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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
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.
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