Sunday, February 27, 2011

Cyst Hurts When Period Is Coming

The angel of the highways - David Rondoni

(photo: Henri Julien Felix Rouseeau - The Sleeping Gypsy)


He was sitting one night on the guardrail
pitched in light orange
of a great lamp. The fog


wet rancid - -
life, he said,
animal life, as he brushed the massive


caress of trucks that are like dreams on the highway.

I find him more
a gesture that only virgin
that of dawn, said
setting the hands, and cried
idiot.

(I met him a thousand times to return from somewhere

when traveling in his sleep on morartiane

end or tangential vascorossiane
and then break up in burrows, my poor angel

my stubborn and like him - -)
or my life, I repeat and repeat, do not feel the dawn

in bones and joints, but
salt and just the wind that removes
ever, that never subsides.

David Rondoni
The bar time
Ugo Guanda Publisher



Friday, February 25, 2011

Gmc Yukon Engine Light Trouble

And then find yourself ...



Sometimes books,
seem to really tell us.


(...) From the living room window in the wooden building was seen throughout Libery Street San Francismo burn red and green in the rainy night. Dean made the most ridiculous thing of his career in the few days I spent with them. Grim work which consisted in going from house to house with stacks of brochures and samples chegli gave a representative of a new pressure cooker, and demonstrate how the housewives. The first day was a storm of energy. I walked with him through the city to make appointments. The idea was to be invited to a dinner and at one point jumping up and show how the pressure cooker. "Boys," said Dean excitedly, "this work is even more crazy than I did for Sinah. Sinah sold encyclopedias door to door in Oakland. No one could escape. Fired a long speech, jumped up and down, laughing, crying. Once introduces us to the house of an Okie where everyone was preparing to go to a funeral. Sinah knelt down and began to pray for the salvation of the soul of the deceased. They all cry. He sold a whole lot of encicolopedie. It was the craziest man in the world. I wonder where he is now. We were pretty young daughters to him and down certain palpated in the kitchen. This afternoon I found a woman's delight ... we went in his beautiful kitchen, I put an arm around her shoulders and forward with the demonstration. AH! Ummmm! Fantastico! "
" Keep it up, Dean, "I said." Maybe one day will make you the mayor of San Francisco. "He had prepared a number of pressure cooker all the details in the evening practice was with me and Camille.
One morning the I found naked near the window, watching the sunrise San Francisco. He looked like he wanted to be really charged the mayor of San Francisco one day. But his energies were exhausted. a rainy afternoon came the representative of the pressure cookers , wanted to know where he was kicked out Dean. Dean was lying on the couch.
"Have you tried to sell these pots?"
"No," Dean said, "I have to start another job."
'Well, and what you going to do all these samples? "
"I do not know." In absolute silence the representative took up his pots and sad he left. I was disgusted with everything and everyone, and even Dean. (...)

From the Road by Jack Kerouac




Thursday, February 24, 2011

Law School Letter Of Recommendation Template

103.

Each appliance has its own sound. High frequency, low frequency, intermittent, continuous. The stand-by of the television is a whistle around 10,000 hertz. Do not really feel it. You can tell when you switch it off. The boiler has darker shades, is around 3 kHz. A house - I mean, every house - is suffused with a symphony of sounds. Just stretch your ears. The refrigerator is louder, but is not continuous. Turn on, turn off, turn on, turn off, turn on. The computer is similar to the TV. Change only the color signal stand-by. A district, each district is the sum of many houses, many of the symphonies, of thousands of red lights lit day and night, atonal arrangements. The discharge of water is pretty much on the 300, but I could be wrong. A city is a collection of neighborhoods that are a collection of houses that are a set of sounds. Every city has its matrix, its dominant sound. To all this I was thinking this morning, walking with hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. I thought of the magnificent crescendo of the kettle, the perfect view of the heating pipes, stolen gracefully. I thought the rustling softly in the leaves of ficus in the center of the terraces. At the polyrhythm of walks of people who mix and add to mine. To the explosion of green light. In this orchestra there is room for everyone. There are no files, there are no sections, no podiums, no lights on the lecterns black blacks, no trombone with puzzles a week under the chair. The sun beats time. The night is a crown on a break from the four quarters. But it is only because people are sleeping.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Swollen Rabbit Genital

102.

The sun came shining and hot. We slept until mid morning when we woke up We were smiling and full of energy, despite the almost ten-day walk in the mountains we had left him not a few signs. We resumed the journey, but not before he made light of blueberries lifesaving. The trail ran fast, like a treadmill at the sides of which ran in turn banal images of trees, bushes and mountains. Things to fitness center. Images from Desktop, Swiss stuff, natural paradises that seem fake. He began to mumble a melody absurd, those who used to invent when he was lost in thought. They passed this way two or three hours. Then we began to hear the murmur of the river in the distance. We stopped and looked into his eyes, thinking - is done, we have now! - And reading the same thought in the eyes of others. It was a moment, and immediately began the descent. We held hands and went down very fast, approaching the goal. The muscles, the knees bend slightly, his arms to maintain balance. But the legs are light, the steps do not make noise, a noise almost imperceptible, perhaps, dampen the sounds around you to become inconsistent, which cancel out, the pounding of my heart that you get to the head. We arrived at the river, gasping for breath, and in the blink of an eye we were already shirtless, arms thirsty immersed in water.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Repoed Four Wheelers For Sla

Rails

(photo: Le modèle rouge - René Magritte )

The infinite can not be denied even the dogs, a
repeats, tremendously.
(D. Swifts)

We spent a moment

a clatter of rails

pain.


had seen these eyes shadow
m'avrebbero grabbed
the edges burned

of the heart - not to be late.

I am rather
ghost
open the shell of larva

dimenticata.

Alessandro Giova

Thursday, February 10, 2011

How To Enable Charter Motorola Dvr

101.

clasped her hands on her stomach, as was usual when you go to bed. The dinner was excellent and in fact I was slowly slipping towards the bottom with the butt of the chair. At dinner we talked mostly of passing time. We made counts of white hair and that of small ailments. The back, of course, then the teeth, a nasty thick almost continuous to the right flank - appendicitis on arrival - the view that fatigue more quickly, creaking knees and left shoulder which marks the arrival of bad weather. It did not say that in two eighty. Then the discussion took the obvious amarcord fold, with the usual string of holiday stories, tales of travel especially, those facts and those facts together with other mutual friends. The stories evolved from year in years, had come to life now and the players were not nearly as we and our friends, we became fictional characters worthy of a film or a novel. The dinner went off smooth, the wine flowed freely and slowly kneaded there mouths. It was so long that you could not see, but - as always - I recognized every single movement. The clasped hands signify sleep and fatigue. I undid the button of his trousers and ingollai the last sip of brandy. Outside the village slumbered. The impact with the cool air was a pleasant one. We lit a few cigarettes each, during the route that would have brought home.

- In some ways we are our choices, right?

We had carefully avoided the subject and somehow thinks he got away, now that I was there at the gate with the key in the lock. I threw it well, with a low voice that seemed to almost tremble - he was feeling the cold or was it? I sent down a mouthful of saliva, the size of a billiard ball. And I said yes.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Ok Meg Let's Take A Look At That

The anarchist banker of Pessoa at the Teatro Arsenale

Il banchiere anarchico al Teatro Arsenale di Milano dal 1 al 27 febbraio.
Per questo spettacolo Atrapalo offre uno sconto del 25% (15€ invece di 20€)




“Avevamo finito di cenare. Davanti a me il mio amico, il banchiere, grande commerciante e monopolista ragguardevole, fumava […]. Sorridendo, mi rivolsi a lui. «Pensi: alcuni giorni fa mi hanno detto che lei un tempo è stato anarchico». «Non è che lo sia stato: lo sono stato e lo sono. Non sono cambiato a questo riguardo. Sono anarchist. " "This is good! She anarchist! And what is she an anarchist? ... Unless you want to give the word a different way ...». "From the town? No, do not attribute them to him. I use the word in the usual sense. "

Thus begins the banker of the anarchist poet and writer Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese, published for the first time in the journal "Contemporary" in May 1922. The text, written in the form of an interview, is among the most fascinating footage Pessano, a banker told a reporter the choices that led him to pursue a career, "apparently in contradiction with what was said anarchism. The reporter asks if the banker has denied his ideas, but responds with a long argument with which explains why the only way to get rich was to be an anarchist.

"The real evil, only evil, they are social conventions and fictions, that overlap with natural things - everything from money to family, from religion to the state. We are born male or female - I mean, you're born to be, as adults, male or female, not born, low-cost natural law, nor to be the husband or to be rich or poor, as one is not born to be a Catholic or Protestant, or Portuguese or English. "

A compelling argument that, step by step, leads to the decay of false truth and affirmation of the individual charged as the only way to affirm anarchism.

This masterpiece of Portuguese writer must now be staged February 1 to 22 at the Teatro Arsenale of Milan, after the remarkable success of last season. Adapted and directed by Marina Spreafico are claiming on: "I chose Pessoa because, in my opinion, is one of the great writers, one of the 'bright minds' of the twentieth century. Love the paradox, that love you too, because it is a process that reveals the reality of 'the absurd'. A variation of the ancient and timeless Castigat, laughing, mores (punish, with rice, the costumes). So I think this book is a mine of thought and that, in its ruthless relentlessness, open pits on the uses, customs and behavior of today and always (...) The book is a story in dialogue form. I made an adjustment to make it available to a listener, who is someone other than the player. The theme is only apparently paradoxical, since, as argued by Pessoa, a paradox has value only when it is not. The banker then comes from the people: it is a nice guy, attractive and full of humor: what it takes to make a dramatic character.

Spreafico that in his adaptation increases the number of characters from two to three: while Pessoa we see in the text of the dialogue between the journalist and the banker (more like a monologue of the latter), in adaptation of Spreafico witnessing the emergence of a female character: Anarchy is the same, played by Vanessa Korn, who moves and supports the cause of the banker in order to prove its existence. A show to be considered for those fortunate enough to live in Milan and will be able to see it.

Note: I have not lived in Rome can neither see nor to review this show. Anyone who wishes to write a review on this show can do so by sending it to riflessialmargine@gmail.com. Thanks for the contribution that able to give.

1 to 27 February 2011
BANKER THE ANARCHIST
adapted and directed by Marina Spreafico


Mario Ficarazzi, the banker Matthew
Maffezzoli, the journalist
Vanessa Korn, Anarchy
stage space: Massimo Scheurer
costumes Giulia Bonaldi
items: Amber Rinaldo
soundtrack music: Walter Prati
video: Ino Lucia
lights: Piera Rossi
assistant director: Lorraine Nocera
technical assistance: Christian Laface
production: Teatro Arsenale


Thursday, February 3, 2011

World's Best Heavy Hor Dourves

100.

for days waiting for those words. Alice was locked in the house all day, to study, he said. I saw her nod up and down. Every now and was preparing a coffee, strong as ever liked her, repeating the few gestures with painstaking care needed. He opened the pot, empty the filter, we put in the water bottle. He did all this with eyes half-closed, almost asleep. Then press well and closed the coffee mocha with force, using a cloth. And invariably he lit a cigarette with the gas fire. I watched. I pretended to work. The spied, I tended to his ears in agony in order to decipher the sounds coming from her room, the bathroom, the kitchen. Alice had developed a dowry to the limits of magic, not just put out his cigarette under running tap water, coffee begins to rise. That was also the moment when he called me and asked if I wanted a cup. He always did, knowing that I never drink coffee, except on rare occasions. Then she returned to nod, twenty minutes on the couch flipping through a magazine, ten in the bathroom - sitting on the toilet with a piece of toilet paper in hand, I suppose, half an hour at the desk to emphasize random phrases from books to study. I waited for those words for days, I saw them everywhere, I had read, were the words of a poem learned by heart as a child, and was as still and the fog to the steep hills. The letters were mingled as if by magic, they got up in the air and start dancing in the air, in composing sentences, subject and predicate verb. Alice slept all the time. I put my hand over your eyes to not having read.