Swimwear For Incontinent

Spazi della memoria

It 's a day in late spring, a warm sun and heat wrap quello spicchio di mare che si riesce ad intravedere dalle finestre appena aperte, il vento muove le tende profumate di bucato e l’odore rilassante del salmastro si sparge per tutte le stanze, intenso e deciso, quasi a voler preannunciare un’estate vivace e piena di sorprese. Lei è lì, in quella stanza calpestata dai suoi piedi di bambina e disprezzata dai suoi passi di adolescente che avrebbero voluto solcare gli spazi immensi di una adulta autonomia. E’ lì e sente di appartenere a quel luogo, di averlo scolpito come segno di un’appartenenza, ne raccoglie lo spazio con un’occhiata fugace e si concede qualche minuto di piacevole regressione, quasi a voler ricordare le mille metamorfosi di quelle pareti così intime e familiari. Pensa alle altre stanze che ha abitato, da quelle silenziose e ovattate nella periferia pisana, a quelle rumorose e chiassose delle sue vie fiorentine. Si sente forte, oggi, si sente invincibile. C’è una valigia da chiudere, c’è da trovare lo spazio per pochi ma indispensabili libri, c’è da telefonare agli amici, da baciare un padre e una madre fino a consumarli, quasi a volersi saziare di un amore di cui sentirà la mancanza. I vestiti sono troppi, la valigia è troppo pesante, tutti questi libri sono inutili, e queste finestre aperte fanno entrare un vento energico che scompagina tutti i fogli sulla scrivania. Sembra che voglia racchiudere i suoi anni in questa valigia così stretta e sembra che, insieme clothes, wanted to capture all their disordered thoughts, his fears and his unacknowledged veiled melancholy. These are days that he is preparing to start this and nothing seems the right place. Enjoy a new and intense feeling of freedom after he closed the door in silence, gloomy corridor that has come with the tiled floor, put the key in the door of the elevator and he welcomed the inferno. The "queen" can not even imagine that when he returns to his kingdom, his most beloved knight and the horse has bolted has gone to breathe the wide spaces of autonomy and to live her newfound dignity. His strong colt is actually a color scarcassato Liberty gold running through the streets of Florence: it leaves behind Parione way, take the riversides, slides along the boulevards, across Piazza Beccaria and stops in front of a wooden door, huge, massive, maybe someone will. In the bag he dreamed and envisioned a move for five years and in my hands a letter written by hand with a shaky handwriting but full of pride, a sheet that keeps a secret all his anger and contempt, which has allocated a separate his pride and his energies, those energies that seemed extinct, dormant and finally suffocated in that room that made her breath. It 'a gesture of a moment, a fast moving, immediate, almost instantaneous. The knows that the emperor is far away, there's no one around, that there is no danger of meeting her gaze, but still the fear that someone or something behind her back, stop the run, stop its progress. The letter slipped into the box, you check again the name of the owner of quell'urna matches, ensuring that his soul is in place soon and that someone reads the intimate recesses of the most sincere and modulations. Here we go, we made it. And 'freedom, it is again time to Barbara, she returned to belong, has started to love each other. This gesture, this drop is not only the letter but also its form, è stata la più autentica dimostrazione di amore verso se stessa che avrebbe potuto regalarsi. Non so perché stasera sia tornata con la mente a quel giorno di maggio, non so perché abbia chiuso gli occhi e rivissuto ogni istante di quella battaglia, abbia esultato ancora al ricordo di quella vittoria. Forse perché vorrebbe risentire, per un attimo, le sensazioni immobili di quella forza e di quella energia, forse perché vorrebbe capire come tornare ad amarsi.

Incontinence Panties Swim

Un'altra me - I will survive

Nel tentativo di rimanere fedele ai miei buoni propositi e ai miei inviti ad una seppur timida serenità, assaporo questo fine settimana casalingo. Seduta sul letto in questa nuova casa a pochi chilometri dalla laguna, in questo sperduto paesino di provincia nella più amara Maremma, cerco di registrare le mie sensazioni così come si sono susseguite, oggi, sullo spartito della mia anima. Con una inconsueta tenerezza regalata dalla vecchiaia, la gatta, muovendosi come un’ombra del mio stesso corpo, si rannicchia sul letto e mi guarda, in attesa di un’affettuosa carezza; nelle orecchie le note dolci di Ludovico Einaudi, intorno il solito caos ordinato inevitabile in uno spazio così ridotto. Inizio la giornata di sabato leggendo le ultime righe che ho steso su questo blog: leggo e rileggo, mi stanco, mi annoio, mi arrabbio con me stessa. Sale dal profondo un moto di rabbia e di stizza verso una Barbara che mi infastidisce fino alle lacrime, fino a farmi gridare contro me stessa parole dure and violent, far from consoling. I understand that I need comfort and reassurance, but a strong shock that can shake this melancholy and mournful whining this concern. Shit, I think it would take my mother with these reproaches her as hard as loving, that could really wake up from this slumber of complaints and dug out underground energy credit. And part of me that I left the subject after his death she woke up on this Saturday afternoon and did his duty.
My mother is gone and it seems sometimes that I be buried with her, I'm alone in this lagoon are lost and painfully waiting for a love that overwhelms me, pulling me, upset me, to give me a son. "And what a drag" I feel like screaming, "but you want" I have to ask. I'm tired of always measure a huge gap between my intentions and my actions, I'm tired of reading inaccurate translations of my intentions and I am also tired of this virtual space and transform it into a lake of tears and lamentations of a refuge. And just as well with this wonderful music, but if listened to at the moment, only able to hypnotize the face of my fears. I'm sorry for Einaudi, but this Saturday I'm ready to Gloria Gaynor. And I'm sorry for the new neighbors, accustomed to a hushed melody and screaming to this music, but here you have to ferry, you must oltrepassare un fiume in piena, che trasporta con sé i residui di cinque anni faticosi e tormentati. Qua ci vuole “I will survive” a tutto volume. Bice si alza dal letto e si decide per un sopralluogo in cucina, allibita di fronte a tale metamorfosi pomeridiana. Sono le tre e mezzo, tra un’ora c’è “Baaria” al cinema. Sì, lo so, sono sola, ma non è proprio una tragedia, anzi è un qualcosa che mi rasserena e tranquillizza, visto che tutti coloro che ho portato con me al cinema mi hanno coperto di insulti e accusato di essere la solita che vuole giocare all’intellettuale e si scatena con pellicole iraniane sottotitolate in serbo. E anche “tu” non ripetere che la serenità toglie spessore e consistenza alla mia scrittura e che le mie pagine migliori sono quelle che trasudano lutto e disperazione. Comunque “Baaria” era tutt’altro che noioso e soporifero, ma un autentico gioiello, tipico di Tornatore. Esco dal cinema e, finalmente, nel corso affollato di gente alle sette di un sabato sera ancora tiepido, non percepisco il mio essere sola come una colpa, soprattutto grazie ad un’alunna che mi vede da lontano e si precipita per un saluto. “Che fa sola prof. di sabato sera?” Silenzio irreale. Ci penso, so che vorrei dire fra le lacrime: “E’ il primo giorno senza emicrania e, visto che il fidanzato non esiste, un marmocchio neppure e che le amiche sono tutte sparse in ogni angolo meno che qui, me ne vado sola e disperata al cinema, immaginandomi di stringere una mano amata nella penombra della sala….sigh…sigh…”. Ma la parte di me risvegliata dai rimproveri di mia madre a da Gloria Gaynor, scalcia infastidita: “Sono stata al cinema a vedere un film splendido. Dovremmo parlarne a scuola, magari tornarci insieme un pomeriggio”. Mi sento in mezzo al fiume con la mia zattera alla ricerca di raggiungere la riva. La vedo lontana e irraggiungibile, ma gioisco alla decisione di intraprendere la traversata. Mentre remo mi passano davanti la carcasse di tutte le mie amarezze e i rifiuti dei miei tormenti. E’ un fiume denso e melmoso come questa laguna e si avanza a rilento. Mi sento già le braccia a pezzi, ma sono riuscita ad avanzare, seppure il tratto percorso in avanti sembra quasi impercettibile, in questo sabato sera orbetellano.
Arrivo alla macchina e giudo fino a casa. Mi viene in mente il film di Mike Leigh che ho visto giovedì sera e le strade di Londra immortalate con abile maestria. Penso che invece che essere a Finsbury sono ad Albinia ma il paragone, così irreale e assurdo, anziché rattristrarmi mi strappa un sorriso. Non ci sono più a Londra, sono qua. E devo imparare a viverci, non a sopravviverci. Domani è domenica e posso dormire fino a tardi, spero di studiare con impegno e profitto come non faccio da tempo e spero di trovare un’altra Gloria Gaynor che riesca a riesumare quell’altra me che oggi mi ha così piacevolmente sorpreso. E che mi dia l’energia di risalire su quella barchetta all’apperenza fragile e consumata, in realtà integra e resistente. Almeno credo, speriamo di non imbarcare acqua.

Baby Arrival Greeting

Soliloquio

Finalmente trovo una foto che parla di me. Paolo ha bloccato la mia immagine mentre ero accovacciata su una porzione di scoglio a Cesme, nella penisola di fronte a Izmir. E’ una delle poche foto che ritengo autentiche, nella quale mi rispecchio e mi riconosco. Mi piace, mi piace quell’immortalare quei segni intorno agli occhi su una pelle resa imperfetta dall’acne dell’adolescenza, questo mio essere, anche nel volto, un miscuglio imprefetto di adultità e giovinezza, questo sentirmi un ibrido che, nonostante porti i segni della maturità, stenta a percepirsi un intero. Mi piace guardarmi così, vivisezionarmi in un’immagine che mi rappresenta. E questa, davvero, rispecchia proprio la Barbara che sono: il naso a patata, quei geroglifici sulle guance che hanno scritto sul mio viso la lingua perduta della fanciullezza, quel leggero sovrapporsi dei miei denti in un sorriso che sembra quello di mia madre. Appena l’ho vista mi sono persa a contare le mie rughe, quasi a volermi convincere che , in fondo, questo è il mio tempo, quello dei primi bilanci, delle prime somme, delle prime, dolorose e angoscianti perdite. Con lo sguardo perso nei miei stessi occhi, mi concentro sulla mia solitudine, percepita in modo più chiaro e diretto in questo bilocale sulla laguna e mi chiedo come sia possibile che non riesca a interrompere questo apparente maleficio. Mi chiedo dove sia quella Barbara a lungo immaginata e sognata, mi chiedo dove sia quella figlia tanto desiderata, mi interrogo sui tanti propositi e i mille programmi che avevo ideato rispetto al mio domani. Un domani che è diventato un altro oggi. E mi chiedo come possa riconciliarmi con me stessa, come possa pacificare questa lotta tra i tempi del mio essere, che ho violentemente separato e reso incomunicabili. Stasera mi abbandono a questo ininterrotto soliloquio, mi interrogo affannosa alla ricerca di risposte che vadano a stanare quella porzione di coraggio che so essere sepolta sotto questa malinconia, cerco respiro in questa claustrophobia and I understand that I must learn to love my solitude, to live without feeling perpetually mutilated and severed. I seek the wealth in my travels, I discovered the power of my boys to track down the infinite resources in oblique reflections with others, but this does not help me to detract from the hardness. It 'been nice to imagine different, sketching the image of my adult years, mother to see me and hear me, imagine a genealogy with my female so that I wanted. I have to learn to amputate this piece of ancient imagination fossilizzatasi now in my mind. It 'the only way to save. And to love me a bit '.

Wooden Fingerboard For Sale

In attesa del vino novello

I'm back to these pages, dopo un lungo ed inatteso silenzio. Forse l’atrofia estiva della mia scrittura è stata solo la traccia di due mesi di calda serenità, in cui ho lasciato che i miei pensieri non si rattrappissero in una pietrosa malinconia, ma si lasciassero trasportare dal caldo e allegro vento follonichese. Mesi di sincere amicizie, di piacevoli scoperte, mesi di inedita complicità con me stessa e con le mie emozioni. Oggi invece è piovuto e sembra che la mia anima abbia già sobbalzato a questo cambio di clima. Mi sento diversa, in questo giorni di metà settembre, percepisco la mia malinconia salire lentamente ad offuscare i miei giorni, a renderli polverosi, difficili da respirare. E torno a scrivere. Ho ancora sulle mie mani i segni della vendemmia di oggi, quelle macchie scure di acini strizzati che dovrò decidermi a cancellare con un po’ di candeggina. E vorrei poterci lavare anche la mia mente, nella speranza che si porti via tutti i pensieri di oggi, così affastellati l’uno sull’altro da non potersi neppure districare e, quindi, decifrare. Ho pensato a tutte le mie vendemmie, in quella terra così calpestata dai miei piedi di bambina e dai miei passi di adulta, ho respirato l’odore del mosto, ti ho ricordato aiutare mio padre in cantina, lamentarti della troppa stanchezza difficile da sopportare nella partita successiva. E ho visto mia madre apparecchiare per tutti gli amici che davano in prestito le loro schiene ricurve e le loro mani stanche e ne ho sentita, ancora più forte, ancora più violenta, la mancanza assoluta. Anche se è sabato decido di restare a casa, sento che non sarei di compagnia così appesantita da questa giornata. Ma prometto che domani affronterò la mia partenza per la laguna con entusiasmo e che aspetterò con il sorriso il vino novello.

E.coli More Condition_treatment

La morbidezza dei tuoi seni

Stasera sono preda del nomadismo delle idee. Fa caldo, fa tremendamente caldo. Il mio corpo affonda nel materasso e sembra ancora più pesante. Le immagini si affastellano nella mia mente l’una sull’altra, si ammucchiano, per poi spezzarsi, polverizzarsi. Non ho controllo alcuno sui miei pensieri, sono vittima di una battaglia sfiancante ed ho caldo, sono coperta di sudore. Ho bisogno di una doccia, to get rid of this feeling of suffocation wet. I need something to focus my energies and attention to the body can only get away from the tyranny of the mind. I have to get my weight of flesh and blood, listen more carefully. Maybe I'm really just using it as a suit when I'm in and that is not mine. I must return to the body, to save me. Within the bathroom and turn on the light. I take off your clothes and let him slip away, piled on the floor. As the water flows into the shower and gets warm, I look. I look at my face, my hands that pass through his hair disheveled, my skin finally amber after a while 'at sea. A face is superimposed on my own, automatically, almost instantaneous (and instinctive). It seems that I have forgotten the roar of water coming down and waiting for me to drink and fly, as always, live in space and inhabited by a now distant yesterday. It was nice when we went in the evening. She was beautiful in that half-hour swim in the summer evenings, waiting to exit. It was nice to spend the cream on his back, touching your skin with your fingers and soul with words. Santa always wondered how two women could extend so much time, expanding the minutes and making her unbearable wait. It was good to wear makeup to enhance our beauty, it was nice to choose the most mere ornament to our faces and see, projected in front of the mirror, how the passage of time would make our features more similar. It was nice to discover an ever more marked correspondence in the features of the faces, in the case of bodies, in the form of smiles. Not only within you gave me, you so prosperous and mother, I so thin and masculine forms of the feminine. When I was a teenager and I lived my thinness as an impairment in the carousel of vanity natural at that age, I took my tiny breasts in his hands and dreamed that took shape, growing on contact and taking your profile. You calm the girl of my insecurity, saying that would have grown, flourished in the features that I would soon be an adult, I would have taken maternal and sensual look. And to think that instead of seeing my grow, I saw your dry by the day, losing their prosperity and call me in the warmth of hugs, a sentence that you are condemned killer. Who knows what you feel when, for the first time, I have attached to your nipples and I pulled hard. Who knows what you feel when you've received, when they are sunk in the softness of your breasts, while I clung to you like a frightened puppy. I wonder if you hear me when I returned, reversing a generation, the maternal gestures with his hands and kisses her daughter. I wonder if I reciprocated embrace the love of these years. I look again, reflected in mirror, and I see you emerge from the wrinkles on my face. It 'good that threw me under the shower, and cool my body and my thoughts.

Kate Ground Wikipedia

Sulle note di Gabriel Yared

It broke the shutter of the shutter and the shutter is murandomi thrown down in my bedroom, without leaving even a glimmer of night air that cools my night. I can not resist in that room with that thick and suffocating. I move in the room, I do not know, maybe tonight I will sleep on the couch, at least to allow me to breathe. Although the two seem almost too soon to say goodbye to this long day. I write, I go back to writing. First on a yellowed piece of paper I find on the desktop, then behind receipt of a baker, now here, in this imaginary page. I turn on my computer and I wrap the intense melody of the music by Gabriel Yared. I savor the emotions of these two pleasant evenings in a Follonica so popular this time of year. I think my feet free from sandals sunk in fresh sand, slowly sipped a beer between words slurred speech in the company, at that flat sea lit by night, that little bar on the waterfront that seems a bit me back 'to myself. Tonight I ask myself why I continue to make myself the chameleon-like metamorphosis that I can not bear, tonight I understand the deep sign of discomfort and alienation that I perceive to wear certain masks, to look for certain movements that talk about a Barbara who is not me. I feel tonight, I feel I belong. Tonight I really do not change a thing in my face, my body, my breasts, my hands, do not wear more clothes if they do not turn my words, the tone of my voice, the way I move, to be among others. Yesterday, moving from Massa Marittima Grosseto to, I drove along that road in the middle of the campaign that accompanies the forms of a small lake and winding through the vineyards and fields of this for me Maremma still bitter and extremely boggy. I thought that it was nearly twenty years that I spent there. I belong in being able to trace an imaginary line that links la Barbara di oggi a quella di quegli anni. Mi appartengo perché non trasformerei una nota della mia melodia, da quelle più intense a quelle più stonate. Mi appartengo perché nell’immergermi nell’atmosfera ansiogena e magica degli esami di maturità ritorno con la mente a quel luglio del 1993 e scopro che ho disegnato un percorso lineare, uniforme e coerente pur nel suo essere intimamente contorto e attorcigliato su se stesso. Stasera assaporo il piacere del riconoscimento, il piacere del mio stesso rispecchiamento. Stasera sembra che percepisca l’esaurirsi di una fase convulsa che mi allontanava da me stessa e mi sento felice. E vedo mia madre, con l’espressione di enorme preoccupazione con cui l’ho percepita nell’ultimo dream in which I repeatedly asked her not to cry. I can not sleep on the couch. But perhaps I can not sleep.

Sunfish Sailboats Dallas

Nella città del Tutto

I face the final days of school with the same roller-coaster ride of emotions the last few years, I live the close of this school year with my usual habit of spreading financial statements, with my instinctive effort to strip my conscience, discovering errors, steps false failures. From this emerges a passionate reading of myself a year lived up to the intensity, a year of sorrow, but of great work on my weaknesses and my emotions. The mineralogy of always thought that I undergo the "suspicion" that consecrate the interpretation del mio mondo, hanno regalato tesori. Una grande forza, un vivido entusiasmo per il mio lavoro, una coriacea fiducia nelle mie scelte passate, nelle mie partenze e nei miei abbandoni. Eppure ieri sera, mentre in macchina tornavo a casa, non riuscivo a cancellare un’ombra di amarezza e di insoddisfazione, un senso oscuro di incompletezza. Annaspo nel cercare una totale congruenza fra i miei propositi e le mie scelte, fra i miei desideri e le mie azioni, fra il copione che avevo steso per la mia recita e la messa in scena finale. Non riesco a vedere il tutto in cui vorrei immergermi, non riesco a dipingere il mio ritratto con tutti i colori che vorrei. Sento che mi sfuggono alcune sfumature e percepisco che la vittima delle riflessioni di stasera è il full and satisfying sense of integrity. Arrived home a few minutes to rethink the next class and also register here for failure in search of a perfect completion of a homogeneous whole. All sheets in front of me, scattered on the kitchen table: I choose to explain what tomorrow, how to concentrate in one hour the thousand details that I would tell my students, everything seems important to me, every line seem worthy of mention, every complaint appears to me an outrage. I understand that there is a subtle correspondence between now and the one just past, that my work is a metaphor for my life, that there is a profound harmony between the woman and Barbara Barbara teacher. I would like not always escaped me anything, I would always do not omit even one sentence, I would always do not delete even a comma. Always wanting a whole, full uniform, I live each and every subtraction lack a sense of loss and discomfort. With these thoughts that crowd my mind an hour also takes in his hands an essay by Sigmund Freud for the last philosophy class and read between the thick lines: "the only safe interpretation is therefore incomplete." There is a book that contains a phrase written for me, there is no book that has even the slightest reference to my anxieties and my questions. I have to give up, I have to give in to the partiality and incompleteness. And yet the books, I resume a sentence of Calvin was talking about a few nights ago, when these thoughts were echoed by those of others

"So also in the city Everything is permitted only through a choice and a refusal accepting the one hand and giving the rest? "Italo Calvino, The Castle of Crossed Destinies

Mount And Blade Skills Guide

Koyaanisqatsi - Life out of Balance



Waiting to board a train to Pisa, I treat myself to an afternoon 'sign in my past and my adolescence. I sink into the sofa with my inseparable friend migraine and immerse myself in the pictures of the wonderful "Koyaanisqatsi" di Godfrey Reggio, accompagnata dalla colonna sonora, davvero inimitabile, di Philp Glass. Quando apparve in Italia, nel 1983, io avevo appena nove anni, ma più tardi, negli anni del liceo, questo film-documenatario dovette inaugurare il mio immenso amore per il cinema, amore che ancora scaldo e conservo, nonostante questa piccola città di provincia mi condanni a non frequentare assiduamente le sale cinematografiche. Devo a Lapo questa scoperta e, ancora oggi, dopo quasi vent'anni, ancora lo ringrazio. E' meraviglioso "Koyaanisqatsi", davvero un piccolo capolavoro. Forse dovrei utilizzarlo a scuola, magari spiegando Bacone e il suo progetto di renderci padroni della natura, oppure spiegando Hans Jonas e la sua etica della responsabilità. What a beautiful afternoon, if you have not seen, run for cover. I, meanwhile, I'm going to vote.

"... Bacon was able to capture exactly the animus of science later. The happy marriage, which he thinks, between the human intellect and the nature of things, is patriarchal: the intellect that wins the superstition must command the disenchanted nature. The knowledge which is power, knows no limits, nor nell'asservimento of the creatures, nor in his docile acquiescence to the lords of the world ... what men want to learn from nature, is how to use it for domain full of nature and man. There is nothing more than taking "
Max Horkheimer, Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment

Shower Curtain Calgary

Consacrazioni

form words for years, I allow myself to enjoyable diving in my writing, I let my emotions settle and observe the residue of my intricate terms remained in the background, forget compose music with my voice, thinking, as they are, that everything alive only through and in language. I take in my hands the Heideggerian "Unterwegs zur Sprache" ("On the Way to Language") and try to make my way into its intricate paths, as well as "broken." Seek relief in the profound significance of this work, without a doubt one of the most inspired, not only of Heidegger himself, but of all the philosophical literature contemporary. "Nothing is (is) where the word is missing," reads a line of poetry quoted by Heidegger and I immersed in this paper, I think of how violent the silence, as they are unnatural and choked the words not spoken, how arrogant lock lips in an arbitrary silence. So in my escape from the ghosts seek refuge in my writing, trying to translate the unspeakable, to expose the lies spoken in the first place to myself, to force me to give light to my silence, to condemn me to shed some light on my abyss, convinced (Heidegger) that Being manifests itself only in and through language and its agreements. I'd like you all are consecrated to this religion of the word. Do not make mistakes, do not be dazzled by a fatal error of perspective: the hero to sing about the deeds, this time, she wrote what she wrote, not who runs away without even a word of farewell.

"Love speaks much, is a speech. It is hereby declared, and often culminates in this statement ends: highly ambiguous speech act, almost indecent "(J. Baudrillard, Fatal Strategies ).

Infant Hole In The Heart

Pari opportunità modello Carfagna



gaypride day today in Naples. The usual festive and colorful movement of homosexuals in this country, in piazza per non nascondersi, per esporsi, per chiedere diritti e riconoscimento. Ripenso al mio gaypride 2008, a Roma, mano nella mano con Riccardo. Pur essendo eterosessuale quando posso mi unisco al gruppo, per far percepire loro il mio senso di vicinanza e per far capire a questo paese che non mi riconosco nella sua violenza, nella sua abituale prepotenza, nel suo voler indicare un modello esistenziale a cui tutti debbano, nolens volens, adattarsi. La loro legge diventa la mia legge, la loro morale diventa la mia morale, le loro scelte diventano le mie scelte. Alcuni anni fa noi poveri elettori di centro-sinistra ci eravamo illusi che anche per noi fosse arrivato il momento di goderci uno Zapatero nostrano. Grandi speranze, grandi illusioni, grande fiducia, the belief that soon we would have experienced a time of unprecedented "public happiness" that can give strength and pride to this country and to put into practice transformation programs capable of influencing, in a profound and perhaps permanent, the structure of this country. Transformation programs that would affect not only our politics but also our way of living and thinking, platonically convinced that the transformation of the spaces of the polis is impossible if not supported by a change of Weltanschauung and cultural perspective. I think the path of parliamentary law on de facto unions, on which so much has been talked about (and gossip) in previous years. Approve that law would be a clear signal a clear and unequivocal turn, a change of direction. Nothing, we did it. Responsibility for many, many of cowardice. But the worst is yet to come, at worst, there is no end. The worst part is the replacement, with the fall of the Prodi government and the victory of Berlusconi, the minister with his colleague Pollastrini Carfagna, who has never made a secret not to consider the issues of the rights of gay couples a priority of his ministerial line. I have not decided who I will vote for the next European elections. So do not talk to convince anyone, but only to record, once again, yet another right turn which confirms my belief in the deep distance between this country and many like me who, although living with great love, they begin to perceive a growing estrangement to his sub-culture, become internalized by many. I am often ashamed of being Italian, I often live elsewhere, often refuse my membership to a country without memory, without history, who made the arrogance, haughtiness and appearance of the figures of his being. Often I would like to change jobs because they are tired of hearing a poor Penelope in the work of a fine texture, as the values \u200b\u200bthat I try to convey to my kids, which regularly undo the fabric in this festival of standardization that depersonalized my boys, exhausted their intelligence and crippling their energies. So I learned that on May 14 the Ministry for Equal Opportunities has unveiled its new website. Well, you say, where's the news? The news is that, compared to the previous version, was deleted any reference to homophobia. Mara Carfagna has also decided to eliminate a commission for the LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) established by his predecessor. "It is not considered a priority: the justification of the ministry. Yes, it is not a priority. What does this army of fags? Thus, in this country, when dealing with the sensitive and central issue of discrimination, no word is spent for gays. No words for those who, every day, trying to build their emotional life against stereotypes and prejudices, so extreme in this poor country to reach the edge of violence. No words for those seeking to defend his personality, his intimate sexuality from the presumption of truth and many dall'insolenza, conceit and insolence that only hides a profound ignorance and unsettled. If it was not the Naples city gay pride, I took to the streets to whistle. But I'm home and I write ... and resume in the hands of the beloved books by David Leavitt. Maybe someone will put in a box and shipped them to the "beautiful Mara ... that does not even know who this" culattone " American, among others, has also written a book on my land, my beloved in Maremma promise that I will speak in the next post.

Southpark English Stream

Cagliari, maggio 2009

The last time I went to Piombino is when Richard's parents have returned from Elba. There was also my mother with us at the time, always smiling despite the disease and the black lady at the door. During the trip, like a thousand other times, I speak to Richard in that city, its meaning in my life, his role as a symbol for me and for our history. The story of a family, like so many others. The story of a working class family that built the future of a daughter on his shoulders and hands of a father coming down, every single day, in that shadow fiery, dusty, disgusting, convinced that his efforts would bring progress and redemption. The workers there take their children to replicate their fate and perhaps these young workers as they came down to clean those tanks they thought that their efforts would serve to give a different fate for their children. When I look at the hands of my father, I focus on their strength and ruggedness. Hands are fine, worm-eaten from work, strong and thick. Then I look at mine: well-kept nails, calluses, which marks an excessive use of the pen, the skin soft, smooth, sweetened cream. I note that my fingers have avoided to take upon himself the weight of manual work and who are only trained to type on this keyboard, writing my thesis, to publish my book, to prepare lessons to my children, to express my emotions. My hands have been lucky enough to be softened only by caresses and they have not been aged by stress. But tonight while I watch, as if the saw is in its turn. And 'as if my eyes hallucinatory ingrandisse fingers, extend your palm, the back raggrinzisse. Because of their delicacy hides the roughness of those fatherly and tiredness of his craft. Because today the privileged feel of using a head instead of your hands for a living, does not stop me feel figlia di quella storia, di volere appiccicati addosso i vestiti di fabbrica di mio padre, di vedere le sue mani nelle mie. E di sentire la mia anima squarciarsi ancora una volta di fronte a quelle morti, accatastate l’una sull’altra nel tentativo di strappare un compagno ad una fine sicura. Stasera i miei pensieri sono per Pierluigi, Bruno, Daniele e le loro famiglie, le mie emozioni sono accordate sul loro dolore e sul loro lutto, sulla fierezza di venire da lì e di sentirmici attaccata nonostante io non abbia nessun segno visibile di questa storia.

“Hai conservato a lungo un corpo teso, veloce. E’ frutto del lavoro manuale, anche se il termine non è esatto, non è nelle mani la fatica. Preferisco chiamarlo Working back, there is accumulating stress. At night in bed on the ribs resent the tons that I have passed on him. Hands do not pain to work, but a back that has been bent or under load all day is just a bundle of nerves sore. So I call back work. Over the years the frequency of fatigue entered the blood, the vein takes the shots required, the body conforms to the effort to adjust. In those hours I can receive thoughts, there is a time for them under the breath, in the sweat. Pass words on the road, notes that I hold in mind and make me company. Suddenly a worker on the site under a sustained attack on the one hand, not a joy. E ' vent of a thought came out of the smooth strokes while shoveling rubble or mortar attacks with quick wrist shot .... "
Erri De Luca, Vinegar, rainbow

Boat Registry Ontario

Macaroni.....io vi distruggo.....



are months when I came back to breath after stifling headaches. Nearly twenty years of living with this disease, because of what it is, has certainly made my headache of acute crisis family, but not bearable. After endless attempts at preventive therapy according to the traditional channels of different "headache centers" scattered around, I decided, almost ten years ago, to experiment with alternative therapies and rely to a dottoressa tedesca-fiorentina di cui hanno lodato capacità e bravura (con quello che chiede....). Dopo pochi mesi abbandono la mia iniziale titubanza verso omeopatia, ayurvedica e compagnia bella: sto bene, sto benissimo, non ho mai mal di testa. Lei sostiene che la dieta è il primo passo per la mia salute, lei mi invita a cambiare completamente le mie abitudini alimentari e mi "condanna" ad un regime alimentare rigidissimo, ma provvidenziale. Dopo un processo di un’ora teso a stabilire la gravità delle mie colpe al tavolino, arriva una sentenza spietata ed implacabile: niente caffè, niente vino, niente latticini, niente carne di maiale (addio prosciutto, mortadella, pancetta, finocchiona, salame toscano!!!!!!), no red meat, no cooked oil, no white bread and pasta. That is, you ask? Diet Kousmine, the name of my sentence. Morning breakfast complicated: Budwig cream (raw ground whole grains with oil seeds, fruits to taste, flaxseed oil, yogurt - soy, of course) that forces me to get up at dawn to afford to take the train at seven; whole grains at least one meal, fish, legumes, tofu, lots and lots of vegetables, rye bread, barley, wheat price adjusted ... with some sound principle of macrobiotics, my diet is ready. Every time I pretend that the problem is not that and I start to eat: to enjoy some coffee just arrived at school, to grant some defect. The headache and so I do not get an exception to the rule of normality. I can not control myself. A week or ten days and returns to the headache, pinning him to bed for months. So now, after a terrible month of April, I decided to act responsibly and are again a very restricted diet. Migraine disappeared, iron constitution. I start studying, I start to run. Breath. Vivo. I try to resist, continue my abstinence from ex caffeinomane and let me go only occasional intemperance, a slice of cake, ice cream on a Saturday night. But this morning I woke up with a great desire to spaghetti alla carbonara, with all the bits of fried bacon cooked in oil that is more and I was reminded of this scene. But I am sure that if I gave Bice Budwig cream, or tofu, as recommended Albertone (ar damo this or cat), there would be a mutiny. She is accustomed to only dry food ... ..

Arthritis Hand Condition_symptoms

Cicatrici

I can re-emerge after a month long and unexpected silence. I write only now, after following the loving care with the healing of a wound so deep, as it was unexpected. Obviously I had to add this immense and devastating pain of mourning for the death of my mother. "Revenge is a dish best served cold", you told me more than a decade ago. Mine has been dropped into the bowels like a fire burning hot and my stomach still. Who knows yet if you read these pages. Sometimes it occurs to me that now might be my turn in the game murderess of continued victimization. But I thought that just touch me, just to soften the anger which has crushed my day.
Days intense than in the past. Days of great fatigue, for a daily commute that began to be unbearable after a year to accumulate miles, day nailed to his desk for writing a chapter for a textbook of philosophy that I promise until the end of the month. Sunny days, finally. A sunny, warm, warming my soul after a wet winter, as my day. I promise I'll be back to write, I promise I'll be back to read (eppena Heidegger and his companions finished ...), I promise that I will return to breathe new future, I promise my children that will accompany them with all my energy into this examination of maturity that scares them so much and I promise (you) ever ask "sold "because I could never hurt you. And I know you know, unfortunately.

What Does A Verjina Look Like?

Il prezzo dell'adultità

unknowingly immersed for too many years in the stormy seas of adolescence, landing on the shore of an adult and I feel totally lost, unable to explore the unknown territory on which I seem to be landed after so much hard work. I am thinking of Aristotle and his castaway who is forced to jettison the cargo, as valuable, if only weather the storm and in order to achieve safe and sound, to the shore, enjoying, at the same time, the enthusiasm of salvation and the anguish of loss.
I lost the load of my dreams in this crossing, leaving at the mercy of the waves pictures, films, dreams, desires, languid and shadowy figures of people, love for a time idenfinito, focused through the lens of authenticity irreverent. I look back and see that I left the cocoon to become a butterfly, and I observe, with these wings still wet in an uncertain steps, in this awkward and shaky wanted, to a dimension of my being longed for but which hardly get to know . Looking back I see a string of broken dreams, provo a dirigere la vista in avanti, verso un futuro opaco e indefinito e vedo una Barbara sconosciuta, mai pensata, mai immaginata ma che devo abituarmi a conoscere, perchè è lei, e lei sola, la protagonista del viaggio.

Garretts Popcorn Stock

Siamo tutti abruzzesi



Sono tornata dalla Grecia e, dopo giorni di allegria e spensieratezza, torno a confrontarmi da vicino con il lutto profondo e intenso per la morte di mia madre. Saluto questo rientro a casa con gli odiosi fogli della successione, in quell'ufficio che l'ha ospitata per anni e in cui era solita darmi la benvenuta dietro quella scrivania con quell'espressione indimenticabile. Qualcuno mi saluta riconoscendo nelle mie espressioni i suoi sorrisi, rintracciando nei my features the indelible mark of belonging, a genealogy indelible and it fills me with joy that the pride of bringing his signs on my face, framing my face in her beautiful smile. I let myself be overwhelmed by a natural emotion, including those friendly faces who affectionately come to meet me as if to greet me in her that she has left, from the trauma of birth, the story of a bond that no pension and no be able to erase wrinkles and that whoever did know, and myself, will recognize until the last of my days.
got home I plunge in pain Abruzzo, which today is really what I see and all the other signs of mourning those of my own. I would like to do as my father, who decided to turn off the television because unable to see more tears, because the pain of others only serves to exacerbate their own. I choose silence instead of sharing in an attempt to overcome my grief, I believe that the empathic ability to empathize with the grief of others is a crush suffering and I can not, at this time, a roommate with the authentic feel not despair. In the silence of my room, accompanied by images of those who advance two hundred and five coffins on the screen, left a fresh pain, return to the source of my tears and I rebel against all this grief, silence, stifled as a conviction, that misunderstanding and the inability to see God's hand that grabs you and gets rid of all this suffering. My silence is a silence that did not answer my cry of pain does not receive an echo of God, the soul of my Job cursed the land that opens under our feet and only in men seeking shelter in his torment. I think of this earthquake, I think the words of condolence and solidarity in the brewery, in an ostentatious English, that bartender Athenians addressed to us with tears in my eyes, I think the mothers who weep for sons and the mothers who weep for the children and the rest waiting for the silence of my soul was torn and his room is lit with new light. I let myself listening to a human writing, even lay people through from the divine, and sink in the pages of Erri de Luca, always so present and revealing.

"No generation in the Mediterranean also had no experience of an earthquake. Even Nero, amateur poetry, tried to describe it in a gesture not at all clumsy: sub terris tonuisse putes, in the land believe that he was thundering. More is more southern and has danced the tarantella of the subsoil. [...] So I was there that Sunday in the autumn of 1980 when the Gulf began to vibrate in unison and in many we hastened down the stairs. It lasted over a minute shock. During that time, everyone felt the giddiness of a loss of balance, a need to stand to keep from falling, from un'ubriacatura sober. The sacred scriptures known as earthquakes. As usual, what matters most is Isaiah, the greatest poet of the Mediterranean together with the seismic point in trying to grasp the sound: raa hitroaà (crash crashed into) the earth, por hitporerà (break is broken), mot hitmotetà (he staggered stagger) and then: 'waver, falter ground like a drunk' (24, 19-20). Behold, not us, fleas of the soil, we were drunk, but the earth, for who knows which wine to guzzle boiling wrath "(Erri de Luca, Alzaia ).

Ontario Boating Licence Manual

Notizie dalla Grecia

Just back hotel, savor the excitement of this new day school trip. Decant the plural feelings of today, the anger, real or alleged, laughter, love, really strengthened in these days of Greece, for my students. The hesitancy of the vigil and we 'turned in a few hours, strong and stable in the pleasure of having accompanied my classes on this trip and surprise that he recognized, in my students, boys honest, instinctive, full of energy and rashness but also illuminated by a pale adults' that is gaining momentum in their younger years. In the mind of a continuous rumble of sentences, a roar of laughter, a web of feelings, a natural back to my school days. Tonight is a thought for those who have left the lagoon and also tomorrow. We waited six hours of noise for Delphi coach. Apart from the excitement, all the philosophical, to visit the site of the oracle that define 'Socrates' the man' wise ', I hope that there are only rocks, also because' I am afraid that my students will soon develop an insane instinct stoning .... We feel when I return.

Words For Baby Arrival

Sia fatta la (vostra) volontà


Like every Friday, the third hour, I devote myself to the receipt of the parents. Here comes the mother of Geneva and almost moves me, asking me, as if it were up to me, do not leave this school, and then her daughter, that found in the philosophy of reason and reflection stimulus. That's great, these things make me forget all the discomfort that I have wrapped, the network of concern when I left seized, many of which cleverly built with my own hands. It 's a mom I like to talk, sincere, helpful, willing to listen and compare, and especially glad that gender issues are finally citizenship in a school where women speak very little, despite the marked feminization of teachers. He tells me he has seen "We want roses too" with his daughter and her husband and thanked me for talking in class, adding that Geneva has a strong desire to leave da questo paese e di studiare all'estero.
Cominciamo a parlare di politica e scopro che alcuni ragazzi si lamentano della mia scarsa neutralità, richiamandomi a riflettere su una questione a cui spesso sfuggo e mi sottraggo, per non trovarmi costretta a cambiare atteggiamento, cosa che so non mi riuscirebbe. Incapace a non espormi, ho scelto la sincerità, convinta che i miei studenti debbano sapere il mio punto di vista, per non restare erroneamente abbagliati da una falsa neutralità. Convinta che sarebbe estremamente scorretto passare le mie interpretazioni dei fatti come il modo naturale, oggettivo ed ovvio di leggere le cose, preferisco prendere posizione ed espormi, magari condannandomi a dibattiti estenuanti. Forse mi sbaglio, e penso alla lesson this morning on the Counter-Reformation and the Council of Trent, I think my words on that 'obstinate heretic, "that Giordano Bruno," abrugiato live "in a Roman piazza, while the cultural debate in Britain was about to give the masterpieces of the seventeenth century. I wonder whether or not wrong and I realize now face to face with myself, that my effort was not only the will to make them understand the past, but also the attempt to translate them, with the lens of history, so many incomprehensible things of our country, so barbaric, so unenlightened, so violent, so arrogant, so arrogant. I feel that I can not do so, than trying to open a hole in their heads lobotomized by years of Berlusconi, to give a sense of dignity to my work, to defend myself from this ostentatious arrogance. Maybe I'm past the ditch that separates me from them, maybe I'm abandoning the neutral impartiality that should characterize my work, maybe I'm giving tasks that I did not. So their making, that are tearing me the right to choose, they are seizing my freedom of choice, which are becoming a part morality, quite questionable, in general will that Rousseau is the basis of
laws? It is they who brought me into the war, forcing me to abandon the peaceful silence of my conscience, because this has taken place, took away dignity, took away the meaning. I hope it goes really Geneva, who has the strength to leave this sea, this beautiful lagoon, perhaps to shut themselves up in the cold and gray of a European city, but where it is free to choose, even how to die.

Causes Of An Enlarged Heart

Voce del verbo "pienare"

All those who know me well know that. They know how in love with my students, how great is the love that binds me to them, the better at the more listless. They are, for better or worse, they are my boys. And as we adults like to complain about them, with the usual phrases like "there are more young than once," they always surprise us and prove better than silly simplification wants us to believe. Surprise us, even here, for better or for worse. The day of the funeral of my mother just got out of that church took me in the hospital of Grosseto, my eyes, as if hypnotized by that coffin from the hearse and I knew to be his, immediately moved to them, without knowing my mother, nor ever having seen, have digested two hundred kilometers to come and give her a final farewell and give me a sincere hug. Back in school I thanked them for their sincere and deep sympathy, and that of the bodies of thought, less immediate but no less profound. I understand that this was a time when the fence needed of roles in which each of us is always caged should crumble under the weight of feelings and where, finally free, take a breath and voice to the unsaid. So my "babies" as I call them love, they sweetened the most painful day of my life, so my students, with their presence and their proximity, were stitches to a deep wound and their genuine affection is still a balm that soothes and reassures, which warms and supports, perhaps the most effective drug for pain like this.
always surprises, for better or for worse. Disconcerting at times with their inherent inability of the merger, with their lack of cooperation with their difficulties you know when it's time to give something, instead of star always there to take as octopuses. Amaze us with their cries, with their constant "prof. can move the question? ", with their yawning, with that load of breath of nicotine, with those delays continue, with the chronic fear in the face of any test. We must get used to it, if you want to survive. My "babies" are well (and sometimes I think that some of them, with parents who find themselves, are too well ....).
surprising, as this morning. Register, once again, their complete inability to listen to classmates' questions, a sign of very low cunning and intelligence, because I, like all other teachers, I always repeat the usual questions, replicated so many times that even the mosquitoes of the lagoon of Orbetello know the process of the Hegelian dialectic. Oh well, did not enter into his head ...." there's no way ", as they say. They're hanging out on benches, chewing sweets, to roll a cigarette (speriamo. ...) to pause next to copy the version of greek, grumbling among themselves. And then, as this morning, we leave these wonderful childhood regression and back, unconscious, in the fifth grade, in a gray area, and indefinite that you, poor teacher, you do not understand if you're dealing with adults or brutalized with cavemen . So This morning my kids second, four girls and I wondered about Galileo and Descartes, were eclipsed, you are mentally away from class, and Carlo Maria, Samuel, Simon, and Carlo Alberto (well, always the "magnificent four") were made to make the balls of paper to pull the casing of the pen bic, surpassing ability to aim the target. And those balls, ably directed and down miraculously from the collar to your back,
going to slip in sweater Carlo Maria who, after ten minutes of "Battle of the blowgun," began to be impatient for this to show signs of undue violence and outbursts , moving convulsively on the bench, scratching at a steady pace, panting to his companions. Tired of this continual murmur, I began to raise his voice, silence to ask, to demand respect for the fellow asked. So Carlo Maria, in the clumsy attempt to justify his lack of discipline, looked at me with pleading eyes forgiveness and said: "I know, sorry prof. but I have full sweater Pippola. "Full": the verb "full". Oh God I feel sick.

Home Built Trailer Ontario

Il 9 marzo



I let myself get drunk from molasses on the recurrence of words today. There is much talk about women on March 8, they all rincorrono nella valorizzazione delle potenzialità femminili, sulla nostra forza e capacità, sulla ricchezza delle nostre esperienze singole e collettive. La mattina però, di tutti i santi giorni dell'anno scolastico, mi sforzo di far percepire alle mie alunne di quanto sia difficile vivere in un mondo fatto e pensato da – e per – gli uomini, liberarsi dalle ragnatele dei loro significati e significanti, di quanto sia erta la salita alla realizzazione in un paese come questo, dove gli spazi pubblici sono monopolizzati dalla loro invadente presenza. Ogni volta vivo titanici sforzi a far comprendere loro come il problema della violenza, che perennemente pesa come una spada di Damocle sui loro/nostri corpi, sia il frutto di una cultura maschilista that violates the integrity of our women, nailed to an ontology biological, to a fate determined by the functional anatomy of approaches to power down to a bundle of flesh and nerves around a crack. And every time you find yourself terribly unnerving to talk to them only the best boobs, the best mini-skirt, the shoes most daring in view of a possible seduction. Tonight hordes of women flocked to pizzerias, restaurants and goliardic, replicating the worst of the worst of Italian machismo, the result of the approval offend our dignity and our outrage differenza.Oggi, for this feast, dead tired after a weekend of Pisa, I taste for the second (or third? Non l'ho visto anche con Riccardo???) quel gioiello di “Vogliamo anche le rose” di Alina Marazzi, davvero un bel film documentario da vedere (e rivedere), soprattutto per chi, come noi bambine degli anni Settanta, è spesso vittima di una pericolosa amnesia su quegli anni di lotte e trasformazioni, imbambolate dall'individualismo degli anni Ottanta che sembrava aver liquidato (nel DriveIn e simili???) il senso trasformativo degli anni precedenti. Proprio un bel film, da vedere con attenzione e impegno, per ricostruire un legame con un passato che ci appartiene, nonostante l'oblio. Forse un po' pesante per i i miei ragazzi e le mie ragazze, a cui ho consigliato di vederlo durante un'assemblea di istituto: dicono che hanno struggled to navigate between the three journals and the three stories that make up the backbone of the work, but they also say that it was to spur further thought and violent arguments. So I think the girls of my generation, so we believe that the women had already said everything there was to say and that their efforts had left on the ground only a pile of ashes after a huge fire. It also reflected Barbara teenager, whose political culture, as early and steadfast, never welded with that in the future would have been his primary, if not exclusive, interest of women and eternal student movement women, its history, its plural and tree definition. I am reminded of the pages read a few weeks ago when, as if to renew the ranks of past discussions, I'm caught in the hands of Carla Lonzi texts, and I once again immersed, after so many years, in his words so irreverent and often cruel, capable of operating in a dissection of my feelings, fears and emotions. So it seems clear that, once again, we live enslaved to an error of perspective uncritically absorb the rules of a stronghold, social, economic and political, built only for men, and we are victims of a system of representation and means that there does not represent us. And we, after thirty years the process of radical change that has affected the lives of our mothers, siamo tornati nell'ovattato silenzio, festeggiando l'8 marzo e dimenticandoci completamente di cosa succederà il 9.

Affidavit Of Small Estate, Fl

Conatus sese conservandi

E' da poco passata mezzanotte e vorrei dormire. Invece sono sul letto con gli occhi sgranati e una nuova, spietata e accanita crisi di emicrania. Con la mia quasi giornaliera dose di indometacina, mi immergo tra le lenzuola appena cambiate, con la gatta in fondo al letto che ulula invece che miagolare, quasi per rimproverarmi di averla lasciata sola da stamani. Domani andrò di nuovo in macchina, consapevole di non farcela ad alzarmi alle sei per prendere il treno e già mi chiedo come farò a fare lezione con questo peso sulla testa che da giorni sembra non volermi lasciare tranquilla. Eppure, nonostante my headache, back and merciless fierce, today marks a small step. I can concentrami on the things that make me feel good, that make me smile, and try to weed that thickened lump of pain and concerns that have been able to add to the suffering for the death of my mother. I was given a healthy gathering in a room of the library, to recover strength and concentration, I let myself go to a pupil with an unusual confidence that compensates my sacrifices and rewards my efforts, I dropped a big dinner and watered by a fine wine company in hilarious, I enjoyed the trip back from Grosseto in pleasant solitude, a prey to my many thoughts. Today I was good: if I had to do the "profane," as I apostrophised my boys, Give me a nice "half past seven." Today I realized that this effort to take away too many thoughts, anger, expectations and questions is merely seeking to survive and unplug it from years of violent and acute pain and sorrow I have finally convinced that really does not make sense be harnessed in a thousand networks, enveloped by new concerns, discovered with surprising skill, Stan from a time now in Evaporative pleasant memories. It will not be that conatus sese conservandi "Spinoza was talking about the good, the instinct to preserve his own being and the preservation of himself? I hope that reflections of these days, generating painful decision, inaugurate a new love for my soul, an instinct for protection that I can not ask others if not myself, a search of shelter from unnecessary concerns that I owe to Barbara today, already so heavy. Tonight I would vomit from the pain of this headache, but I can not. Goodnight everyone.

"Stay well, reeling in nothing
keep the memories, caress the age
is a stall or a rejection of cruel and irresponsible
right to happiness
If you are there what are you? What you think and why?
do not know, not You know, we're here or away?
be all, for a moment, but inside you
have everything but not tomorrow "
Francesco Guccini, Lyric As Usual

Religious Sympahty Quotes

Che cosa me ne faccio di una macchina....


finally returns to study with renewed commitment and stable concentration. home Sunday to today, after a dinner at home with my father on a day like this, where Mom would have celebrated his sixty-first birthday. We cuddled our love, emerged strengthened from this test and I abandoned the anti-migraine diet for one day, stuffing also French fries, excellent and proven antidepressant. Emergo by two days of healthy regressions. The day Friday was really a plunge backwards into a past that sometimes I would really revive, to recover a dimension of living that we often feel the remoteness and strangeness. In a fleeting passage between two cities, my city, Pisa and Florence, have materialized in my mind the last few years: from the small apartment on the outskirts of Pisa, in those enlightened lungarni, loved and hated in the house inhabited by so much love, to cross those streets far and wide by a motor that now follows the days of a teenage cousin. Back
back accompanied by a constant and dedicated by the latest concert Francesco Guccini, enjoyed the mere thought back to those many trips dealt with spirit as a teenager. So Joan and I we made to reconstruct the map of our joints, our loves ones with those sought in solitude, to remember every moment and every lineup of songs, each bun and every encounter. And together we reflected on the violence of the time, which farcene without even realizing it, we crunched ten years with amazing speed, taking away a lot of things: dreams, projects, homes, love, mothers.
I wonder if I would be prepared to haggle this expectation adults, but most of the Registry of the heart, with a decade of reverse, I wonder how I would go back all'indistinto territory of my twenties, during my years of total dive miei studi universitari e del mio amore apparentemente incrollabile. Adesso su questa scrivania, finalmente di nuovo sommersa da fogli di appunti e libri invecchiati, lancio uno sguardo alle mie cose e indirettamente a me stessa, e penso che davvero sto facendo quello che ho sempre desiderato ed a cui sono arrivata per giri tortuosi e percorsi scoscesi. Ma penso anche che, pur di respirare di nuovo quell'entusiasmo spontaneo e quell'appassionato poter essere imbevuto di futuro, sarei davvero pronta a respirare di nuovo con affanno su quelle salite, anche solo per un attimo. Canzone di oggi: Vasco Rossi, E adesso che tocca a me

“ E adesso che sono arrivato fin qui grazie ai miei sogni
What do I do with the fact that I no longer
now my illusions
what I care about the truth
now I understand how the world

what I do with the sincerity ...
And now that I no longer have my scooter

what I do with a machine
and now that there is more
Topo Gigio
what I care about Switzerland ... "

Hep C More Condition_treatment

Persino il tuo dolore

looms a week, so intense I start writing to make a full of energy able to give me the strength not to surrender. I'll be back from school at three in the afternoon, lunch and try to silence a new headache, not know if any women or indisposition caused by the vortex of thoughts that I get drunk in months. Already scattered my papers and my books on the kitchen table as a reminder to a lot of work to be done as goad to my laziness, as a reproach to the unwillingness of the last days. I have to pick up the thread of my many jobs for the boys, not yet started and completed, interrupted by indolence that really can not explain, by my being focused on other things, taken as a whole are battling unsuccessfully with an army too well armed with worries and concerns.
I traveled by car rather than take the train today, to give me an hour and a half hours of sleep, to be free from expectations unnerving station, to be able to get home an hour pretty decent. Journey of thoughts and memories. I wanted to stop and greet the Hospice nurse who accompanied us on that terrible month, are days that I'd do it, but every time I go up the ramp of the expressway, that "Grosseto center" that indicates the path towards' hospital, the foot pushes on the accelerator and automatically prevents me to turn right. So I see my eyes away from that big huge building that houses the suffering of many who welcomed my mother with an immense love, cuddling up to the last day, and I feel that they are not yet ready to cross that door and come back with the body in a place that I have not abandoned the thought. Because in the end though always around from one extreme to another in this beautiful coast, I am always in the closet and goes over the space, I can still feel the smell, and I still see her in that bed, always serene, always smiling, convinced that he would come home, unable to believe that she is abandoning them to go somewhere, happy to live this wonderful life despite the pain, suffering, legs properties that allowed it to make even one step. Then while driving home with his smile in my mind, I really think this is the best gift that my mother did to me: his smile always at all times, lifting her eyes to heaven and enjoy a sunny day, his unbounded love for all. So my solitary thoughts, spontaneously materialized in my face finally relaxed, have flown a year ago, in December to a sunny back from another hospital and I saw it, straight out of an operating room, walk past the cemetery and take game and then fly to center to buy a dress for a party around the corner, waiting for toast to a new year, perhaps the last.
I have no consolation to death, I closed the door to transcendence, my atheism leaves me silent in the face of his death and I do not live in my mother's no heaven, no supercelestial, if not that of my soul, so now colonized by his presence. And I saw her today, I felt more than ever. And I heard you ask me not to complicate this difficult journey inauguratosi by his loss and suffering more, so much aggressive as superfluous. I heard her ask me to shake these pains, these anxieties and enjoy every moment without paralyzed in an unreasonable and unwarranted expectation, without fixed in a heated imagination that makes me give birth to things that are not here and that makes me paint people who accompany me with colors that are not their own, building it in my image and likeness, only to discover that none of this failure is that the fruit of my imagination. Guido and I think, feel, continuous to speak, to ask questions noisy waiting to dig into my consciousness its written response to me. And now she finally invited me to smile, not to suffer this nonsense, not to weep for those who simply proves himself, not to be angry for the fall, once again, the pitfalls of my desires. I see my city coming up, are so immersed in the thoughts that I drive more than the usual output (that is, by chance, not to exceed in order to read the name ????) and I enjoy the sight of the sea, the island Elba, Corsica in the distance and let myself in a whisper that comforts me, that reassures me. I think what you have taught me not to let trapped by false problems, reflect on forza con cui lei abbia riso in faccia alla malattia e sbeffeggiato il dolore e canticchio fin sotto casa:
“ meraviglioso, ma come non ti accorgi di come il mondo sia meraviglioso
persino il tuo dolore potrà guarire poi
meraviglioso
ma guarda intorno a te
che doni ti hanno fatto
ti hanno inventato il mare
Tu dici non ho niente
ti sembra niente il sole
la vita, l'amore....”

Seattle Pacific Science Center Coupon

Riconciliazioni



Passeggio da sola per il lungomare dove sfilano i carri. E' una domenica di sole, con le nuvole grigie sul punto di piovere that pile up on the horizon and are concerned about the organizers of the carnival and the owners of the banquet of roast pig and sweets. I decide to walk alone and to see a little 'the waterfront of my city, to savor the scents, vivisection spaces.
Finally today there seems to be a bit 'of warmth in the air, a mild wind that warms my bitterness and melts my fears, so identical to themselves and properties to look for ice.
walk lightly, move the eyes all around, petrified and masked children who immortalized the attack with blows of confetti in a war involving everyone, young and old. On the beach a "King Carnival" is waiting for paper mache to be burned at the stake and evaporate into the air, giving the scent of iodine and salt than the typical grain of burning on the last Sunday of Carnival. Then think of how sacred we children waited for us this solemn farewell ceremony Sunday in the mask and how sad they placed the clothes in cupboards cleverly constructed by motherly hands. I think back to the waiting party, the choice of the suit, his afternoons at the sewing machine and the help of the loving aunt who I still see far immortalized in its beauty. Relive our frantic racing, our theater in reciting the deeds of our masks, the screams of mothers spent to call to quiet, to make a point to a day that we would never end.
I realize that this wandering aimlessly today is nothing more than the celebration of my reunion with the city for years in my time so alien and so far from my desires, the recovery of confidence after a long absence. This focus my eyes on girls in masks and their mothers is to seek a temporary reconciliation between the edges of my soul, so torn apart after his death. And finally, remember to smile, I keep quiet for a moment the noisy conflicts that agitated me, carefully honing the sharp edges of my being, always in perpetual battle with himself. Now, at home, with the silence that congeals, I welcome this Sunday, as simple as it is intense, which seems to me a little 'back to myself.

Ortho Total Kill Inscet Killer

Landslide

I allow myself a little respite from a heavy week, once I wrap the warm notes of Einaudi and try to find some 'of relief from this heavy headache that accompanied me this morning, perhaps because of this sleep by months intermittent. I look in the mirror and see my face was not tired, his eyes are heavy and restless, as if to escape a series of thoughts that surround me and chase. Sonia calls and asks me to leave next week for a pizza ... I respond with enthusiasm has dropped the phone. A flood of memories come Gavinana Square and the house looks very much loved and con ansia di vederla, ancora una volta per ricucire uno strappo e per osservare la tessitura del suo tempo, adesso un po' distante dal mio. Prendo tra le mani il libro di Amos Oz che sto leggendo, lo trovo ancora una volta quasi illeggibile, decido di riporlo nella libreria, tra i tanti libri non finiti, ma decido che si tratta di una battaglia fra me e lui e lo appoggio sul comodino, in attesa di un ennesimo round. Provo a studiare ma ancora una volta le mie energie sono tutte concentrate su me stessa e mi sento un'estranea fra le righe di quei libri, vorrei correre ma fuori tira un vento pazzesco e la fatica sarebbe troppa da sopportare. Vorrei mia madre oggi, anche solo per prenderle quell'esile visino tra le mani e coprilo di baci, rimandando a domani le tante questions. Seeking relief from this emotional encirclement in the practice of writing almost daily, I discover how words are comforting and trap, a safe haven after a violent shipwreck and played catch with my emotions, forced into a sentence of forced immobility of the paper, bound in a portion of the vocabulary that I would like to infinite. So much remains unsaid out the door, a pile of indecipherable thoughts crowded, difficult to strings that are impossible to translate the lucidity of the text.
reflect on time today, on my time. This morning I watched my students and tried to fight my way through the images of nebulae a tremendously this yesterday, trying to break down, and ended in small units, the events dei miei anni, provavo a ripercorrere i binari della mia esistenza, tentando invano, di sfuggire agli assalti dei miei continui “ma se...”. Mi viene in mente Bergson adesso, la sua illuminante distinzione tra tempo cronologico e tempo interiore e capisco che questo atomizzare i miei trentaquattro anni è proprio una perdita di tempo e di energie. Infatti intuisco che non si tratta di istanti che si succedono l'uno all'altro come le perle di una collana, bensì di una continua e infinita congiunzione, di un intreccio ininterrotto. Scovo le sue parole in un libro ormai impolverato sul più alto scaffale della libreria: “E', se si vuole, lo svolgersi di un rotolo, perchè non c'è essere vivente che non si senta arrivare, gradually, at the end of the party to act, and live is aging. But it is also, as a continuous roll, like a thread on a ball, because our past is behind us, and swells of this non-stop harvesting on its way. " In short, my time is an avalanche, which leaves nothing behind in his self and grows down into the valley. Too bad that today I feel like we crushed.

"... he gets there, kneeling in exchange for a caress, as he told the lover to his beautiful without legs, without arms" (Amos Oz, Do not say night).