic, but basically nothing more: the circumstances were not the most favorable. The first day I arrived in Rabat (where I was basic to my friend) about midnight, and at that time the only thing you can do in Morocco is going to sleep. So after the rumors of ritual I went to sleep.
first real day I went to Meknes. In reality, the place where you should go would be Fez, but it is too far from Rabat (Meknes am already two hours by train). In any case, my friend could not get away from work and I had to go alone. Solo Traveller in Morocco means that every two minutes you stop to try to tap money. I've been told a thousand times welcome to Morocco, where I was asked a thousand times, thousand times and tried to give me directions (sometimes quite imaginary) to be my guide ... I mean you can not turn calm and I made the visit quite stressed. The only time I did give an indication of a type, I found out after a few seconds it was a seller, which of course then he "showed" his store from which I could not get out (after a quarter ' now type) without buying a carpet ... Among other things, was also the evening of Italy and France, which I saw on big-screen live on Al Jazeera ....
Second day, I remained in Rabat to walk around the city. Unexceptional, fairly modern, being the capital ... In short, nothing picturesque, whereas it was Meknès, but stressful. Bella the Casbah, but otherwise nothing really shocking. It seems to be down in Sicily.
Third day, we all went to the sea. My friend has run away from work, and we went to the beach with her roommate and a friend of them indigenous. Bello: my first swim in the ocean. In short day of total relaxation and total far-nothing.
fourth day, we leave. Greetings all, I take the train to Casablanca. Casablanca it's not the city of the film: a modern city, fairly anonymous. Some beautiful avenue in some beautiful building, but all more or less reassembly, and almost nothing else to see. The "medina" (the old part of town surrounded by walls, with all suk, and in general usually the most picturesque part of each city and Moroccan Arabic in general) is set to that of one of the Rabat more modern and less interesting in Morocco. The same Moroccan friend of my friend told me that there's nothing to see Casablanca and that is not a city for tourists. And oh well. But I had a good meal of fried fish. At my friend's house instead there was the cleaning lady / cook Moroccan, so I could eat local, and is very good as a kitchen. Except that there is in Paris ...
Time to go to Marrakesh there was not too too far away. And everyone tells me that the best part of Morocco is further south, but oh well. I always travel to where I can get the bases and then that's okay, it was a nice trip anyway. Photos I have not made many, the most interesting but I would have been able to do so I did not trust in Meknes pull out the camera, you know ...
So much for the trip to Morocco. I have seen several movies lately, there was the Film Festival with two entrances €, and I saw eight movies in two days ... All small films in Italy certainly will not leave anything, plus two American movies that I had recovered ( Into the wild and No Country for Old Men, both very nice) and spent an animated film at Cannes ( Waltz with Bashir : a masterpiece) but I do not know if it will pass in Italy.
And now I leave you, I hope to have recovered a bit 'of Lost Tales.
I am sending you a big hug and a kiss strong
Mariano
Mcfarlane Price Guide
Pieces: Chapter I (June, Dov ' were you?)
[1] - Undated (June), notebook
are days of alternating mood and alternates luck, a bit 'as always. Six months without trials, and now I know that I work for a living, but I do not know if I live for something. Stopped the exercise of the mind, mortified the use of the body, what remains for me a human? In Paris, at least in a beautiful thriving garden.
For several days the spectacle of joy mellifluous eternal, unconditional, unchanging, the parody of a rosy world where everything is beautiful and the shock triumph and kisses, along with music unbearable, it makes me nervous. Have I a soul at the bottom from unredeemed Ebenezer Scrooge. Meanwhile, certain illusions that I had continued, despite everything, to cultivate, they are tired sag on their own. pitturiam the Roses. The waiver sad, which have not arrived, I feel closer still.
[1] - Undated (June), notebook
are days of alternating mood and alternates luck, a bit 'as always. Six months without trials, and now I know that I work for a living, but I do not know if I live for something. Stopped the exercise of the mind, mortified the use of the body, what remains for me a human? In Paris, at least in a beautiful thriving garden.
For several days the spectacle of joy mellifluous eternal, unconditional, unchanging, the parody of a rosy world where everything is beautiful and the shock triumph and kisses, along with music unbearable, it makes me nervous. Have I a soul at the bottom from unredeemed Ebenezer Scrooge. Meanwhile, certain illusions that I had continued, despite everything, to cultivate, they are tired sag on their own. pitturiam the Roses. The waiver sad, which have not arrived, I feel closer still.
Wording For Wedding Program Memorial
pieces - Introduction
no place for several months. I always get the impression that this blog is not read by anyone, and if this gives me a little 'more room to tell because the cocks my other side does not help me at times to overcome the terror of the blank page .
In recent months I've actually written something diary. A couple of lines on various notebooks, and some email. I made a selection of "parts" scattered, which back here, to recap what I have done, written, conceived, in recent times. I allowed myself the freedom to draw from my private EpiTest, deleting any reference in the email that was purely personal or related to my destination. Hoping to come back soon want to write here directly.
no place for several months. I always get the impression that this blog is not read by anyone, and if this gives me a little 'more room to tell because the cocks my other side does not help me at times to overcome the terror of the blank page .
In recent months I've actually written something diary. A couple of lines on various notebooks, and some email. I made a selection of "parts" scattered, which back here, to recap what I have done, written, conceived, in recent times. I allowed myself the freedom to draw from my private EpiTest, deleting any reference in the email that was purely personal or related to my destination. Hoping to come back soon want to write here directly.
Friday, May 30, 2008
America's Next Top Model Themes
From Paris to Balorda. Itinerary planner in Italy
23/05, plane
I made the request of the Navigo pass, potemi to move to Paris, and that of the passport, to travel the world and now are sitting on a blue seat, and if I look to my right door is traversed by an aircraft wing. Preparing to return a futile, recreational rather than necessary, and expensive, which will take me around the North Italy. [Interrupted due to laziness]
25/05, by train
Being on the street, backpackers, before 6 am, with the light that illuminates the city already weary, it makes me feel a school trip. On the train I look at the clouds that rely on streams, steam and precarious as eternal and substantial are the mountains that stand quietly behind them. Taste of picnics, fatigue of travel: luggage next to me, to install a home after a long moment then quickly spread around, the few hours of sleep, and this wandering from place to place, with curious eyes, sore feet, trains planes buses to match. My tickets have names of cities in which I had never been before: Verona, Rovereto, Trento, Carpi Modena in part, a piece of Italy that I had never explored, to visit as a tourist in a foreign country, or a traveler waiting for the next train to your next destination. Reunion friendly faces, that sometimes not seen for a long time, sometimes surprise announcement, for the sake of the plot twist. Small and short, yes, but the special effects of our films are totally self-sufficient, and be content. Marianz the mountains of Trent, which saw the council, De Gasperi, Renato Curcio, and where the poor Andrea was killed by machine gun fire, is a novel, but basically had to happen sooner or later. The two lightning visist in Verona, idle time left by the expectation of other trains were not fast enough for me to find and crush some Nazi big baby, and also quite different, at least as to time: I have left so many pictures of Japanese tourist mode, and reaffirmed the beauty of walking in the morning hours in cities deserted.
As I write are on the train, on the Verona-Modena. I gaze out the window slides that do not know if a lake is to Garda: my Italian geography is reviewed. Microlocal that I had to revise the nature of things: get off at Carpi, and then wait for a passing car and take me back after two years, in the streets between Solihull and Sozzigalli, Very popular for the Balorda to do " Cabin "and find other old acquaintances. Then will follow up with a double and ambiguous homecoming: Piacenza, tonight, Tuesday and Paris.
26/05 at home
Two for the road. I am meeting with my friend in Carpi, following two parallel journeys, coming to join. After the round of phone calls the day before I decided to give up the idea to make them load two bikes on the train, but now on track to see off a group of bicycle-equipped Balordi regret the decision. At the station, the meeting point: when was the last time we met? The calendar then marked another year, and yet it seems little. Port braids now, and the same wonderful smile. Every now and then is good to return to Italy, then.
After about an hour comes the desire passage relied on in a number of phone calls for me unusual. In 5, on the road to the Balorda. The day will be long and filled with wine, music, smiles, laughs. The initial flatbread with three sausages soon stop doing his duty to the bottom, and the wine venirtelo mounts without saying. Fails to include a bike, and to challenge or to get drunk (but especially the second, I think), about almost everything I do a walk at a brisk pace: my legs are still hurting.
do not have many memories of after-Balorda. She made the trip by train with me, I guess. What did I ever tell you? I receive a call while I go to Piacenza, Russian is my friend, that I should contact and meet before returning home: ten minutes of talking, never talked on the phone so much I absolutely in a state of intoxication. And that's how I see my: drunkard, the vest full of unmistakable red spots. The shower is not washing the hangover, and I have dinner with a lot more talkative than usual, as well as being more confusing.
And you, where is it? Gone, for who knows how long a new set of characters on a screen, the flesh away from me, her smile in front of the monitor I can not see. But I'm happy, happy with this forced return in stages, but without effort, just for once, little happiness.
23/05, plane
I made the request of the Navigo pass, potemi to move to Paris, and that of the passport, to travel the world and now are sitting on a blue seat, and if I look to my right door is traversed by an aircraft wing. Preparing to return a futile, recreational rather than necessary, and expensive, which will take me around the North Italy. [Interrupted due to laziness]
25/05, by train
Being on the street, backpackers, before 6 am, with the light that illuminates the city already weary, it makes me feel a school trip. On the train I look at the clouds that rely on streams, steam and precarious as eternal and substantial are the mountains that stand quietly behind them. Taste of picnics, fatigue of travel: luggage next to me, to install a home after a long moment then quickly spread around, the few hours of sleep, and this wandering from place to place, with curious eyes, sore feet, trains planes buses to match. My tickets have names of cities in which I had never been before: Verona, Rovereto, Trento, Carpi Modena in part, a piece of Italy that I had never explored, to visit as a tourist in a foreign country, or a traveler waiting for the next train to your next destination. Reunion friendly faces, that sometimes not seen for a long time, sometimes surprise announcement, for the sake of the plot twist. Small and short, yes, but the special effects of our films are totally self-sufficient, and be content. Marianz the mountains of Trent, which saw the council, De Gasperi, Renato Curcio, and where the poor Andrea was killed by machine gun fire, is a novel, but basically had to happen sooner or later. The two lightning visist in Verona, idle time left by the expectation of other trains were not fast enough for me to find and crush some Nazi big baby, and also quite different, at least as to time: I have left so many pictures of Japanese tourist mode, and reaffirmed the beauty of walking in the morning hours in cities deserted.
As I write are on the train, on the Verona-Modena. I gaze out the window slides that do not know if a lake is to Garda: my Italian geography is reviewed. Microlocal that I had to revise the nature of things: get off at Carpi, and then wait for a passing car and take me back after two years, in the streets between Solihull and Sozzigalli, Very popular for the Balorda to do " Cabin "and find other old acquaintances. Then will follow up with a double and ambiguous homecoming: Piacenza, tonight, Tuesday and Paris.
26/05 at home
Two for the road. I am meeting with my friend in Carpi, following two parallel journeys, coming to join. After the round of phone calls the day before I decided to give up the idea to make them load two bikes on the train, but now on track to see off a group of bicycle-equipped Balordi regret the decision. At the station, the meeting point: when was the last time we met? The calendar then marked another year, and yet it seems little. Port braids now, and the same wonderful smile. Every now and then is good to return to Italy, then.
After about an hour comes the desire passage relied on in a number of phone calls for me unusual. In 5, on the road to the Balorda. The day will be long and filled with wine, music, smiles, laughs. The initial flatbread with three sausages soon stop doing his duty to the bottom, and the wine venirtelo mounts without saying. Fails to include a bike, and to challenge or to get drunk (but especially the second, I think), about almost everything I do a walk at a brisk pace: my legs are still hurting.
do not have many memories of after-Balorda. She made the trip by train with me, I guess. What did I ever tell you? I receive a call while I go to Piacenza, Russian is my friend, that I should contact and meet before returning home: ten minutes of talking, never talked on the phone so much I absolutely in a state of intoxication. And that's how I see my: drunkard, the vest full of unmistakable red spots. The shower is not washing the hangover, and I have dinner with a lot more talkative than usual, as well as being more confusing.
And you, where is it? Gone, for who knows how long a new set of characters on a screen, the flesh away from me, her smile in front of the monitor I can not see. But I'm happy, happy with this forced return in stages, but without effort, just for once, little happiness.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
What Is Average Mpg On A Minivan
Chronicles of my mental saw Auto da fe
the house a few days the smell of dead rat - and who knows where it hides, some behind the cabinet, the stinking - the clutter of furniture, buildings, ornaments, pottery, clothing, furnishings, norritura range, et cetera, it seems almost a map of my mental confusion. Including smell, perhaps: swallowed the mouse instead of the classic toad, that have begun to digest, to rot inside of me too? The mental
rovelli the last few days are they not serve much purpose. I was basically back to a point that I already knew, and did not produce new reactions. In my eternal school of skepticism, having learned to distrust of facts and words - the words, above all, the deception of all time - now I realize I also have to beware of thoughts, and those of my bargain, the most intimate : that if I submit them analysis, sometimes I see clearly the causes and contributing factors, the mechanisms that produced them, and I realize that my thoughts are shields, sometimes, behind which hide other things, less noble, perhaps other thoughts, impulses or other I want nature to justify to myself rather than repress. And then I lose the sense of my thinking, or maybe just do not have the courage to lead this game further, to dive into the abyss and face.
the house a few days the smell of dead rat - and who knows where it hides, some behind the cabinet, the stinking - the clutter of furniture, buildings, ornaments, pottery, clothing, furnishings, norritura range, et cetera, it seems almost a map of my mental confusion. Including smell, perhaps: swallowed the mouse instead of the classic toad, that have begun to digest, to rot inside of me too? The mental
rovelli the last few days are they not serve much purpose. I was basically back to a point that I already knew, and did not produce new reactions. In my eternal school of skepticism, having learned to distrust of facts and words - the words, above all, the deception of all time - now I realize I also have to beware of thoughts, and those of my bargain, the most intimate : that if I submit them analysis, sometimes I see clearly the causes and contributing factors, the mechanisms that produced them, and I realize that my thoughts are shields, sometimes, behind which hide other things, less noble, perhaps other thoughts, impulses or other I want nature to justify to myself rather than repress. And then I lose the sense of my thinking, or maybe just do not have the courage to lead this game further, to dive into the abyss and face.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
What Doesencouragements Mean
'Two
start over, again. Lick their wounds alone do not accept that no one else see the cuts and blood, and then let everything heal?
Pretending once again with myself, that nothing has happened, it also means admitting that everything is normal, but from this it follows that the rule is a failure. So from that point you can go ahead after having fallen?
I have to go back. Analyze, understand and draw conclusions. I must be silent, to reflect and accept. Probing, pondering, the abyss that I do not go much anymore, and I was happy not to have to explore. Back teenager to go out finally from this eternal adolescence, or perhaps even pre-teens. For if the emotions have no age, their management should, and I painfully discovered that it has no genius in this. As a child I do not have a tantrum right, follow mattan pathetic and silences that are close to out of spite. A kid who has no past twelve years I want to drive. Mature.
The analysis of the reasons and faults is a borsino that the end of the day sees me in net liabilities. And instead of collecting fierce assertion of fact, I would give reason, the reason was almost begging for money as pity, compassion. Persist in not understanding and not seeing, or not wanting to understand and do not want to see, is at fault. From what follows all the rest, and, primarily, by confusing the desires and hopes, this surrender to the unfounded illusions; school of cynicism, after all, still have not learned much. Why the disillusionment after the fact exercise is too easy, it's just a belated acknowledgment that does not help anyone, least of all me. These are my main faults, sown in a field already strewn with thorns, have prepared a harvest of sadness that are also involved. Convinced that this is their harvest, when it only mine.
Other crimes. The pathetic spectacle of the pain has no justification even in alcohol. I have to avoid it. Over the years I lose that ability to hide the pain, and I remain just that, often useless to hide the love. Nothing should be more private pain, and I have to stop to give a public performance almost burlesque. The imaginative gestures as disconcerting, dictated by a growing sensitivity to the baroque exaggeration, must end. Despite the perverse pleasure that perhaps we feel, is ultimately Only a misguided form of exhibitionism, a claim of leadership when they agree to be a supporting actor, a demand for attention when I realize that that attention affects the mutual care of other people.
The outline of pars destruens is fierce, however how easy exercise. At least in relation to the pars construens. The problem of what to do. Both in terms of operation is pragmatic in terms of future projection. This is much harder, and it takes much more strength. First in general do not understand what works and why, beyond the mistakes and faults in each situation, then understand how and where to change, and then do it. And then figure out how all this fits in the present context, to me here to do not know what, it is not clear what purpose, to live and groped instead find themselves having to go look at life for others, without being able neither to live nor I first Peerson, at least, to describe it. To enjoy my day in imaginary small fires that vanish when they leave me alone in the cold of my incapacity.
never teach him to live?
start over, again. Lick their wounds alone do not accept that no one else see the cuts and blood, and then let everything heal?
Pretending once again with myself, that nothing has happened, it also means admitting that everything is normal, but from this it follows that the rule is a failure. So from that point you can go ahead after having fallen?
I have to go back. Analyze, understand and draw conclusions. I must be silent, to reflect and accept. Probing, pondering, the abyss that I do not go much anymore, and I was happy not to have to explore. Back teenager to go out finally from this eternal adolescence, or perhaps even pre-teens. For if the emotions have no age, their management should, and I painfully discovered that it has no genius in this. As a child I do not have a tantrum right, follow mattan pathetic and silences that are close to out of spite. A kid who has no past twelve years I want to drive. Mature.
The analysis of the reasons and faults is a borsino that the end of the day sees me in net liabilities. And instead of collecting fierce assertion of fact, I would give reason, the reason was almost begging for money as pity, compassion. Persist in not understanding and not seeing, or not wanting to understand and do not want to see, is at fault. From what follows all the rest, and, primarily, by confusing the desires and hopes, this surrender to the unfounded illusions; school of cynicism, after all, still have not learned much. Why the disillusionment after the fact exercise is too easy, it's just a belated acknowledgment that does not help anyone, least of all me. These are my main faults, sown in a field already strewn with thorns, have prepared a harvest of sadness that are also involved. Convinced that this is their harvest, when it only mine.
Other crimes. The pathetic spectacle of the pain has no justification even in alcohol. I have to avoid it. Over the years I lose that ability to hide the pain, and I remain just that, often useless to hide the love. Nothing should be more private pain, and I have to stop to give a public performance almost burlesque. The imaginative gestures as disconcerting, dictated by a growing sensitivity to the baroque exaggeration, must end. Despite the perverse pleasure that perhaps we feel, is ultimately Only a misguided form of exhibitionism, a claim of leadership when they agree to be a supporting actor, a demand for attention when I realize that that attention affects the mutual care of other people.
The outline of pars destruens is fierce, however how easy exercise. At least in relation to the pars construens. The problem of what to do. Both in terms of operation is pragmatic in terms of future projection. This is much harder, and it takes much more strength. First in general do not understand what works and why, beyond the mistakes and faults in each situation, then understand how and where to change, and then do it. And then figure out how all this fits in the present context, to me here to do not know what, it is not clear what purpose, to live and groped instead find themselves having to go look at life for others, without being able neither to live nor I first Peerson, at least, to describe it. To enjoy my day in imaginary small fires that vanish when they leave me alone in the cold of my incapacity.
never teach him to live?
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Eagle And The Radiant Cross Marry
May
Everyone chooses their own punishments. And every girl in my life was a torture, chosen, selected, a cross that you carry more or less suffering, but the pain always there, still, one can not do without: her companion road, I just have to make the journey together. As if I had the right to snatch a bit of happiness too, though instantaneous, to life, but this is down at me with his steel chain of events that strikes me right behind the neck. Mortal wound? The habit of pain helps me, every hit is absorbed as if I had not done anything in my life so far, and then who knows, maybe it's really all I have done a long education to pain, disappointment, death, after accounts.
I selected the best scenes from the film, which belittling, to make them look like fiction, no one would believe it either. Sometimes life resembles a movie so that almost makes you want to give credit to certain scenes that originally looked like you unlikely. They looked like scenes from Jules and Jim, they were not, was the usual refrain of Radiohead, the usual having sung, so many years later, I'm a creep, I'm a weird, yet end up convinced, including the abandonment of the last illusions, for the umpteenth time, every time as if they were ready to revive, only to hurt you. It would be almost better to lose everything, become cynical, impervious, really be that rock, the singing Paul and Arty, lucky them, i am a rock, i am an island, and a rock feels no pain, and an island never cry. Scene from the movie
impossible, those who watch them and you say it's impossible to really happen, at the healthy. But I do I just pretend to be, the monster I hid my door instead of these things, lying on a landing to pretend to be asleep, out of the house, drunk with pain. In the cold, but stubborn, ignoring the kicks of his neighbors, trying to explain that this is my home, and not to worry.
In all this, blame is always a temptation that is around the corner, because as the largest sublimation of masochism may be the blame, catholic carry the cross and die because we are all happy, the sacrifice to atone for the sins of a of all, and at the same time be incancellabilmente sinner, guilty, and wanted to be redeeming. A titanium defeat that is simply wriggling from a situation that is not know, once again, how to deal with, and you know that you can not solve. Ben is May? as usual in May, and April is the cruellest month. And it is only the beginning. Imagine how can the rest. Let us prepare for the worst, as if we could move further away each time the border of the worst, as if every time I can still surprise, renew my fissure armor sarcastic insensitive, and you'll find rather pathetic, as they are in fact a kind scripted by Neapolitan, beyond all philosophies that I can think of belonging. If I were not an atheist, I would immediately become a priest: guilt, capacity for suffering, a sense of farce under the guise of seriousness more unassailable, and that abstinence defies credibility. Every woman in my life is an invitation to be my part, is an accusation, is a song by The Smiths come true as was to be perhaps even when those songs were written. Every woman in my life is rejected in the darkness of adolescence, when I finally get out, is a rejection that I reinforced with many gestures, and each woman takes her into the arms of others, and then sit back and watch how much it hurts, almost curious to discover that the limits can still get there, what resources have hidden movie yet. How much longer can I enlarge the burial pit where I have to, sooner or later, hope. Without a single tear, which my cheeks are already dry, my greedy eyes water. Arid. And I can do any other scene, I like to play the fool would not seem possible, but who really knows me knows how much I can lose control, the difficult balance between the possible and the pathetic. I'm wondering, like a child as a teenager loser, as you do, and why I'm never invited to the table of life, because I did not even right to the bone. Whenever a risk to the figure of the stepmother embittered by the success of others, and I always prey to jealousy, reasoning, rejected, rejected as an abomination. But here I am: We just wanted this to make me go back to writing.
And if I hoped to be or Jules or Jim, as if the fact that we are in France, I could really give this possibility,
to be at least one third, and instead are just the trouble, the eternal trouble, put a comma in the wrong place, a metaphor Jet Li, in a curious but useless in the middle of a sentence resulting in perfectly. Life, the normal one, that of all days, what happens, what c'est la vie, you have to always explain to someone that it is normal to be so, while another is the norm for you, and maybe there was also this normality, made up of choices and pulse not selected, instead of events suffered, seen, and where no one can enter in any way. And even having to pretend to accept it with intelligence, mature and balanced person, to destroy what I feel to this space to life, oh life, which is always that of others, so inevitable, so dense, so contrary to my Although it may seem that run parallel.
Everyone chooses their own punishments. And every girl in my life was a torture, chosen, selected, a cross that you carry more or less suffering, but the pain always there, still, one can not do without: her companion road, I just have to make the journey together. As if I had the right to snatch a bit of happiness too, though instantaneous, to life, but this is down at me with his steel chain of events that strikes me right behind the neck. Mortal wound? The habit of pain helps me, every hit is absorbed as if I had not done anything in my life so far, and then who knows, maybe it's really all I have done a long education to pain, disappointment, death, after accounts.
I selected the best scenes from the film, which belittling, to make them look like fiction, no one would believe it either. Sometimes life resembles a movie so that almost makes you want to give credit to certain scenes that originally looked like you unlikely. They looked like scenes from Jules and Jim, they were not, was the usual refrain of Radiohead, the usual having sung, so many years later, I'm a creep, I'm a weird, yet end up convinced, including the abandonment of the last illusions, for the umpteenth time, every time as if they were ready to revive, only to hurt you. It would be almost better to lose everything, become cynical, impervious, really be that rock, the singing Paul and Arty, lucky them, i am a rock, i am an island, and a rock feels no pain, and an island never cry. Scene from the movie
impossible, those who watch them and you say it's impossible to really happen, at the healthy. But I do I just pretend to be, the monster I hid my door instead of these things, lying on a landing to pretend to be asleep, out of the house, drunk with pain. In the cold, but stubborn, ignoring the kicks of his neighbors, trying to explain that this is my home, and not to worry.
In all this, blame is always a temptation that is around the corner, because as the largest sublimation of masochism may be the blame, catholic carry the cross and die because we are all happy, the sacrifice to atone for the sins of a of all, and at the same time be incancellabilmente sinner, guilty, and wanted to be redeeming. A titanium defeat that is simply wriggling from a situation that is not know, once again, how to deal with, and you know that you can not solve. Ben is May? as usual in May, and April is the cruellest month. And it is only the beginning. Imagine how can the rest. Let us prepare for the worst, as if we could move further away each time the border of the worst, as if every time I can still surprise, renew my fissure armor sarcastic insensitive, and you'll find rather pathetic, as they are in fact a kind scripted by Neapolitan, beyond all philosophies that I can think of belonging. If I were not an atheist, I would immediately become a priest: guilt, capacity for suffering, a sense of farce under the guise of seriousness more unassailable, and that abstinence defies credibility. Every woman in my life is an invitation to be my part, is an accusation, is a song by The Smiths come true as was to be perhaps even when those songs were written. Every woman in my life is rejected in the darkness of adolescence, when I finally get out, is a rejection that I reinforced with many gestures, and each woman takes her into the arms of others, and then sit back and watch how much it hurts, almost curious to discover that the limits can still get there, what resources have hidden movie yet. How much longer can I enlarge the burial pit where I have to, sooner or later, hope. Without a single tear, which my cheeks are already dry, my greedy eyes water. Arid. And I can do any other scene, I like to play the fool would not seem possible, but who really knows me knows how much I can lose control, the difficult balance between the possible and the pathetic. I'm wondering, like a child as a teenager loser, as you do, and why I'm never invited to the table of life, because I did not even right to the bone. Whenever a risk to the figure of the stepmother embittered by the success of others, and I always prey to jealousy, reasoning, rejected, rejected as an abomination. But here I am: We just wanted this to make me go back to writing.
And if I hoped to be or Jules or Jim, as if the fact that we are in France, I could really give this possibility,
to be at least one third, and instead are just the trouble, the eternal trouble, put a comma in the wrong place, a metaphor Jet Li, in a curious but useless in the middle of a sentence resulting in perfectly. Life, the normal one, that of all days, what happens, what c'est la vie, you have to always explain to someone that it is normal to be so, while another is the norm for you, and maybe there was also this normality, made up of choices and pulse not selected, instead of events suffered, seen, and where no one can enter in any way. And even having to pretend to accept it with intelligence, mature and balanced person, to destroy what I feel to this space to life, oh life, which is always that of others, so inevitable, so dense, so contrary to my Although it may seem that run parallel.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Shaker Beige And Red Accent Wall
Nihilism Series B
The true nihilist does not write. Writing is optimistic, because it requires someone to read, and not worth the excuse of the diaries, although that is a different player from the writer, and never when you re-read the rule applies to the ego is another. The true nihilist can not believe in the possibility of understanding, or by writing nor through oral expression. Because the oral expression is clumsy attempt to fix a thought of the faster, and the writing hand, with his time, is nothing but a fraud. Zarathustra would never have to speak, because I think the only one of the nihilist should be silence, and the maximum that should be granted is solipsism. Maybe I still have some hope of avoiding the abyss, but when I look at the abyss and the abyss looks into me, he sees my eyes, but I do not see her.
The true nihilist does not write. Writing is optimistic, because it requires someone to read, and not worth the excuse of the diaries, although that is a different player from the writer, and never when you re-read the rule applies to the ego is another. The true nihilist can not believe in the possibility of understanding, or by writing nor through oral expression. Because the oral expression is clumsy attempt to fix a thought of the faster, and the writing hand, with his time, is nothing but a fraud. Zarathustra would never have to speak, because I think the only one of the nihilist should be silence, and the maximum that should be granted is solipsism. Maybe I still have some hope of avoiding the abyss, but when I look at the abyss and the abyss looks into me, he sees my eyes, but I do not see her.
How Much Does A Visor Cost
Elsewhere
Sometimes I wonder what use to take stock of the situation, put on paper what I do, what I do. Nobody cares, after all, a life neither better nor worse than the other, sometimes completely anonymous. This step so light that leaves no trace, but so heavy as to be tiring sometimes.
Also, I struggle to find meaning. The internship is almost over now, and start addressing the problem of how to pay this month's rent. I started to work on Sunday, and now three Sundays, including Easter are behind a booth at the Musée d'Orsay. Not just yet, but it is a start. The problem is that I still can not understand what is the beginning.
In fact, when the tightening grip of the bad thoughts I once again unfulfilled total rush and I wonder what am I doing here, we want to do, what is the goal, if this objective is. Loneliness is just around the corner ready to expect from old companion unobtrusive which you have to pay duty from time to time. And then I feel alien to this city, other than those, my friends, to the world. And I would almost go away in a hidden place where being a foreigner really forced to choose between the constant concern of those seeking a bit of socializing, and the knowledgeable and confident self-exclusion. Because if anything I have said I defined or antisocial or misanthropic, truly a voltage to the contrary, very human though surly, through me, and not at all satisfied with the result always somewhere else to live than others who are here with me , unrelated to any place, situation, person.
Sometimes I wonder what use to take stock of the situation, put on paper what I do, what I do. Nobody cares, after all, a life neither better nor worse than the other, sometimes completely anonymous. This step so light that leaves no trace, but so heavy as to be tiring sometimes.
Also, I struggle to find meaning. The internship is almost over now, and start addressing the problem of how to pay this month's rent. I started to work on Sunday, and now three Sundays, including Easter are behind a booth at the Musée d'Orsay. Not just yet, but it is a start. The problem is that I still can not understand what is the beginning.
In fact, when the tightening grip of the bad thoughts I once again unfulfilled total rush and I wonder what am I doing here, we want to do, what is the goal, if this objective is. Loneliness is just around the corner ready to expect from old companion unobtrusive which you have to pay duty from time to time. And then I feel alien to this city, other than those, my friends, to the world. And I would almost go away in a hidden place where being a foreigner really forced to choose between the constant concern of those seeking a bit of socializing, and the knowledgeable and confident self-exclusion. Because if anything I have said I defined or antisocial or misanthropic, truly a voltage to the contrary, very human though surly, through me, and not at all satisfied with the result always somewhere else to live than others who are here with me , unrelated to any place, situation, person.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Rabbit Hutch Lancaster Pa
Lies
My 2008, first lie was to say that I am a writer. I called in a foreign language in a foreign land, to a stranger. I wish that this lie was not such, but the months have passed since I have so far delivered only confirm that it is a lie. And if I had responded that night to be a liar, I would not have started the year, more appropriately, with a paradox?
My 2008, first lie was to say that I am a writer. I called in a foreign language in a foreign land, to a stranger. I wish that this lie was not such, but the months have passed since I have so far delivered only confirm that it is a lie. And if I had responded that night to be a liar, I would not have started the year, more appropriately, with a paradox?
Free Poptropica Credits
right and wrong
will be true, then, as I thought last night, I prefer to be wrong by reason only that many? and what does this mean? 08.03.2008
will be true, then, as I thought last night, I prefer to be wrong by reason only that many? and what does this mean? 08.03.2008
Birthday Thank You Quotes
Obsessions
's funny how some days you walk by an obsession to another, completely different, though not without points of contact with the insistence with which they shall possession of the mind.
The obsession of the early afternoon was all conceptual, abstract, and goes back to a world view started in my teens. Walking, suddenly and without any real reason, I heard him all the futility of my existence. The Seine flowed to me from the side, and I returned the 14 year old avid reader of Leopardi, prone to nihilism, no ifs, ands or buts. I felt useless to myself and my choices, my ideas. Once again I have the ambition and opposite sign to leave the world the choice of an anonymous life, set aside in the flow of things as a debris into the Seine.
obsession lasted a few minutes, although intense, and which is replaced, about a couple of hours later, inside the Hotel de Ville and around an exhibition of photos of Paris, an obsession more concrete, more physical. A girl's face, a half-smile that seemed directed at me, in answer to my eyes too long. I've seen somewhere, and where? Who is it? because my mind, so stingy in recognizing faces, it was put on alert to see the back of his head and his red hair cut to the boy? There is something mysterious and obsessive in the sense of having already experienced a personal basis without really remember anything about it. As if it were to accept the idea of being able to touch someone's life without leaving or hold nothing more than a uniformative and unconscious I remember his face. And I wonder how many times you repeat in the future, with people I know or that I attend now, the same situation. This face now haunts me but will not last long, will vanish, too, perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. What remains is the uncomfortable awareness of my inability to stop a person and ask, simply, we have already known?
's funny how some days you walk by an obsession to another, completely different, though not without points of contact with the insistence with which they shall possession of the mind.
The obsession of the early afternoon was all conceptual, abstract, and goes back to a world view started in my teens. Walking, suddenly and without any real reason, I heard him all the futility of my existence. The Seine flowed to me from the side, and I returned the 14 year old avid reader of Leopardi, prone to nihilism, no ifs, ands or buts. I felt useless to myself and my choices, my ideas. Once again I have the ambition and opposite sign to leave the world the choice of an anonymous life, set aside in the flow of things as a debris into the Seine.
obsession lasted a few minutes, although intense, and which is replaced, about a couple of hours later, inside the Hotel de Ville and around an exhibition of photos of Paris, an obsession more concrete, more physical. A girl's face, a half-smile that seemed directed at me, in answer to my eyes too long. I've seen somewhere, and where? Who is it? because my mind, so stingy in recognizing faces, it was put on alert to see the back of his head and his red hair cut to the boy? There is something mysterious and obsessive in the sense of having already experienced a personal basis without really remember anything about it. As if it were to accept the idea of being able to touch someone's life without leaving or hold nothing more than a uniformative and unconscious I remember his face. And I wonder how many times you repeat in the future, with people I know or that I attend now, the same situation. This face now haunts me but will not last long, will vanish, too, perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. What remains is the uncomfortable awareness of my inability to stop a person and ask, simply, we have already known?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Halloween Running Shirt
A good start (?)
The first job interview is, despite the possibility of being recalled are zero, consider a good start. Agaetis Byrjun . Tomorrow I have another one, for the use of which I do not know, however, the nature and details. On the phone I nodded, though nobody could see me, pinning on a sheet of paper and time for the address, though I escaped with whom. I'll have to ask to Laetitia, and that is something positive for me.
How did I get here? A week of Internet searches, job hunting, paradoxically consulted during the lunch break at work I already have. It was an ending predictable, expected, but still so contradictory to think about it. Ads from fifteen to which I replied, I still got two races, one of which, however, without hope. But you gotta start. And so I put that wearing pants and shirt at the embassy for stationery and birth, where the brain trust that I shall, two men and a woman, or maybe three women, he realized early on that I have no experience. Just look at their curriculum, they could also give the bottom of the first call. But that's okay. There is however a sense of departure.
How did I get here? The folly of his departure for Paris for an internship that I have almost come to boredom, made almost exclusively for the glory, the glory that no one will take into consideration, or actually did it just to escape asphyxiation Italian, and return to me more suitable land in Paris, was a crowd without cover, but without sufficient funds grant. And it's time for me of the bohème, brought sandwiches to work while the others go to the canteen, which has become suddenly too expensive for me, the time of the waiver to the secondary, with the resulting secondary choices about what is and what prime time to look for a job seriously, as if 35 hours per week were not sufficient. So I navigate between ads for babysitting and for use in store, for waiters and interviewers, to Italian delis and ice cream. Working to fill those odd moments that I still remain, and afford another job, for more full-time, made free.
To be a rookie of the labor market, a lack of experience from small jobs are being dropped because he never made, even beginning to be tired of this constant work at all for the glory, a curriculum that in Italy I've earned the right proposal to work as a waiter in Autogrill, but only if you have a car.
The first job interview is, despite the possibility of being recalled are zero, consider a good start. Agaetis Byrjun . Tomorrow I have another one, for the use of which I do not know, however, the nature and details. On the phone I nodded, though nobody could see me, pinning on a sheet of paper and time for the address, though I escaped with whom. I'll have to ask to Laetitia, and that is something positive for me.
How did I get here? A week of Internet searches, job hunting, paradoxically consulted during the lunch break at work I already have. It was an ending predictable, expected, but still so contradictory to think about it. Ads from fifteen to which I replied, I still got two races, one of which, however, without hope. But you gotta start. And so I put that wearing pants and shirt at the embassy for stationery and birth, where the brain trust that I shall, two men and a woman, or maybe three women, he realized early on that I have no experience. Just look at their curriculum, they could also give the bottom of the first call. But that's okay. There is however a sense of departure.
How did I get here? The folly of his departure for Paris for an internship that I have almost come to boredom, made almost exclusively for the glory, the glory that no one will take into consideration, or actually did it just to escape asphyxiation Italian, and return to me more suitable land in Paris, was a crowd without cover, but without sufficient funds grant. And it's time for me of the bohème, brought sandwiches to work while the others go to the canteen, which has become suddenly too expensive for me, the time of the waiver to the secondary, with the resulting secondary choices about what is and what prime time to look for a job seriously, as if 35 hours per week were not sufficient. So I navigate between ads for babysitting and for use in store, for waiters and interviewers, to Italian delis and ice cream. Working to fill those odd moments that I still remain, and afford another job, for more full-time, made free.
To be a rookie of the labor market, a lack of experience from small jobs are being dropped because he never made, even beginning to be tired of this constant work at all for the glory, a curriculum that in Italy I've earned the right proposal to work as a waiter in Autogrill, but only if you have a car.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
What Does Masterbate Mean
Depression Saturday Night
23/02
Strange this Saturday started late after a long sleep, almost hard to leave, as if the dream attracts me most of reality, even in the long-awaited weekend. You think that by working every day, arrive on Friday evening and finally let go, going to parties or concerts or whatever, expect the unexpected, the remote possibility of a surprise, something that changes the routine. Instead of the usual monsters and then you get paralyzed, incomprehensibly. If the monsters on Friday
loved walking, those of today were much more sedentary. All day at home, like a recluse. Self-imposed confinement, semi-proposal in my mind with the joy of others in the background to my paranoia, the joyful expectation of the other pending against my sad about something that never comes. I am unaware of the causes and effects, and the reasons for them, and even of my actions, my perfect inability to do even simple gestures, to suggest or propose. Despite almost a burning need to see new people, to know, to do. To be perhaps just a little 'more normal.
not like last year when I always had someone to call at any hour or so. I almost gave the illusion can do it, but it was also read numbers, one hundred and conoscine there will be. Now I have come back? Imprisonment, to Saturday night in front of the computer to do a shit, throwing away more and more these my years, enough already empty? The second weekend in a row that jet in the toilet, almost waiting for the Monday restart the work, and waiting for the other weekend.
There are days when I question the sense of it all. Going forward, back, outline projects that will not bring home or nothing, to know new people with whom, however, eventually lose contact, and then always having to start over from zero degree. For what? With no one to do so without an obsession with chasing, trying to get all the best every day and throw Instead off the most. And at home there is no wine, and its portfolio is not a penny. The hard times of a bohemian must start again and delete them in some way.
23/02
Strange this Saturday started late after a long sleep, almost hard to leave, as if the dream attracts me most of reality, even in the long-awaited weekend. You think that by working every day, arrive on Friday evening and finally let go, going to parties or concerts or whatever, expect the unexpected, the remote possibility of a surprise, something that changes the routine. Instead of the usual monsters and then you get paralyzed, incomprehensibly. If the monsters on Friday
loved walking, those of today were much more sedentary. All day at home, like a recluse. Self-imposed confinement, semi-proposal in my mind with the joy of others in the background to my paranoia, the joyful expectation of the other pending against my sad about something that never comes. I am unaware of the causes and effects, and the reasons for them, and even of my actions, my perfect inability to do even simple gestures, to suggest or propose. Despite almost a burning need to see new people, to know, to do. To be perhaps just a little 'more normal.
not like last year when I always had someone to call at any hour or so. I almost gave the illusion can do it, but it was also read numbers, one hundred and conoscine there will be. Now I have come back? Imprisonment, to Saturday night in front of the computer to do a shit, throwing away more and more these my years, enough already empty? The second weekend in a row that jet in the toilet, almost waiting for the Monday restart the work, and waiting for the other weekend.
There are days when I question the sense of it all. Going forward, back, outline projects that will not bring home or nothing, to know new people with whom, however, eventually lose contact, and then always having to start over from zero degree. For what? With no one to do so without an obsession with chasing, trying to get all the best every day and throw Instead off the most. And at home there is no wine, and its portfolio is not a penny. The hard times of a bohemian must start again and delete them in some way.
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