Take the train Bologna / Florence (only one room) in late morning. Once you go to Florence at the Palazzo Strozzi for the exhibition "Art and Illusions" (which brings us closer to the festival last year).
After a visit to calm and focused, Florence gives us a good meal at a reasonable price (we are still to deceive) and a visit to the stage of San Silvestro in twinning.
At first shadows of evening takes the train (always local), and (with due delay) is seeing returns to Bologna high speed.
Once in Bologna, while avoiding the lucky ones who have a ticket for the party "high speed" to catapult us to the bingo hall Biancolelli year-end with appropriate toasts and prizes for the event.
Then, we are in the finishing straight, if we love we are sympathetic to each other, you will put your red panties and I'll take off the ...
call New Year's welcome, but do not open that door
"You know? He wants to cross the English Channel by swimming to reach a girl. I have not even crossed the street to stop. "
Vincent Lindon is Simon and I like a casino: it is massive, has the belly is a bear. Closed a door, for not seeing what's beyond.
Calais is a hell of a clandestine camp in the open. Waiting, waiting months and months to go from there to England. It takes 500 € and a plastic bag: it serves to lock ourselves inside the head when, hidden in a truck, you risk being caught by a lethal tool that police use to detect the presence of illegal immigrants from the breath.
"Welcome" by Philippe Lioret film is a simple, predictable as a Greek tragedy. It leaves you hanging on the breath.
is a simple film, which tells a complicated story like that of illegal immigration, a move in the history individuals, by reasons that can be easier than imagine: no war in the country from which it is Bilal, Iraq, not poverty, but the love for a girl. Bilal her to challenge the English Channel and the police all over the world.
I closed the last page of last Baricco and I do not know what to say. I loved Castles anger, Ocean and Sea twentieth century. The next one, no. But I continued to follow his thinking in the newspapers, because intelligent. Although attacked and attaccabilissimo (see the release of last spring on the theaters and funding culture).
Emmaus is a Baricco I did not expect, so I take my hat: the latter were become a cliché, a trademark. Well executed, of course, but with little emotion.
thousand years ago I heard him at a conference, a guest of the Faculty of Political Science, calling artists to talk about the work of art, creativity. He said something that I always remained in the lead, who came to my head every time I enter the library to choose a new book to read. "If you buy my book - he said - buy a ticket for a trip." The promise to the public that he had asked a question, telling him that one day he pretended to go to work - at the factory, I think - but then he called his foreman to malinger, had waited in the bar in front of a house wife and daughter went to school and working to retrace his steps, get under the covers and read a book by Baricco, can not remember which.
Well, perhaps the journey of which I have been a guide Baricco with Emmaus I just care a little.
There are four boys, sixteen or so. Growth in faith, because it wanted the families, because so life guaranteed to be easier defined private superfluous, the complex, a delegated elsewhere. Then there's Andre girl from the boy's name (Andrew, in fact), grown in a world that has nothing definite, but not be happier, freer.
whole book - written by God, it must be said - is crossed by a sense of sin. Result: I am nervous. Topical, if we read it in parallel with the chronicles of those days (transvestites, drugs, sex). But, although random, I guess not pander, even this coincidence annoys me too.
Then a dark journey. Here it is: deep and final resignation. They were not so travel-books that I loved Baricco: imaginative.
Well, I do not know what happened to Baricco, why has a novel way. Perhaps it is worth reading, though, but at 139ma and last page of the travel-book are happy to be back home.
Mary must wait. And the waiting is the thing that is less congenial. Moreover, "you are one who has always done everything by myself," he tells a friend. And if one is alone, she decides when and how.
Mary looks at his friend and a little 'do not understand. It alone because it alone, not by choice, not lack. Why is congenial, that is.
Mary is expecting a baby, but range as little expectation, she gave birth to six months. And then he must learn to wait for the child, even his daughter, born a second time.
Mary, despite the name, one that is not immolated on the altar of motherhood. "At my age you do not have children, do not we fall in love" says through her tears, a cup of tea and the first ultrasound. She, however, there is waterfall in both networks. He is in love with Peter and claims that he can never do without kissing his neck. But just wait, even there, and Peter "melts into a puddle of mud." Di Pietro became pregnant, and you hold the child even though Peter "does not feel like to have a baby because they already have one."
I went to the movies for "white space" by Francesca Comencini very biased. I was told that the film was beautiful. But an Italian film ..... on a forty year ago that a child ...... then that horrible review for Escobar on Sunday of Sole24Ore today that while speaking well, the enthusiasm to ammoscerebbe cinephile more bulimic: all about love, courtly, rhetorical. Instead Francesca Comencini is the second this week which surprises me. Maria / Margherita Buy is a successful character because it is secular, why the great doctor who speaks of hope and expectation when the incubator has to explain that his daughter is in danger of dying, she asks him to do his job, using the His language, which is the scientific language. Speak of hope and expectation the priests, they do that job there.
Mary must wait until the second birth of his daughter (or death, "but I know we can not go around saying I'm waiting for the death of my daughter"), but Mary remains: his films, his books, sex, his job as a teacher. Luck, maybe, is to be a mother and wrinkles without the rhetoric of motherhood. Viva, especially if it is an Italian film ascegliere in this way.
Mary goes to the movies alone. I'm alone now I go to see "Lebanon", another story. Then I will tell you.
is the fear, the catch of all. Then pride, behind which lurks the fear, of course. And the resentment: what was (his mother ran off with an American and leave them there, only three children with his father), through which Manfred reinterprets the relationship with other women in his life.
Manfred is a mountaineer. Hard as stone. He talks little and if he talks cuts, to be hit of the ax. Marina - the name says - has nothing to do with those mountains, c'arriva with a newborn son. A son who came, tried but without much conviction, perhaps. Marina is like us, like me, did not come to the world just to have children, like our mothers. So is hard, he feels inadequate, hostage of that child who always cries.
the two meet. Collide. Then they meet again fifteen years later. When spring when Manfred spring. When the stops to hold on to defend something. No, you know what: his fear of being cheated, dumped again. Of injury. But then get hurt by itself, even more harm.
is a beautiful book to Cristina Comencini. Entitled "When the night." Even the cover is beautiful: two gnarled hands on a woman's bare back. It is a love story, it's true. As if reading love stories implying the need to apologize to others who pretend not to read them. (It is the fear of all rip-off, remember?).
There are long periods when I devour books, and others in which this does not happen: distracted me from my thoughts. Or can not find books that come in line with my thoughts. "When the night" did it: at the beginning with little conviction, eventually overwhelmed them, we have reflected.
is a short novel by the writing dry. A few dialogues, the space is above all for what the protagonists say, but do not say. It is not dull, even poignant. It's a melee. A battle, as any building of love. Not love that builds a life, a future, a family. A sublime love, not at all ideal, even carnal, but there remains capable of walks to the side for fifteen years.
"I think I have written a book romantic - Cristina Comencini said in an interview - though not in the classic sense. There is a return to primary instinct, the idea that love is a battlefield. " Again: "The love between a man and a woman is not sweet. The crossing is won by a wide rage of gender. Love is not sweet, at least it's not the beginning. "
's so, the summer ends, people who slowly falls in the city and the country .... .... and then there desertification moooooolto time to return to the blog .... even though I always have a lot of things to do, but brought the PC in the store, between a client and the other can make me alive again. Not that it no longer has anything to say, do not worry .... I have so many things to externalize ... but for now I leave you by saying simply that ... finally, after 9 years, returned to London !!!!!! I'm leaving for a weekend with my princess and I'm so excited! We're going to find some family friends, and even if it's for a very short time, I'm really happy to be back in what I consider the city of my heart. So after October 12 do me a visit here on the blog ... publish some 'photos and I am sure a flood of stories and enthusiasm as a child after her first school trip! hug you all!
men clinging to the ropes, with the intention of getting on a ship already overloaded humans.
Every now and then a thud: it could happen that a rope would break and they, humans are thrown into the sea for not crashing on the walls of the rusty ship.
A trench in the sea, boarded a pit, a pit on the roof of the port. People yelling at people, people who greet other people, people crying for people about to leave for one where you do not know.
Among the clusters of humans, monkeys as close to those strings, fixed his eye on a man who climbs with his hands and feet, wearing only a pair of electric blue slip. Would arrive in Italy in his underwear. So it would be presented to the new world, new life.
signs of hunger on the faces, on the verge of stripping the bodies.
A pregnant woman hanging from a rope from a pile to bring the cart: she tries. It is the image more desperate.
"In taking these photos - tells Luke - I do not know how to set foot on a small platform, a raft at one point broke away from the dock."
Luke snaps, shooting rolls of film on film. Some arrive in Italy, a week later, while the newspapers have already told of this burden of despair, then locked in the stadium in Bari news becomes history.
The story, private story.
(Thanks to Luke for letting me 'steal' this story)
I look out the bars, hotels on one of the intersections of the center of my city, and I seem to be a tourist. There is the sun. It rained early in the morning rain and perhaps even later. Yet there is a beautiful light, which articulates the details of that architecture that I know how my pocket and now it seems to me to see for the first time. The green sign of an antique shop, there until I was a child and now replaced by a fashion label. The tables in the bar. The floor of cobblestones, the red walls of the buildings. Bikes. Even people I do not think that my city. For once I do not know anyone. Finally. I feel suddenly distant. On holiday or even in another world.
lunch time and see, out of the bar, the loops that come and go with the waterproof temporarily strung on colorful jackets, cameras, his nose in the air to track down the bows of medieval buildings.
The girl at the bar asks us what we want to eat. It has a foreign accent.
"E 'slave," he says Luca.
Just to stay in theme with his story.
The girl is tall and thin, beautiful and young. But the angular face, the skin of the cheeks marked by just a bit 'of rosacea and eyes with the shadow of some folk who will soon be turning them off a bit', as a whole are already guess how it will be in thirty years, from elderly.
Luke has the same face of the boy's picture in Albania. Eighteen years more, however, and less curly gray hair, but still long to focus their backs.
Open your computer and displays photos of Durres. From that day on which the first or perhaps the second vessel carrying packed with Albanians left for the Adriatic coast of Italy.
I listen and I guess the landing of those illegal immigrants at the beginning of a hot August of 1991.
Once you finally put foot in Albania, Luca heading straight towards Tirana. The room at the Hotel Central in the capital cost more than he imagined. The hotel was still used by the regime in its heyday, to accommodate the nomenklatura and diplomats who came from outside, to give an illusion of well being, comfort and out of there would not be traced in any other part of the city, between the common people. That story was also told over the yellowed walls of the room assigned to this unexpected visitor, the only guest. Then he told the solevate carpet edges, light bulbs missing in abundance from the large crystal chandeliers, the uniforms of the staff remained greyed, grumpy and listless.
arrived at the hotel that was almost evening, Luke asked to eat a sandwich, whatever. He was told that everything was over, that the kitchens were closed for months: first had to empty the cupboards, then the staff was also fired. Needless to those days charged for services that no one would take.
Luca decided they still sit at the bar, a beer in some way remedy and drinking it to him the idea would come. After a while, 'who was there to point the rim of the glass, he noticed that in that room exterminated, delusions of grandeur of a regime that thought forever, a group of Albanian boys sat on the other side of the counter, drinking beer and eating toast. Luke came over to ask if I could get one.
Slavic She brings us our meals. Luke leaves the computer access is a photo from the air a bit 'crumpled: he's there, thin and younger. It is on the roof of a house and takes his arm around the shoulders of a man down, his face marked: it looks older, but then maybe it is not that much. He'll start it one morning in haste from Tirana to Durres, on a train overloaded with people; Luca to look around to try to understand where will all these people, because in a country that seems to have remained static for centuries as if everyone, one day, suddenly, had woken same time.
The next day, early, Luke would be able to convince his new friend in Montenegro
deportation. His host father took the van to go with the guy who is stubborn with the idea of \u200b\u200bcrossing the border. The two set out, again the same way they did the day before and Mirak Luca left a few feet from the bar that marked the limit with that unknown land, but so mystified, just steps from his house. The two boys greeted with a handshake, pat on the back and a broad smile on both sides.
"If one day you'll be in Italy ...."," if one day return to these parts .....": had somehow made to understand as we do in these cases, all parts of the world. To show gratitude to the events: Luca for the hospitality, Mirak told him to his world.
Luke got out of his knapsack colored shoulder, back the military the day before.
He put his hand in his pocket, where the previous afternoon had brought in - he was sure to have done - the letter with the permission to enter Albania. He was ready to resume his battle. But the letter was gone. He turned and there was even Mirak. He had not even heard the noise of the vehicle back into gear and sped behind him, he was so focused on the new battle that was willing to fight even that morning just to reach its goal. Perhaps, he was surprised to think Luke was Mirak, or his mother to secretly steal a visa to the land of their hated neighbors, hoping in this way to save him from a world they believed was dangerous, dark, no interest .
The military, however, recognized Italian; how he could not recognize him? It was the only one to show up that day and maybe it would have been for weeks to come, as for many of the past. He did not fuss this time, while Luke tried to explain, searching in every pocket of his clothes and his backpack, which had lost the letter.
The military raised the bar and Luke found himself facing a road identical to what was about to leave behind. Yet it was finally entered into a new world, in Albania.
Luke arrived at the border on foot. Montenegro and Albania. End of July. 1991. From a distance, as he approached with a small knapsack on his back, the border guard looked at him without seeing docks. He stared at the dusty footsteps of the boy-faced teenager, her hair with their tails stretched on his back and curls on his head. The legs of one of them, a Slav, he would also have to say. If it were not for those jeans, that shirt with the words: no, it was clear that was not one of them, who was a tourist. A tourist: it was not a common figure in these parts. Of tourists there do not see it. The dot Luca Luca was getting closer and more detailed. A few steps from the bar and inside the hut where he stood guard to protect the boy took out of his crumpled the envelope with the invitation of the Embassy of Albania that would allow him to enter the country. Handed it to the military and somehow tried to make himself understood. That began to speak his language without that Luke, of course, could understand a single word. Only by shaking of the head of that man with the rough face and lips tight sensed that something was wrong, it would not be so simple to set foot over the bar. The man made it clear to him that that paper was worth nothing. Luke had a lot to point the finger on the stamp of the embassy, \u200b\u200bthe signature below, the few lines that he did not understand but he knew that it was written down on paper his passport to that country that a few months, in theory, had opened its borders. Nothing. The boy-man showed another tourist package: the woman's name was written Embassy in Tirana with whom he had contracted the invitation to Albania. If that deaf and stubborn military had convinced him to call her by phone, she would have explained it to him in his language, which could enter the Italian boy, who was a tourist, as odd was that his feet to present a border forgotten by men, in the mountains in the heart of a very boring summer afternoon there. Nothing to do. The soldier's face to understand that today you could not call. He wanted to move it. Maybe, if she made the difficult thing, that boy would withdraw, would be turned back, retreating quickly from his capricious adventure. Perhaps pointing to a beach in his country, one that occasionally the Slav had seen on television. What was needed then go for the young Italian conceited in Albania? Luca for that day was sure there was nothing else to do. Then, for the first time since he arrived at the border, rolled his eyes, only one behind him, had walked along the road to get there, and was convinced to find a way to reach the last country he had left behind. None. Not a machine. She resigned herself to turn on his heels and walked. Departed from a dozen steps, however, turned back toward the man who from his sentry pretended not watch it. "See you tomorrow!" Shouted points against the index. Without two curves, somehow, from somewhere, a guy came up with a beat-up scooter that black smoke and explosions erupted syncopated. The boy who was driving did not wait to stop the gesture with which Luke was for help. "Where to go? Where to go?" He asked. Perhaps he had seen in secret to long scene at the border and he knew that Luke was Italian. So he introduced himself immediately with the name of Mirak, drew those two or three words of Italian who had learned to repeat the power to hear the Italian television channel that reaches there in Montenegro, and which was almost always tuned to the small screen black and white the only bar-restaurant-hotel in his village. Luke made it clear to the boy, who had to have more or less his age, but his face marked, dark teeth and hands like those of a gnarled old man, who needed a room for the night. "Hotel. Hotel. Hotel. Hotel," he kept repeating. Mirak had understood perfectly what he was looking for Luca but pretended not to understand. And he lied, trying to make him understand that in those parts a hotel just was not there. Then he gestured to Luke to pick him up riding his scooter. Would go to his house, understood the Italian, would have housed them for the night. so it was. And Luke found himself at the table, in a country house in Montenegro, the Albanian border. The father and mother were farmers Mirak and this gave them a degree of prosperity, though the house was just a large room on the ground floor: kitchen with a long rectangular table where the family dinner staged by Mirak Mars for that came from a place that, as the crow flies, was not so far - thought Luke - but over time it seemed far away dozens of years. From the kitchen you went out on a porch where the family kept his tools, the son's scooter, a wooden bench with cushions faded flowers, a cart and several old pieces of junk. On one corner there was a staircase leading to two rooms on the first floor, one inserted inside the other. The first was the room where they slept Mirak and his sister, who - told the family - she married a year ago and now lived in cities. From there he went into the bedroom of the parents, the only one with the glass windows protected by tendon terital ready to give the shock as soon as he touched. What was going on Luke in Albania? asked at the end of dinner, pulling out of the pantry homemade grappa. A glass, another and another and Luke began to turn heads and melt the gab. The Italian explained to the family of Montenegro, which had three weeks of vacation from work, he wanted to see a country that did not know, referred to his house then you start talking about the world, after 89, it was expanded to include places that previously existed only in stories of a few. He wanted to see with his own eyes, meeting people. He showed his camera. He tried to tell them that car had visited many other countries. In Europe, of course, then many times the great African continent, illustrated by sliding your finger on a travel atlas that always accompanied him in his adventures. Lights, Luke, in telling that he had brought home the portraits of people who had shaken hands, which had a piece of road. The images of the forests that had crossed the villages where he had set foot, sometimes only white man, of the women had crossed eyes, children who had followed him and they smile to his goal. But the Albanians are bad people, he wanted to convince the mother of Mirak, a spokesman for a hatred that has always separated the two peoples. "No go! No go!", It was the interpreter of the anguish of the family's son. After hours of memories and discoveries, paid off by stories of hatred, fear and prejudice, Luke asked to go to sleep. That day, the discussion with the stupid customs officer, then dinner, the mixture of tongues between them and universal gestures, grappa, had suddenly taken away his strength.
These days I struggle to read long novels. I prefer short tales, written to be consumed in one gulp. It's like I need to move often, to take air constantly changing panorama. As if I could not stay in one place for more than a few days. It happens. So too tiring to choose destinations long End time: when it comes the desire to leave, seeking the lowest fare for the destination more appealing right now. I happened then to catch the fly two small book. The first, "Puer Aeternus" by James Hillman, I had some time at home, a gift from a friend. The second, "secret test" of Duras, I miraculously found a warm Sunday afternoon at the home of a former love, flooded with books on politics, philosophy and social amenities. He does not read literature, not ever, and even those three short stories - as shown by the dedication - are there only because the gift of a former girlfriend in August '95. The text consists of Hillman two written but what is interesting is the first dedicated to treason. We do not talk of 'horns', commonly called. Or yes, but distant. And in any case the interest is not there. The speech starts with a Jewish evocative. The father urges his son to throw a dead body from ever greater heights, so - sure - there will always be welcome to him in her arms. To a certain point, however, because when the kid jumps off the top step, my father and he does it dodges crumble into ruin. What does the betrayal by the father? Hillman explains: "The ability to betray the other is related to the ability to lead others. Fatherhood has made the both. " How then to deal with the betrayal inherent need in every form of love, and then with confidence? Among the possible reactions, interesting way to cynicism, or the betrayal of SE '. Of the three secret writings of Duras's ex-girlfriend of former love drew attention on the one titled "The disease of death", the story of a man who had never loved. I liked it, especially in closing. "You could live this love in the only way possible for you, you lose before they materialize." nothing else I can say. If you do not advise the two small book in the spirit of those who are quick but satisfying excursions.
Last winter I bought a book because I liked its title "The separation of the male" (author, Francesco Piccolo). I sensed that there was talk of love, I saw a man who spoke, I imagined - the title - that he would have to quibble about some schizophrenia with which many of us, not only males to be honest (but interesting here was the their point of view), live their love life. For many months the book remained in the pile next to the bed of those who, sooner or later I would face. A writer friend, in fact, told me it was a boiata. Then, recently, a friend struggling with the need to understand the usual complicated story, he told me that the volume is interesting. So I picked up, thinking it might be a foray into the control room: to understand how they think the males, as they live. At first pages the book I found it so-so, then curious, then I wanted to see where it was going. is the story of a man who speaks in first person, married with one daughter. Held in parallel on many stories, I told her everything, the book goes through vaguely erotic, but there is no patch for me, eroticism or alive or seems to gymnastics. His stories, he explains to you that it is attracted by the asses of women will fall in love more and all his love is not like a cake, that if in ten are the ones that need to eat, they all have one-tenth, or a small slice. His ability to love is one and triune, so to speak: is always compact, indivisible, just moving from one subject to another, from one thing to another, even within a short time without taking anything away from all ' more. It helps in this, the absolute lack of guilt (which, however, continue in spite of everything we Catholics have to deal, although analysts say that today is the sense of inadequacy as quoted on the couch). But then his wife leaves him, not because it discovers everything. Why do you find another with her husband and her husband do not say nothing, nothing criticizes. The drama is not here, for our hero, but that he thought he was omnipotent, to hold it all together: to love his wife, his daughter grow up, live his unbridled sexual curiosity. Instead, everything falls, because there is someone who acts out what he had planned, calculated. not know, I do not know. The book I added nothing. I was hoping at least to give me on your nerves, because I did not understand how and where and when you push the buttons in this blessed room. Instead, not even that. Perhaps still a tad bit of hypocrisy: the need to be assured within a family and the impossibility of living a life like you want to live, beyond the 'Must do' and 'as it should be'. I remain, very personally, the utopia of being able to imagine a love that is not possession, selfishness, accumulation, Antidio fear, inadequacy. "It was never my own, has never been ours," says Meryl Streep on the grave of Robert Redford in "Out of Africa". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMRRXqtKRMI&feature=related
addition to being a bit 'of time that place (the verb "to post from English to post), is also a lot of time do not comment something about the daily life of all of us mere mortals that sometimes we allow ourselves to catalyze the one box now present in all homes (sometimes in excessive numbers, I would say!), TV. The most beautiful and ugly at the same time that you see on TV is, in my opinion, advertising. Some amazing short films, with a striking photo and music by Academy Award for best soundtrack. Others are decidedly stupid, some genius ... and other then make me a nervous incredible! And it is one of these I want to talk, that of Coca Cola. Who has seen it has already figured out, who has not seen her understand now: the stylized designs appear on the screen, probably made by a child who speaks and says he prefers a country holiday in a luxury resort, which prefers a sandwich with sausage to sushi, which is better than having to ride supersonic car .... great message, a hymn to appreciate the simple things ... and finally what is up? a nice bottle of Coca Cola! That is, are we kidding? I mean, we have no idea what's actually inside the famous drink? I do not think I can say that there are simple and natural ingredients! I really looks like a subtle advertisement, hypocritical, that sends a message completely distorted! And the funny thing is that this definitely affects the whole group of people that you get from the commercials .... well, this thing just makes me angry! Free to think differently from how I see it ... but I'm really Indignation!
have not yet landed in Detroit, which is already America.
"Eternal life is a free gift." Eternal life is a gift, legacy is written on a flier stuck in the bathroom mirror airplane. It is when a man needs his privacy that you think you have more grip on his conscience. ".... Is a free ...." is confined in a jagged oval, blinking, such as those that are used to signal an exceptional discount. If sitting on the toilet at the end of the reading of biblical passages on the back of the leaflet that you are persuaded that God is your Savior, the flyer invites you to leave your details. From Lebanon, Ohio, will contact you.
"I choose to wait. Abstinence UNTIL the wedding," reads a billboard the size of the facade of a house along a highway of New Mexico. America is more puritanical, more conservative and bigoted. That still does not know (but is very concerned) that Obama's victory would come from there a few months.
I end up there at the end of my journey, in this climate of terrorism. On a night in San Francisc
or, among the most liberal city in the United States, one in which there is room for everyone and where on the wall read "Use what Mother Nature Gave You before Father Time Takes it away. "
Well, one night in San Francisco I dream of a complicated script, bothered by a voiceover that says: "in this life most will never know love." The next day, the street, cast his eye by chance on a black preacher shouting behind me the pleasures of sexual abstinence before marriage.
"Too late," I reply.
"No more sex in life, then, raised him.
Then, during the return trip, an article in the New York Times I retired in good spirits. Under the header 'Modern Love' I read the story of a gay couple that after long cohabitation decide for the wedding. One of the couple, who is also the author of the article (it's called Bob Morris, perhaps in the U.S. is famous but I do not know him) writes: "I still belive That solitude makes me Deeper in person, not a lesser one. So I felt kind of guilty for Being in a couple. Then there's the fact That Often marriage lasts as long as a Botox injection.
The translation goes something like this: "I still believe that solitude makes me a deeper person, a person rather than less. So I felt as guilty for being a couple. Then c 'is the fact that marriage often lasts much as an injection Botox. "
.... that night he thought that someone had stolen her youth, the ability to imagine, the ability to make mistakes, to try to go by trial and error, to search for new roads, new combinations ...... and how he could do now to recall?
So ... it's true that I am very taken by the shop and work in practically all I do is talk about wine, cheese and other stuff calorie (ihihih! Just look at the refrigerated that cholesterol soars but !)... I also have time to enjoy my little girl growing up like two flowers lovingly cared for and cared for ... Scarlett is now a little lady (dare I say it has always been, with his methodical and thoughtful way of doing, Margaret is a clown in miniature, so nice as contrarian! look at you with those big eyes and blacks perceive a cornet dithers about to do something! But when a game is really fun! premise that it is Cancer, a water sign, your room favorite place to play is just the bathroom ... would be to soak all day, and obviously this peculiarity also extends to objects that happen in his hands. Result: all the lava happens to pull: puppets (even stuffed of course!), pieces of bread, various food ... but the maximum was drowned yesterday when a table has a cherry in the glass and started to sciacquettarla as a good housewife. And the talking! Cherry had come to life, and she talked fondly: "Gieg, I work Gieg .... are you ready? I wipe lava ... Arita Gieg" I and my course we were delighted by how he could simply have fun with a cherry and a bit 'of water and she seemed very happy! The evening dinner was also Scarlett (she eats lunch in the canteen) and the little one has repeated the same show ... Her sister is literally jumped on the chair! "Mom! The Marghe ago as the raccoon! Lava the stuff before you eat! Bellina, how polite! " What can I get more out of life with two daughters as well? :-)
Finally! No, I say ... finally I found my way, my size, my satisfaction ... are daily manager myself, I work in an environment designed , built, conceived, exactly as I wanted realzzato! People come in here (sunflower) and curiosity among the jars, among the shelves, when I serve him a cheese smell, taste him, he'll do well if they want to taste twenty! I mean ... oh god .... I've got too much adrenaline on him, then now that the season is starting, people go to the sea, and become new people, and also customers every day are willing to experiment with some new flavor ... let themselves be led ..... and I grew up with them in this world of fragrances, flavors that many rediscover, e. .. oh sorry are euphoric and I can not write so composed as to my usual! I'm fine! I AM HAPPY! Know this: THINGS ARE GOOD ...... MI ASS IN A BAD ABOUT ME VES! (The expression labronica you could not save!)
"I would like to hear what you have for me your sweetness, your face, his wisdom, his lips, glances, sighs, laughter, breasts, hips, hands, complicity, desire. Remember that for you. "
A tear round, precise and with the stalk upward, the fell from the edge on the tip of the left shoe, bounced off the iron step of the ladder and went to spread on the concrete sidewalk. The portrait of his mother, who in that picture had to have the age that she had now struck her for the first time he saw her bend to the left side of the mouth, full lips, dreamy expression, even a little 'sad . The head tilts for both on the same side, on top of the neck long and tense. He put the white flower on the grave and the view became a little 'wetter. But it was not sadness. It was the emotion of the show as a mother had changed in those ten years since she was gone. All the best, and so on.
the door of the house, a bag stuck a couple of flowering plants. And a wet note.
41 = 14 = 7 x 2 magnificent seven, seven deadly sins = 49 - 8 = 7 times 7 42 to 1 6 times 7 So wonderful
The signing was a stick man who took off a top hat and showed a large bouquet of flowers.
who had met in those days wondered why she was so beautiful, if it was on vacation. She knew why: it was running early. And the night did not sleep much. He had a thought on his mind.
found in mail the greeting of a friend. location: (one week) text: there is a curious little film (dark and without light): Two Lovers there was Emma's birthday (my niece) I paid 750 euro (ergo life insurance) I sent a message to you (I said, I think) I saw a little 'of people (poor and uninspiring) I took a drink at Portico (was empty) if there were no parentheses, that life would be. ..? His friend was a poet, but he gave no account.
With their few years in two if they are supported by an hour at the bar of the tavern full of people vocia, order wine, say hello, his name is on a Friday evening of a week like so many others come to an end without a result. Breath against breath, eyes on the eyes, jointed knees: do not detach your hands off me. There is no word that is not accompanied by a finger touches the handle of a side, which emphasizes the movement of lips that got into perforated top of her. He is tall and handsome. She is tall and beautiful. He has a big brass ring on her finger. And a mustache. She has red hair and cheeks sore from an afternoon spent in bed. And to read both know that they are soon to return. Just a glass of wine, another and then another to slam into the face of their love story, the only - They think - in human history. An old drunk, a regular guest of the inn, is close to them. Interrupts them. He wants to speak and give them the rope. Mica are afraid that someone carried it away, that their only love, the electricity charge of their bodies that continue to fail to be deviating by more than a few centimeters. Esco. A restaurant. A bistro, and informal from glossy magazines. In the midst of books. Novels and spaghetti. Essays and tomato sauce. Poetry and speeches in oil. A square table, small, from a French restaurant. They have many more in two decades, certainly affect the whole century. They miss the light, the electricity is gone. He has an accent that comes from out. She held a purple python. They are competing to see who knows more about music, I wonder why rock. Stuff when they had a few years and frequented the inns were full of people shouting. He tries to impress her reciting the titles of vinyl that has been kept at home. You will not impress you, indeed it is a bit 'idiot. They met in a chat room and thought it might be a good way to learn, to wonder with each other, but mostly with themselves. No, nothing to do: they cut the power lines. No electricity. Indeed, a string of irritation for having ruined each other that last kick. A bit 'of antipathy. Even a hint of hatred, at least resentment. I in half. Nothing tavern, but unable to give up at the bistro, her dishes, lacquer.
Music for writing: Keith Jarrett, The Köln Concert.
Obsessive. And repetitive. A music obsessive and repetitive. Hypnotic. Tin Tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. I try to write on a story, to connect my thoughts. A story. I have it on the tip of ....., but it is not. And if I stopped to hear? Maybe the story is not for that, because I stopped feeling. Listen but not feel. And to think that I would have many stories to tell. Stories of people who do not meet, or clashes, avoid to meet. That would meet, but then life. is not the story. Yet I have it on the tip of .... Tin Tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. Tin tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. Tin tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. I can not ringed the thoughts, ideas, emotions. And the music goes. It should be an endless train of wagons in a flat of Arizona. It should be the race of who can no longer run. It should be a bike, pedaling, pedaling, pedaling. It should be far and away those who seek not have the courage to go. It should be what it was, he wanted it to be, but that could not be let. Tin Tin dyed. Like the skin of a dog, those Puppies who wear a fur coat of some size too big for them. No, the opposite. Here is the skin to be tight. As a skin. And if the shots a little more ', just a little', he breaks out. The music goes, it's easier for her. Someone wrote it for him. ............... The music is gone.
Waiting for the next post on the course of Livorno (sorry, but I feel inspired and carefree lately ... I'm so there with his head!) We mark the link of Borzacchini UNIVERSAL indispensable tool for understanding the most famous sayings of Livorno and Tuscany. Happy reading!
TO DECLINE? (Semi-serious reflection on the progress of time)
Today, like many other days, I went grocery shopping at the Coop ... of course .... (there is only one, of course!) Among the markers of the offers I found a particularly inviting: an anti-wrinkle cream to just under € 6! I state that you are the right care, natural makeup, never exaggerated, a fresh and persistent, sometimes cream .... We see that the words of my mother this morning must have hit the mark "I can see this pretty face, but you have wrinkles ... uhm ... you see that you're stressed," Lippe I pretended to be anything but worm has crept all right .... It just arrived in the cosmetics aisle of slingshots to see if I find something suitable and not too expensive. Incredibly I found just what I did to my case: specifically for combination skin wrinkle ... amazing how he can guess your problems and will propose the exact solution! work? I do not know ... certainly more than two minutes of cuddle in the morning rubbing his face with scented cream, make sure my face a bit 'more relaxed .. And from day one! The fact is this, that is, but the effect of these creams will really be due to various Q10 coenzymes, pectidi, alpha-hydroxy acids or whatever you call it .... or just the very act of taking care of himself, to devote those few minutes on our person, for a moment to focus our minds on ourselves in the morning, instead of looking at the clock because it is late and the girls must go to school, and then I mark the ends of the car, and I have to take the appointment for that practice, and I'll get the painter to make the estimate, and I have to go shopping and then go get the little girl who goes from kindergarten e. ........ STOP! few minutes ... it takes very few minutes, I timed boys in the shower ... I just 7 minutes to dry my hair ... 10 minutes to give me 2 minutes to the face cream, body cream for 5 minutes , 6 minutes for make-up ... just half an hour to devote myself to avoid the danger of fatigue wrinkles ... and above all through the day with a smile on! CONCLUSION (IMHO): dear friends who suddenly find that you have to start a fight wrinkles, no matter the price to buy a cream inaccessible, it is important obliged to have a little time to think only of ourselves!
begin our course with a classic Tuscan pronunciation: C intake. Taking the individual cases in detail you will find that in the Leghorn C is not only drawn, but in most cases is completely omitted. Let's see some explanatory sentences, and then passes the phonetic rules. Example 1: "Oh CAAT" Example 2: "Bongiorno! We are du 'Affè?" Example 3: "Mattilevidiùlo!" As can be seen in the first example the initial C is properly delivered, in order to give effect to the second syllable instead of C is completely omitted. In the second example, instead there is a classic demonstration of C intake preceded by a vowel. Finally in the third example we are again faced with a case of C changes. And 'a must not to record the pronunciation with apostrophes, but the whole attack, making the phrase in question becomes a single word, meaning pregnant.
Some idioms: - You caa shit (You really disgusting) - Drink less ponchos, mind 'ow you' ounce (takes less alcohol so that no straps) - which has the grin of a pe ' Laughs! (You have a really ugly face) - It took more sketches of the rocks that she 'Alafuria (E' a girl of easy virtue)
We urgently need a little explanation for a series of posts I am going to publish: scandalizzatevi not, my loyal readers, if in this short course labronicità (see Livorno) I can be vulgar at times .... but they are unique Tuscan proud of it and even more proud to be born and live in the province of Livorno, which means that each day may rejoice to hear that the popular expression of cabaret Zelig we must study them a month to create! My blog is just for the desire to communicate, to express in every shape and color ... well, who has had to deal with Livorno can confirm that the shapes and colors they really know a lot!! Under persistent pressure from the long (thanks dear for your contribution!), I gladly decided to start this course of Livorno (trumpet ...) course, the course is interactive, ie who has to ask questions or clarifications may do so via the comments. I hope you would please .... meanwhile sganasciatevi laughing with this video produced by IL The Cuckoos Nest!
The girls had come to organize the celebration of their four decades without understanding how this could have happened. More than forty forty forty equals one hundred and twenty: it had written on the invitation sent to all friends. And we had joked about. The cakes, wine, music, friends, gifts, gossip and toast. Then the party was over and they were forty. At first I had not noticed, seemed to have changed anything. And it was so: it was true that birthday that he had not changed anything in itself. They had been in previous years to gradually erode the certainty, desires, feelings of omnipotence, marked now by a few wrinkles, annoying but not much. Winter the party was over. She had come the spring, then summer and then was back in the winter. Was it that the cold months of the year was proving very hard. Cold and gray. Always, without respite. Rain or snow, never alone. It seemed a time a little 'apocalyptic. Or as the end of a movie, when the flow of credits leaves the scene to be very small, a bird's eye view. But here we are already beyond the weather, most in psychology. It was then that forty years had knocked on the door. Children born with, sometimes torn between their parents, or those not born, because unwanted, sometimes chased, but failed attempts. With the loves lost, abandoned and forgotten, but never completely, regret, hated, remembered with bitterness, but sometimes with melancholy. With efforts to hold together the pieces of their lives. More and more fragile, those pieces, more frail. I saw them, her friends, and they were always more beautiful. More compact. Even brighter than when I was twenty years younger. Someone had put on weight a few pounds, some remained thin with too much zeal. Some did not take back the gray hair, someone else had lost a bit 'of the brightness on the breast, the seat that had enchanted so many people. But they were beautiful all the same. Indeed, more. What was so wrong? Their men. I realized I was one evening, strange case, everyone was there: their own, that is, friends, and their men who were so distant from those they loved, for which they had walked weeping or four inches off the ground. Those men of whom had spoken with such dedication that they had imagined, sought, pursued. From my position as observer had looked good but the men who were there now, in flesh and blood. I had noticed that women were at the center, around a table. They talked, laughed, drank, joked, embraced, raised their voices, and eating ribevevano, held the reins of the evening. Their men, however, were scattered at the edge of the corolla of females. A spread on the couch, he felt that the fever was coming, he argued. Another, the landlord, who went back and forth from the kitchen carrying dirty dishes and a few other full of freshly baked food. One was not there, was away, because worked out, but continued to send messages on the mobile phone of his lady. A couple chatted with each other, trying every now and then to engage in a line of girls (my mother had continued to call 'girls' the friends of canasta even after seventy years to come) to hear his voice, to give his version the facts. Others were scattered around the house. They, too, the boys were handsome men, not ever. Of all ages, someone had crossed the barrier of fifty, but there were those who had some years of less than girls. There were for all tastes: high and low fat or thin. With broad shoulders and pointed chin with the beard of contemplation. One pelatino, another hedgehog with blacks who were never anywhere and still another that it was decided to cut the tail hair now gray. Ex Movement and those with policy c'aveva not never had nothing to do, left or whatever, right no, what ever. An architect and a cook, a farmer and theatrical. Seeing them separately, to meet one evening a dinner alone, without companions, I would not have found in them nothing wrong, nothing blatantly annoying. But it was due to the fact that they knew the woman who claimed, and rightly so, that did not fit. They did not go for girls, for what they had long hoped for, dreamed of their future. It was not a matter of compromise, expectations or resized. They were able to get them to exhaustion, the exhaustion of living love at breakneck speed, absolute despair in joy and in sorrow. These men had come once the women were sitting on a bench in the shade to rest a little, take a break, recharge your batteries. She had been caught in a moment of weakness. And they are aware, we were made to seize. Here's what they were forty, inch by inch that erosion had excavated the rock. But it was not a surrender, it was not expedient. It was awareness.
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