Flightless birds will never come back, will they?
26/04
So. Dostoevsky and Woody Allen, patron saints of human cases and the labyrinths of the brain, would be proud of me, or they may take from me their stories. Is there anything But even at their escape: Allan Felix in the end, though driven by Bogart, gives it the kiss, Raskolnikov, however, kills the old woman, who is also a commendable act, but it is time to move from theory from mental saw the real attempt. Not me. And yet there is a sort of ambiguity, as between sadness and happiness, where happiness is what little there was, that spark that warms you and reminds you that you're alive, the sadness, however, is not what he was there, the awareness (or self-belief) that nothing would been there, and the certainty that her face I will be around (not even close: only around).
What is the spark that lights if I allow myself to be that fire burning inside?
This fire me and I have tried this time I left the vent with indulgence, indulgently. After two years I find myself imagining poems, rhymes, looking at foreign languages, but this time there is no possibility to write, certainly not to deliver it.
Things this time were very common in 4850, and his eyes told by Eastern emotions. There is one thing that is never shared, one thing that always stops me departure, leaving me still.
You should then think of a poem about birds of ink that can not fly, when your reality is different, those are fucking giant wings that keep you from walking, or just simply down to earth, and something undefined but heavy on the head, which is stopping you from walking, is to fly, and also to be just ink on skin.
28/04
Now what the hell's going on? The cruellest month rain has extinguished the fire perhaps, or maybe the ashes are still cool completely. Can neither control or to get rid of my emotions, or to understand its scope. The flow drag me along without me understand.
Love, and death. Switching from quell'ovale a little pale, and those big lips that were red in an oasis full moon, a feeling stronger, and not, you shaking your stomach and you get a pain in the eyes salty. Outside the church, and then later at the cemetery where I had to go the day before with her, to carry around happy surprise, I found myself scratching the wake of maltrattenute cheeks from tears. The suffering of a friend is contagious as the merriment.
But because love can not be as empathetic pain? Recovery
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
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Retrospective (Early in January with the Beast)
a written dellla night of December 31 and the first of January. Maybe I should not (this is the kind of writing that would be better to hide or dispose of), but basically this is me also. Sincerity.
01/01/2009
The Beast is back, just before the stroke of midnight. And 'round, so sensational as usual, with his usual way of me to do. So now, less than an hour by January 1, I find myself alone in the cold to write. I always or often that 2009 would be the year of writing, the only passion I have left a long time. In 2008 it started in Bucharest, lies between scented dream (I said I was a writer by trade) and suicidal thoughts. The year 2009 began with the Beast, after leaving my apartment, leaving all those strangers to my house to be alone with you, to make it to vent, to feel paranoid, for once, the spotlight, attention cosmic, universal, Nature, that makes me a victim, the victim, the lover of the Beast. Voluntary self-exclusion and stealth, will not be so in the end it always works? And I'm not a mad poet, not a Dino Campana lost wanderer or an alter Nietzsche. I am nothing. I am an employee of coat. They are the exasperation of the texts of the Smiths.
E 'the euphoria of the others that bother me? I'm so narrow-minded to want everyone to my level of anonymity? What: envy, jealousy, misanthropy, evil? Why are so acidic, so hopelessly devoid of savoir-vivre in society? When
of a sudden you hear the total strangeness of everything around you, and you're just a stranger without joy, and when the stories of others talk about what you are, you are not, you'll never been, and everything is happiness without sense, when you know it's useless to pretend that you're always alone, and that will never change. At that moment the Beast comes and takes me by the arm, to comfort me, me feel concerned: the world that has chosen to exclude.
The year starts with a desperate then confirmed, as I wander to the cold streets of the neighborhood to spy a bit 'of carelessness of others, and that I can warm up, I did not reach its warmth, even touches me. The Beast has convinced me that only you can be with someone as ugly as me. The Beast is still attached to me and I can not prevent his return. The Beast makes a mockery of my efforts and reminds me that nothing has changed and nothing will change.
remember New Year's passed, closed room, away by happiness of relatives, wondering where were my friends, and if I had. New Year's the keyboard, writing about a malaise that back when he wants to torture me. And now that I'm older, now that I have more acid, developed so quickly that they have almost rotted away: now what changed? Here I am, the Canal Saint Martin, to freeze, to see strangers dancing in a room behind me as well as perhaps other foreign dance in my house and none for lifting myself off this pain, only the Beast with me.
and then follow the usual questions: What did you do with who you were, happy new year. Every year the same old shit: silence, illogical escapes, and the Beast looking at me from the mirror.
Not even a slight illusion a subtle warmth that gives the impression of something that basically does not exist: only the awareness of this terrible fate absurd haunts me and will do so forever.
The new year begins with fatigue and with the wrong signals. With pen in hand and 'or friddi n'cuollo. It will be the last of these crappy year Zero. It will be another year of shit. Then, perhaps, will come the future.
a written dellla night of December 31 and the first of January. Maybe I should not (this is the kind of writing that would be better to hide or dispose of), but basically this is me also. Sincerity.
01/01/2009
The Beast is back, just before the stroke of midnight. And 'round, so sensational as usual, with his usual way of me to do. So now, less than an hour by January 1, I find myself alone in the cold to write. I always or often that 2009 would be the year of writing, the only passion I have left a long time. In 2008 it started in Bucharest, lies between scented dream (I said I was a writer by trade) and suicidal thoughts. The year 2009 began with the Beast, after leaving my apartment, leaving all those strangers to my house to be alone with you, to make it to vent, to feel paranoid, for once, the spotlight, attention cosmic, universal, Nature, that makes me a victim, the victim, the lover of the Beast. Voluntary self-exclusion and stealth, will not be so in the end it always works? And I'm not a mad poet, not a Dino Campana lost wanderer or an alter Nietzsche. I am nothing. I am an employee of coat. They are the exasperation of the texts of the Smiths.
E 'the euphoria of the others that bother me? I'm so narrow-minded to want everyone to my level of anonymity? What: envy, jealousy, misanthropy, evil? Why are so acidic, so hopelessly devoid of savoir-vivre in society? When
of a sudden you hear the total strangeness of everything around you, and you're just a stranger without joy, and when the stories of others talk about what you are, you are not, you'll never been, and everything is happiness without sense, when you know it's useless to pretend that you're always alone, and that will never change. At that moment the Beast comes and takes me by the arm, to comfort me, me feel concerned: the world that has chosen to exclude.
The year starts with a desperate then confirmed, as I wander to the cold streets of the neighborhood to spy a bit 'of carelessness of others, and that I can warm up, I did not reach its warmth, even touches me. The Beast has convinced me that only you can be with someone as ugly as me. The Beast is still attached to me and I can not prevent his return. The Beast makes a mockery of my efforts and reminds me that nothing has changed and nothing will change.
remember New Year's passed, closed room, away by happiness of relatives, wondering where were my friends, and if I had. New Year's the keyboard, writing about a malaise that back when he wants to torture me. And now that I'm older, now that I have more acid, developed so quickly that they have almost rotted away: now what changed? Here I am, the Canal Saint Martin, to freeze, to see strangers dancing in a room behind me as well as perhaps other foreign dance in my house and none for lifting myself off this pain, only the Beast with me.
and then follow the usual questions: What did you do with who you were, happy new year. Every year the same old shit: silence, illogical escapes, and the Beast looking at me from the mirror.
Not even a slight illusion a subtle warmth that gives the impression of something that basically does not exist: only the awareness of this terrible fate absurd haunts me and will do so forever.
The new year begins with fatigue and with the wrong signals. With pen in hand and 'or friddi n'cuollo. It will be the last of these crappy year Zero. It will be another year of shit. Then, perhaps, will come the future.
How To Finalize Dvd Recording On Sv2000
About Trying to escape from a dead-end
start writing again after months, as if it were normal, as after abstinence, one of many, which was less accustomed, as if there was something important to tell, or something new, start from that screen white and blacks to fill it with points, maybe you need?
My feelings, my impressions have remained in the air, lost in some drunk, forget some makeshift bed when I got up dressed, my emotions have been suppressed by the passing of days, plurìtoni, poised between sadness and happiness unconscious conscious. My experiences are photos floating memories that begin to cancel, a frustration usual, tempered by a young man ran amok towards joy.
It will be little or nothing, just a bunch of dust on our images on the years of wine and meetings on our generation that built the tower of Babel to the sky with few forces at his disposal.
This perhaps should be restarted. Why not make sense, but you can set, model, create, share it. Although no one really cares then. You can not put everything you've lived in words, but you can give your life to those words and those words are you, or at least another part of your own complicated self. That I'm running wildly from one country to another foreigner with a backpack and a ticket from a crumbling €, I drink and I do Strabo and express my bitter anger against an innocent man, that I laugh and I speak four languages Mexican American English with English Canadian French Irish Italian, I'll try that or not I can not even try, I with my suitcases and some business to move from one house to another, that I get angry and quarrel with my head, I still have not figured out what I'm doing here, that I still have ideas to novels and stories and then do not write a line, I do not believe in myself, that I do the arrogant, that I send music to a radio program, I in the kitchen, I decided that I do not want to work anymore, I I am convinced that to be released from a song by Morrissey, I do I look in the mirror and I can not find myself.
I should recover the scattered pieces went nowhere, all those written in pencil on fleeting sheets that have disappeared during this long period of vacuum, those things that maybe I just thought I wanted to write and then I did not do, put everything back together, and maybe mix them all, evading, and see if everything makes sense, as it is. Fill a giant sheet of tiny writing as a teenager, to find the emptiness inside that I know already have confirmation of that lack. Or maybe just to have something in whose mirror, look inside and find the deepest abyss and the flat surface at the same time. Or, for something to be proud timidly, to show a little 'shame, but no longer hide it, and tell the world that something, perhaps I can do well I am, I exist, even if the world will not listen.
difficult to stop all this, a flow of ideas and emotions and memories that come back and explode in all directions, like a Pandora's box lid off recklessly, knowing the risk. Knowing that I had buried all on purpose or not?, Maybe just not to realize something, or pretend not to. And there are many ways to cheat, with yourself, with life, with words, which is also easier. All of our myths have cheated, and all your gods cheat.
I'm not a good student. Pile on the concepts with no order or logic, as in a collage. I would like also able to attach receipts, tickets, bottles. Each book should have a bottle attached. In
crack which has recently been leading my computer, I lost many documents, especially text. Old blog articles published or unpublished, thesis, articles published or not yet published in magazines, carried a story and a few larvae of the story, links, quotes collected here and there. I had a text file occupied entirely by a quote from Coe, and I lost it. But the quote I had already published in this blog, and I can finally find it, copy it, repeat it, making me hurt and spurring at the same time, I thought about it a lot in this period, and finally I can read it again:
"It would be stupid, do not you think, go a lifetime without ever do something to be desired?"
"I'm sure that happens"
"Yes. I'm sure of myself. "
And sometimes you act so fucking difficult. Let's try though. It was a summer of
start writing again after months, as if it were normal, as after abstinence, one of many, which was less accustomed, as if there was something important to tell, or something new, start from that screen white and blacks to fill it with points, maybe you need?
My feelings, my impressions have remained in the air, lost in some drunk, forget some makeshift bed when I got up dressed, my emotions have been suppressed by the passing of days, plurìtoni, poised between sadness and happiness unconscious conscious. My experiences are photos floating memories that begin to cancel, a frustration usual, tempered by a young man ran amok towards joy.
It will be little or nothing, just a bunch of dust on our images on the years of wine and meetings on our generation that built the tower of Babel to the sky with few forces at his disposal.
This perhaps should be restarted. Why not make sense, but you can set, model, create, share it. Although no one really cares then. You can not put everything you've lived in words, but you can give your life to those words and those words are you, or at least another part of your own complicated self. That I'm running wildly from one country to another foreigner with a backpack and a ticket from a crumbling €, I drink and I do Strabo and express my bitter anger against an innocent man, that I laugh and I speak four languages Mexican American English with English Canadian French Irish Italian, I'll try that or not I can not even try, I with my suitcases and some business to move from one house to another, that I get angry and quarrel with my head, I still have not figured out what I'm doing here, that I still have ideas to novels and stories and then do not write a line, I do not believe in myself, that I do the arrogant, that I send music to a radio program, I in the kitchen, I decided that I do not want to work anymore, I I am convinced that to be released from a song by Morrissey, I do I look in the mirror and I can not find myself.
I should recover the scattered pieces went nowhere, all those written in pencil on fleeting sheets that have disappeared during this long period of vacuum, those things that maybe I just thought I wanted to write and then I did not do, put everything back together, and maybe mix them all, evading, and see if everything makes sense, as it is. Fill a giant sheet of tiny writing as a teenager, to find the emptiness inside that I know already have confirmation of that lack. Or maybe just to have something in whose mirror, look inside and find the deepest abyss and the flat surface at the same time. Or, for something to be proud timidly, to show a little 'shame, but no longer hide it, and tell the world that something, perhaps I can do well I am, I exist, even if the world will not listen.
difficult to stop all this, a flow of ideas and emotions and memories that come back and explode in all directions, like a Pandora's box lid off recklessly, knowing the risk. Knowing that I had buried all on purpose or not?, Maybe just not to realize something, or pretend not to. And there are many ways to cheat, with yourself, with life, with words, which is also easier. All of our myths have cheated, and all your gods cheat.
I'm not a good student. Pile on the concepts with no order or logic, as in a collage. I would like also able to attach receipts, tickets, bottles. Each book should have a bottle attached. In
crack which has recently been leading my computer, I lost many documents, especially text. Old blog articles published or unpublished, thesis, articles published or not yet published in magazines, carried a story and a few larvae of the story, links, quotes collected here and there. I had a text file occupied entirely by a quote from Coe, and I lost it. But the quote I had already published in this blog, and I can finally find it, copy it, repeat it, making me hurt and spurring at the same time, I thought about it a lot in this period, and finally I can read it again:
"It would be stupid, do not you think, go a lifetime without ever do something to be desired?"
"I'm sure that happens"
"Yes. I'm sure of myself. "
And sometimes you act so fucking difficult. Let's try though. It was a summer of
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