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.