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Viktoria 2260

Lint moisture, dust, rain, rumors that slip light on the surfaces of bodies shivering overheated by alcohol or food. One evening, as many and as no. New emotion of everyday life that seems to swallow all of this spread on this reality: there is no difference, and every day seems to join another in a pyramid of boredom or homesickness. When everything seemed to make sense and was not building castles of words so to do something.
Deciding what to do, have something to do in the midst of talk of lives all the same: and no purpose. I do not want to be like them, I told myself. I begged myself, and tears began to flow inside. Flooded me. So nobody can see it. And also the carousel and all purposes apparent partial show me people ben inserite e ben adattate mi sembrano disegni di fumo. Non esiste lo scopo assoluto. La vita è frammentazione di piccoli scopi che si rincorrono un giorno dopo l'altro. E' l'equilibrio di orizzonti relativi da porre in fila, e che costituiscono il tempo che avanza, il tempo dell'evoluzione.
E mi viene da piangere a pensare che proprio loro, le due persone che mi hanno dato alla luce, hanno messo come gadget alla mia esistenza un senso di perfezione così immobile da non potersi nemmeno avvicinare. Non voglio dare colpe, distribuire colpe a chi si profila all'orizzonte. Non è un discorso di colpe, insomma. E' un problema di scopi e confronti e altre cose simili; limiti forse, o essere nati per compiacere qualcuno e sostenerlo nella sua incapacità of life.
I would like to find a way, however small, at this moment in my life. Something that is mine and that others respect as such. Feel unique, separate but connected. Not alone and not attacked, and not to live as a support to confirm to others that exist. What is utopian to think of being something of their own, independent, adult and emotionally stable?

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Stardust

Stardust.

residues of explosives. Morning with memories of a vent and cry a fake happiness. Have you looked at my tears fall, without saying anything, and this is enough for me.

Cover pain with wrapping paper. The thought that maybe we will not be what we are now and the future, between now and April, will be a glittering carousel before going to sleep.

scarves and warm sweaters. We are simple people, and even the carousels and perhaps we do not like that much. It 'been a trail of events presented us with indefinable in that room, to live together in mid-day, night is not included. But that's not the port, only a way station. Where watching the burning of incense, patchouli along with your personal pain. Very decent, but dense.

And speaking of morphine I am really want to experience the effects, or toxic or sick, or come at the end of the world. I would get lost in visions that lead me away or feel light as if my lungs worked helium. Or maybe this bright Christmas lights and squalor gold card is nothing more than a seasonal version of these visions and I'm already playing and I do not know. If all will not want to be here watching the end. I know, is my limit, I can not tolerate and related purposes. Then after many years as I remove the stupid lego towers, makes clear and as we look through colored lenses. Years later, the pain of this becomes hardened and indefinite impression that you would not know more traceable to an owner. The pain of this is a monster to manage, for which I am always surprise of equipment and I wonder, what price will have a built happiness? It 's true that happiness is always built and always has a price? Yet, I know how to do just that, these stupid small buildings that make me feel alive and tangentially anchored some report. A small and silly life, a small and stupid person. It is enough.

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Fog


Scazzi total. Fog. Tears. Christmas around the corner. Last day of the year. Poetry. Madness. Ash. Navigli.
Secrets. Shadows. Nails that crunch incessantly.

In recent times you say things central.

Yeah ... but where I am? Where I wonder, while living my life?

The last frontier where lies the secret of my life: why, I wonder, the terror of the last pages, as if everything was about to end, the mystery of revelation, and my life without a mirror secret, which falls into itself without end?

These dreams that I can not remember, and the lights of the shopping streets, I can not recall, I can not return to the magic of the Christmas holidays if not central when I started to die?

November 27

I'm sorry that this blog has become a dark journey into my rambling.
I did not want, or rather, I was sure that I could handle it "sporty". We transcribe a song by a very nice novel:

"Even before I turn, I knew what it was: a portrait of Rosa that I had seen at the home of Lena, put together with others on the top shelf of the wardrobe . In black and white, Rose caught three quarters, from the waist up, with the breast that was visible in the neckline of her gown, her face no makeup, her hair wet and tousled as if blacks were just out of the shower in the cup hand, rings in all fingers, including thumb. not a pose, as if he had not noticed to be photographed: looking at something or someone off, or maybe not see anything. smiles. E 'in the community and smiles relaxed, spontaneous, unaware of what others think of her, indifferent. It seems you do not need to say "That's me"; seems happy to just be herself, almost humming to herself, "I am, I am" . Despite the abuse, exploitation suffered physical, emotional and sexual ... Rose had, has un'inviolabilità background. "You can not touch me" . I realized that I was not big enough to contain it, strong enough to lift where she could not get there alone. I was the last in a long line of people who have moved away from its only true source of freedom itself. "

Martin Bedford "The Houdini Girl"

The female figures in literature are fascinating. And also in life. Sometimes I think women have an extraordinary power that men have not and will never have.
The women in my life are many, and each is clear and relevant as a water drop on a blade of grass.

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restlessness and crying

Today I feel great concern. I live deep concern.
I could touch it, to feel more alive.
Why is physical, material, present and cumbersome.
Restlessness is a game, more so thin that it is not a person among us, un modo che hai di guardarmi quando io volutamente non ti guardo, e lascio scivolare nella coda dell'occhio, nel punto più sottile e tagliente di percezione delle cose, il tuo sguardo.
Inquietudine è l'emozione più difficile da vivere, da pensare.
Perchè quando lascio cadere gli sguardi lì vuol dire che sto male, in quel modo particolare in cui sto male io.
Come faccio a capire se un giorno smetterò.
Se un giorno, finalmente, non lascerò più scivolare gli sguardì lì, come se fossero lacrime sbagliate, e avrò finalmente la forza di tenerli al centro.
Quel giorno forse vedrò la mia superficie forte, compatta e non in sfaldamento, come un golf infeltrito.

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Amsterdam swing

What can I say? The post I wrote about Amsterdam I did not like. I would perhaps not have written it. But you can not go back nor can we erase what has been. That post is what it is and what it was. But not necessarily what will be.

Anyway ...

with conviction that I would think that it will not be forever my Amsterdam, you will not always be a sad blues. But he could be a lively swing. Amsterdam will be something new when I have the opportunity to go there. It will not be what was not.

will be what still needs to be enclosed in a possible future.

Someone spoke of "nostalgia for the future" as a feeling of nostalgia for the momentum that usually occurs in adolescence and slowly fades as we approach adulthood. It 's hard to think of it channeled bad at the time, so bad as to have caused deep cracks in their lives. So bad to have memories like this hard to Amsterdam. Nostalgia for the future is to think that will never change. But I have not yet figured out if the change exists.

Sometimes I think I want to be yet another person if it was me, what I was, I do not recognize. What we have now is the link between a recent past and what will be. But the future will or will in any case always an eternal present?

I like to think of the nostalgia for the future as a sweet swing or a hoarse blues that echoes through the old streets of New Orleans ... ah corrupt New Orleans, a city where I was going with the mind long ago. There is a post waiting for this. Tomorrow, perhaps ...

Yesterday was a day of sleep, and return to a warm core and deep.

I do not dive there used to be, to find rest and comfort. Now, it's like an apartment eviction, I expect to be thrown out at any moment. Insecurity. I always have one foot in and one foot out from all things. I'm always a bit 'out the door, I can never think of being able to enter and live in something deeply. Stop, sit down, relax. Nostalgia for the future, longing for a warm place that could be your home.

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BLACK AND WHITE

I've thrown out after days and days he was there and was not going neither up nor down (quote from "Ovosodo" by Virzi). I ejected and now I feel a bit 'better. If nothing else, I think I can breathe. Yesterday when you asked me "What can not you say?" or something similar, unfortunately do not remember it perfectly, I felt that we were at this point. (It would be nice to remember the exact words ...) I have relied on what I was feeling, because it was not easy at that time be seen from the outside and understand what was happening. I know it's as if they had removed a cap. The need for identification can not be so strong as to break his own identity, aside from the diversity, the need to expand to be a single person to feel suffocated in the existence of another. And when I said that phrase was not to offend, but you've got I think. And 'that I could not really be in perfect communion. Thinking it all ended there, over there was nothing. But maybe you've really got it, and these things I'm saying to myself more, surprised that he pulled out a toad so big so quickly and without too much damage. I wish we had a unique color, I would be in your same color, ma anche se fossimo tu bianco e io nero non cambierebbe il sentimento che ci lega. Anche se fossimo io un gatto e tu un topo potremmo abbracciarci così. E' possibile stare insieme nella diversità. Ma è possibile stare insieme nella distanza? Ma come tu hai detto, c'è un altro aspetto del legame che è molto più primitivo e più viscerale ed è quello che mi mette le catene, è quello a cui non so rinunciare. Non so se si era già visto sugli schermi uno strappo rabbioso come questo. Forse sì, ma non ero mai riuscita a vederlo così bene, ad esprimerlo così bene.

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Amsterdam blues

When I came to say it was late afternoon, I think. Time in there no longer existed. I have met in the hallway. A winter afternoon with the neon lit. Or maybe an afternoon with the long pink sunset that left a trail of tired light. "We're going on a trip to Amsterdam, are you from?" Travolta. I did not know what to say. Because for a while 'I was out of the classroom, out of time out for myself. Bundled up in thick sweaters. The decision could be lost but I still did not know. The superior authority who had taken power of decision for me and my parents said No. So Amsterdam was the journey that I never did. The journey that you can not do. The train lost the opportunity to escape or molto di più, ciò che non ha potuto esistere. Asterdam è la mia adolescenza perduta, la mia adolescenza in ostaggio. Avevo 19 anni. Al loro ritorno mi hanno portato una T-Shirt, il loro pezzo di Amsterdam da regalarmi, l'ombra della vita non vissuta rimasta per una beffa del destino attaccata al muro. Una T-Shirt larghissima, dentro cui mi perdevo. Color carta da zucchero, con una scritta multicolori, Amsterdam appunto, e una bicicletta dello stesso colore della scritta. Questa è Amsterdam per me. Una maglia che non ho mai indossato ma che custodisco gelosamente nell'armadio perchè è una traccia indelebile del passato, dell'inesistenza a cui mi sono obbligata. Non ci sono tornata, Amsterdam è ancora il viaggio che non ho mai fatto. And 'the decision have not been able to take. Why in the face of having all that freedom, all that power, the power to be an ordinary person who goes to a stupid high school trip in fibrillation, I said no. Yet Amsterdam is a transgression, I also know my grandmother. There is sex, drugs, dispensed like candy at all. There are houses colorful, happy paintings overflowing with bicycles and color of the Impressionists. The madness of Van Gogh, his starry night, the bulbs of tulips, windmills. The people who look at random. The hallucinogenic mushrooms and if you want to get serious, and acid tablets and much more. There are Erasmus and music, rave and dance clubs Tecno. Amsterdam is the luna park della vita, dove puoi dimenticare chi sei, e io sono una specialista in questo, molto più che in qualsiasi altra città del mondo. Amsterdam era davvero un'occasione perchè se non la vedi quando sei adolescente, non la vedrai mai più. Solo allora rappresenta la vetrina colorata che ti promette una psichedelia di desideri da lasciarti tramortito. E anche se devi fare il bravo liceale in gita con i prof martiri di turno, lo sanno tutti che passerai la sera nei Coffee Shop a stordirti di fumo o in discoteca fino al mattino, sgusciando fuori dall'albergo con le lenzuola annodate. E il giorno dopo visiterai le mostre come uno zombie, ravvivandoti solo davanti alla prospettiva di un'altra notte di follia. Amsterdam è il balocco d'Europa, is the city of the joints, where disasters combined, the city of sleeping bags and Interrail. Not for me, no. Amsterdam for me is only what was not. And that will never be.

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Lisbon, the time of anger

Lisbon.

A city that an association of ideas leads me to a situation that hurts. And I am sorry because if you ever go there, I know that I will be inevitably affected.
Sometimes cities are like people. They carry signs of wearing something that is past and see a city with these signs can be a unique experience. How people are affected because the states of mind that when you visit them for the first time, or even the second and third, and just when you think, like the 1000 times I thought my NY. In fact, for me she is a melting pot of different moods, is a volcano, an atomic bomb. They are like the clothes because the smell became immersed in feelings and emotions change with the light and the seasons, they seem very old or advanced according to the day when you put them. They are like dreams because you can turn the long and wide and ask the meaning of your trip. And especially since you can rebuild on their heads and turn them over simply by closing his eyes. Or maybe sleeping. I do a lot of times in my dreams I was in NY and was always different and always the same.
Anyway, back to Lisbon. For me it's a long road that goes downhill to the sea. Fishermen and smell of fried fish. Tram. 60s. Sunsets. Tavern. Children with strong ideals. Ocean in the distance that smacks of America.
But it is also a dull pain that resounds in the folds of a day like today where a number of associations made me need to remember her and I would just forget it. E 'screamed a scream of rage, where no one can hear. And 'the dagger of a fisherman who cleans the fish firmly, making splash pieces all around. And 'the fist of a man thrown against something in revenge for an old offense. It 's like a bone broken for days that it will continue to hurt. Bear the pain. See the photo above there? It's called "Tram in Lisbon." I found it while I was not looking. I like trams. Lisbon no. Recall this day of sorrow and anger because it crosses the sky with its gray one in Milan, forming a color indefinable. A color that does not exist. But I will not say anything back to the heart of the problem because after all I'm just a trace electronically. Pit piles of letters on the black surface as the remains of broken bones. I am going to explore unknown places. And I do not know if we'll ever, in Lisbon, I do not know if I'll take off that smell of fish and those that evokes delusions. In order to be free to see it for what it is. A set of streets, squares, houses, shops ... taking an odd shape, the shape of a dream, the kind you do with a full stomach and leave you a bit 'groggy in the morning and had a glass of 'water.

time the anger is a strange time. A recurring event like the seasons, embroiled in the size of the circular time of Homer's memory. The time comes when the anger does not expect it, like a summer storm blows away everything you need so that every time you have to rebuild almost from scratch. It makes no sense to describe with words because in the time of anger words are never there and indeed, usually sailing upwind.

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Angels over Berlin (and demons below .. .)

I've never seen but I imagined it. Berlin. Many times in my head, many looks, many profiles, perspectives of this metropolis. Berlin came into my life at age 14, when I read for the first time the bestseller Christiane F., We, the children of the Berlin Zoo, seen by chance in the library and borrowed from a friend and read avidly, in a few days. Ever having visited Berlin for me is just that, and some blurry image of the collapse of the wall in '89 when I was in junior high and did about class discussions and small pictures cut out from newspapers to do the research. But it was still too far from our minds pre-adolescents, so stop by accelerated growth and fast forward in thought. Not mine, but the thoughts were different, and they were far from Berlin. Closer to Christiane, who figured in his skinny and in his hair and washed-out look of innocence and the angel of death. And I thought often sewn to her jeans and makeup on him with which he tried to mask his 13 years to go and prostitute. I had a little more than his age, I, and I was so uncertain and hesitant in the pitches I wanted to try cigarettes behind the school, hidden behind a plant with a my friend and then I wrote a lot with my new typewriter that was the best I could afford. I was thinking of Christiane and her metropolitan world to the Bahnhof Zoo made danger and death touched with the lightness of adolescence. I wanted to be like her and gave me leather shoes with heels and tight jeans. I wanted to be toxic to the little down in secret in the world where adults are not aware that ever, but his world was so far from mine, so insidious and underground, his underground world, which mirrors the streets and the city, world backward and mysterious, where sex and drugs were a single large that erased the past and engulfed the future. In my world there was no subway. Christiane and her friends burned like atoms in a nuclear fusion, evaporated in the smoke of marijuana, inside cabinets or between dirty unmade bed sleazy motel. The boys of the Berlin Zoo and matches are spoons and white powder and sex lies and petty. Berlin and a mother who is already gone.

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Dream Dream

Being as well as in dreams, where people must weep and mourn those who have mercy banker asks for mercy ...

This dream touches points of extreme delicacy, all areas where it is concentrated. It 'a so-called recurring dreams.
There is me and a person with important and other people, all close to my life, now or in the past.
not walk and I'm on a wheelchair. But in the dream is not at all clear the situation: I do not know if you can not walk because I do not want, because I can not, because my legs are too weak to support me, or because they have something, voluntary or involuntary, that does not work. Then I look at the world from this perspective, sitting without being able to move and thus unable to fully manage my life. I feel dependent on others and especially by a person who plays a mother role for me. When this person is suddenly unable to attend, I am alone and I try to move in the world on this wheelchair. La nostalgia di lei è forte: la penso sempre, desidero averla accanto. Ma sono sola e mi trovo nella mia vecchia parrocchia. Il piazzale è pieno di ragazzi, a partire dai bambini fino ad arrivare ai giovani, che sono in attesa di riunirsi per gli incontri di catechismo. Una sorta di primo giorno di scuola del catechismo. Mi sento disorientata, cerco di avvistare visi noti ma sono stata talmente lontana da quell'ambiente che non sono sicura mi riaccoglieranno, anche se mi trovo in una situazione di evidente bisogno. Riconosco qualcuno, qualche compagna e poi c'è il parroco. Proprio lui che ha sempre covato una certa ostilità nei miei confronti perchè non ero come si aspettava, lui da cui ho cercato di fuggire ed ora mi trovo a dovermi riavvicinare. Lui mi guarda sempre da lontano, mettendomi a fuoco e dimostrandomi di avermi vista, ma senza mai sorridermi. In qualche modo vengo accolta dal gruppo, anche se non calorosamente, sto ai margini, osservando, sperando che qualcuno mi tenda una mano. E una persona lo fa, una vecchia compagna di scuola. Mi riaccompagna verso casa terminato l'incontro e forse, ma non ne sono sicura, provo ad alzarmi e appoggiandomi alla carrozzina, a muovere qualche passo. Intanto ho ricominciato a sentirmi parte di quel gruppo, e loro si sono ricostituiti come punto di riferimento nella mia vita. Penso soddisfatta a quando li rivedrò, a quando starò in mezzo a loro durante la messa.
Eppure continuo a non sapere che cos'hanno le mie gambe . E' come se non fossero neanche attaccate a me, come se avessero vita propria e il potere di decidere come comportarsi, se funzionare o no. Per un attimo ho il dubbio di poterle usare, di provarci davvero, che la situazione presente non è una condanna e non è immutabile ma posso fare la differenza. Ma so che sto tornando a casa e troverò quella figura materna che mi ridarà il potere di continuare a non camminare.

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immobility


Per tutto il giorno ho avuto la sensazione di essere in quello stupido film. Per tutto il giorno ho rincorso a cento all'ora una coincidenza. Ora sono molto stanca e vuota e vorrei solo dormire.
Però il pensiero che la vita possa costruirsi balances of connections, or imbalances of the fate pursues me and chase me again tonight. I've run the coincidence, I caught and landed like a rugby ball on the goal, putting all my effort, all the energy I had in my body, a muscular and physical fury, or perhaps a tear of despair. Then I joined the surge of adrenaline flowing and then, only after I watched it and I tried to tell me that I was good, because it was an occasion difficult if not impossible, and the fate I do not reward, but the ' I did it for myself, I did try to, without thinking about the result even knowing that it will be a loser. It 'difficult to do anything without a return, in some form. I realized. If you want to quibble I might conclude that a reason, if I did, maybe there was. But it was not a gratuity, was not a goal, or it was in name only, apparently. Inside I know that I did to make it, to make it, not to give up. And I would just be so happy.

11/02/2006

it was so many things in my head right now. Not I did not even think about it, not to pass through the range of emotions one after another, not to build on dreams, not to reopen the whole short chapter to 360 degrees. Okay, there are the usual mix of emotions focused my psychic system produces daily, with a precision of genetic engineering. Then there's a new photo of me that I found myself in, like certain photos are marked on the camera and not because as you remember where you made (this metaphor to emphasize, once again, if proof were needed, the millimeter randomness and the immediacy with which certain processes occur). I feel that for the sake of trying, to get involved. I doing something not for the result or for the thing itself, but I do it because it has already added value. I embrace the saying that "The important thing is to participate" and live fully, with awareness of who is no longer a teenager ma è già adulto e quindi sa di dover deporre l'arma dell'onnipotenza nell'armadio dei ricordi. Con la perseveranza di chi ha finalmente attraversato la terra di mezzo ed è arrivato nella realtà.
Io improvvisamente più saggia e più sola e più cosciente della vita e di quello che può dare o togliere.
Non posso dire che questa cosa mi abbia fatto improvvisamente amare me stessa, questo proprio no. Però è successo qualcosa di rilevante nella direzione del vedermi più a fuoco, più definita.

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Sliding doors of old toys

Questo sogno in realtà l'ho fatto qualche tempo fa, però mi ha lasciato una sensazione così epidermica that sometimes I see him again in my mind and I'm still in there. Especially after what happened today. I was in my old house, with my family. Return to live there without moving, without worrying if someone lived there. Just give us a key and we were inside. Already today it was difficult to leave the house. Then, once inside, I realized that that apartment was left uninhabited. But it was in ruins. Some rooms were empty, as just after a move. In others, such as for example in our room, the furniture, but there were still split, stacked and dirty. As if these were not only stayed there 20 years or those who are, but as if the weather had deteriorated them. In the drawers and shelves were still my old toys, in particular my box of Lego, a precious heritage. But it was all mummified. The characters had their faces skeletons and cobwebs, decaying organic material such as the zombies of some imaginary horror. There was also something the whole, most bottles of shampoo or other accessories for the body. Everything else was lying tested by time, but not limited to, something more ... as if he had stayed there, but there was still worn, dried out, just like certain memories, which are still there but not live, are like the shadows of something that is gone, it is pulverized. There are no words for the pain I felt. It was much suffering for a death. I examined my things, scioccata. Erano poi tutte sparpagliate, come dopo un furto, come se avessero messo a soqquadro. Ecco, il paradosso: sembrava che fosse rimasto tutto immobile da quando ce ne eravamo andati, ma invece era tutto cambiato, si era mescolato e sconvolto, si era perso, rotto o spostato. Aprivamo le finestre, facevamo aria ma era tutto inutile. Era impossibile viverci, ma proprio emotivamente. Così impossibile che non ce l'ho più fatta, ho abbandonato la mia casa, il mio passato e quel sogno impossibile.

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Explorations on the city: Milan now Dream


E' veramente, veramente complicato come mi sento io dentro Milano. Ieri sera percorrevo via Carlo Botta verso Porta Romana per prendere la metro, direzione Rogoredo. Sabato evening, almost time for dinner. At that time there are 2 New York: one that is getting ready to live the night "out" and getting ready to live the night "inside." Lighted windows are the eyes of the houses are heated by themselves. Lighted streets, local soft lights, metro stations, arcades, railway station are the shelters of those who live the night out. Of those who are open to the ancestral fear of not having a shelter and be devoured alive. Metropolis Milan is much more to me than others, for example in Rome. Why is more erratic, more northern, nearer to the idea of \u200b\u200bcold and dark. There's less harmony, the corners are sharp and separations, the emotions are clear and strong, with no way half. Rome is more conciliatory, more maternal.
So Milan is all that is happening outside, at night, a Saturday evening and a rocking Sunday slumber. Anything can happen out there while you are in transit, passing between two guys who do not belong to you.
Milan is the memory of the impossibility to exist, and nostalgia for transmutation, when you can be all or nothing, at the same time. It 's the heart transgressive and rebellious adolescence, which can not be contained in anything, but is desperately looking for something that contains it. Milan is a girl who cut, vomiting, and escaped.



24/9/06
La stazione è un crocevia dove si scontrano i destini di un sacco di gente, a volte per pochi attimi, a volte per ore, o per sempre. Guardi una persona, le senti pronunciare una frase e da lì ricostruisci, immagini. Un tossico mezzo sfatto che al telefono dice "Pronto, mamma..." e non pensavi nemmeno a quella parola in bocca sua, ha un sapore strano. Un bambino dai tratti peruviani, o colombiani, che ti suggerisce panorami da foresta amazzonica, o vedute andine, vestito all'ultima moda, con i jeans e la crestina ingelatinata.
Persone di mondi diversi che transitano qui, solcano i crocevia immaginari del caotico occidente, trasformano le metropoli in agglomerati faceless where differences are mixed and where all at the same time, there is. Leaving in the mouth the taste of anything.
The metropolis has the power to cancel the distance, to deny the separation but also to divert to the precipice towards moments of immense solitude, while compound split, undo and do coexist. The metropolis is a paradox alive, breathing. Milan is a metropolis that spreads and grows without form. Where everything is so close that they can tap into and then moves away to not see each other anymore.

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I decided: the theme of my blog will DREAMS AND THE CITY '. Two of my specific interests, two passions, two obsessions that often meet and mingle inside me like lovers' bodies. Speaking to me through their embrace and make me live other lives.

The peculiarity of the dream of tonight is the pit. I was in the midst of so many people on the beach. A crowded beach, those style Versilia, with umbrellas close, almost touching the sky and cover. Even my brother and his friends had unit a long table, with a canopy of cloth that covered him, and camps. It was not a summer beach, as always, the sea of \u200b\u200bmy dreams is dark and winter, with the cloudy sky turned gray and very wet sand. It was also moved, marked by swelling waves of swimmers who swam quietly. Recover after the curtain of people who crowded the shore and I stood on the shore, with his feet in the water. I wanted to take a bath but the decision was difficult because the sea was not invited: in addition to waves, the water was cold and dark. My body reacted to this difficult situation but also emotional climate, however laboriously gathered forces to plunge.
But suddenly the crowd gathered and moved to something as guided by an attractive force.
Even I walked with the other, crushed in the crowd, losing sight of known faces. As an unlikely step with sudden we were in my nursery. It was much bigger than in reality and willing differently. Ancient Great rooms with little furniture. Appeared the sisters, including my teacher. There were no children but their presence was felt, even if the environment was more like an empty orphanage rather than a nursery. The rooms are filled with waves, people crammed in search of something, or waiting for a higher order. The flow began again and pushed through the building were coming along dark corridors and rooms that lead to other rooms, in a kind of laborious ascent. The scales were transformed by large staircases nineteenth century in small, unstable ladders made of dark wood, on the attic and the sense of ascent increased, while the sisters remained on the lower floors and I tried my teacher, lost in the crowd to prepare beds for children. I wanted to get there but the pace of the crowd that was entered does not let me. And then I was afraid that I'd know. We ended up on the ridge of a mountain, a cliff overlooking the sea. The last climb was tiring to climb a rock wall, which ended with a sharp point and slippery. There were so many, I and other familiar faces, people of my childhood. You could see the sea out of sight, a sea of \u200b\u200bMediterranean flavor, I can not say what time of day.
The most pervasive feeling was that of not being able to visit with calm and sufficient living space my asylum. Seized by the desire to go back and review it room by room, even in unknown aspects, I was prevented dall'ingombro human who presided. I discovered a dark, dusty corridor of rooms with the nuns. While others had achieved the purpose of the mysterious visit, I felt deeply dissatisfied and disoriented.
I had found what, in my past, I came for.

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Shadows behind his back

Sometimes when you go to meeting future events feel behind the threats posed by signals from the past. I would not have to confront this painful occurrence. The fear of being invisible and forgotten. The fear of not existing, or being confused in the midst of a pit of other human beings who are pressing for survival. The need to emerge almost as a matter of life, like breathing ... the prima delle funzioni che il corpo umano deve acquisire per garantirsi la sopravvivenza. Perchè ho bisogno di tutto questo?
Di riviverlo ancora e ancora fino all'estremo, fino alla ripetizione infinita che non lascia più nulla se non un solco profondo e senza significato.
La cosa che meno riesco a tollerare è il gruppo. Io nel gruppo non riesco a funzionare, divento un arto scollegato che va per conto suo, dove confluiscono le correnti più primitive e meno elaborate di tutti gli altri. Nel gruppo ho paura di non avere aria da respirare e di soccombere.
Lo so, è un discorso poco comprensibile: lo è anche dentro di me, anche se ci sono i collegamenti oggettivi che servono to contextualize and understand what I'm talking about. But here I can not enter them. Here I will only trace data transmission, not trapelerà me anything about the real, if not something of the inside, poured on these blank pages and reassembled as best as possible. I'm not here for me to know, to open myself. Rather I am here to close me, to have a secure container in which the movements without trying to hurt me. I'm here to leave a track I do not make me feel real, but just let me leave here and there things I can not show the world, like seeds sown among the clods of earth moved. My hope is that somehow giving birth to germinate a new plant.
Basically forget to understand: you can take the pieces and groped to connect them, thinking that this experience makes me feel free and protected in my weaknesses, in my dark side scream as much as fiercely in the dark in an empty room. And you can still have a form of me made by you and then create a new me through you, whenever you read. 'S why I made a blog and am trying every day to create my own blog philosophy through the lives that we live in, I make use of them. Not original, not as much as other blogs I've seen around and they are truly a stroke of genius, but mine, my little virtual room where I want to exist. It 's all I can do.

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Ode to the metropolis of glass: NY


I would write about New York from here.
But I can not. Some things I try just there, simply closing his eyes and breathing, trap air, noise and sound. Even the air in New York is special and if you breathe with your eyes closed You know exactly where you are. Are you in NY.

2/1/2005
are in NY for a few hours. I had a shower, chamomile, and now I write from my bed to a huge and half of Manhattan hotel where we are staying. The first impression was abrupt: chaotic, dirty, full of things that catches the eye of quell'accozzaglia marginally in American movies. Wooden houses, 1000 lights, garbage bags for the dark streets of Queens, strong smells, billions of advertising signs, lights in the skyscrapers in a honeycomb ...

Even now I feel it is behind the glass and that will never stop until a new day. It happens to all out there tonight

The metropolis of glass is like a heavy breathing into which all the sounds of America. It 's a notorious street with smoke coming out of the heat from the pavement. It 'a window with leaded panes in a rush on a roof deck to cross. And 'the Central Park where I meet an envoy of Rai 3 walks and I see that a huge lake on which birds Marine formed a band with their bodies. It is the palace of Gosthbusters. It 's a port city. E 'Brooklyn and many faces of farmers in the south that have started to live here a century ago. And 'the city of Oriana Fallaci, even if I did not find his house, but I knew it was there. E'l'abisso of Ground Zero seen at night in which crystals refract light and sink names of unsung heroes. It 'a flute sings God Bless America on a street corner. And 'Little Italy empty sad scene in a movie early twentieth century. And 'no homeless and wondering where is gone.

And 'look up and put a little' before finding the sky.

Building A Dune Buggy Blueprints

Hole water e. .. prodigal son



Metti tutti questi sogni strani che ho fatto, e la visione di un film surreale e inquietante, "Profumo", al cinema con una mia amica e poi la sosta al messicano, a mangiare cibo finto e piccante. Poi la storia di un amico (ma era un amico??) diciamo conoscente, che ha deciso di andarsene improvvisamente e non si capisce come gli altri la pensino veramente (la parabola del figliol prodigo...). E i sogni che continuano, e sono sempre più nitidi, immagini e situazioni che mi sento di aver vissuto davvero e la mattina, when I wake up and before in real life, I leave my head I feel confused and dazed, as if suddenly I was in another city in another world at the time of a blink of an eye ... who are they really? Sometimes it is so difficult to separate reality from fantasy, dall'allucinazione, it is more convenient to get carried in the kaleidoscope of images of the psyche that are like so many film clips stitched together. Only yesterday, surrounded by a sea of \u200b\u200bdancers pre-and late teens, with shiny skin, hair and eyes bright volminosi. Immature bodies and beautiful, the soft sculptural lines lengthened and slender. Desire to get lost in that world, which vanishes when you close the curtain and vanishes ancora, come un sogno alle prime luci dell'alba.
Un sogno da rincorrere finchè resta fiato in gola. Abiti indossati con noncuranza, gioco di stili condotto con la leggerezza dell'adolescenza, dove tutto vale nel momento in cui esiste e poi scompare. Adolescente per sempre, contro il tramonto, contro il freddo della notte, adolescente nella trasformazione perenne che non porta da nessuna parte. Un orecchino strano e capelli fermati con le mollette e calzini di lana e un maglione largo e una scia di lucidalabbra che risplende nel buio.

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Open water 2


Quando ero piccola trascorrevo un mese di vacanza al mare in Toscana. L'ultimo giorno, prima di tornare a casa, mi immergevo for the last time. I looked at the deep blue water in the mask with eyes and thought Hello sea ... I was sorry to leave. Was the greeting of a child to something that felt alive and part of himself. I just simply this, hello sea ... and I knew he was listening. Silent, waiting for a winter of solitude. Then I walked away, wrapped nell'asciugamano, and I turned one last time to catch his gaze.
Say Hello sea, see you next year ...
sea Hello, see you next year ... (What you gonna do here just for the winter?)

Already So I wanted to live in the sea

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OPEN WATER. Reflections submarine


I've never seen this film. I've seen the trailer, I heard about it but I've never seen. But tonight I had a dream that reproduced exactly. I was alone in a sea like this, an expanse of water in the eye which was reflected in a dark sky.
I love swimming, especially offshore. Even if it gives you that feeling of vulnerability, of being alone in front of the power of nature. But in the dream I was even more alone because there were no other people, there was no land, there was nothing. Only two sharks, whose fins emerged from the water, Slowly they approached me, harmless as dolphins. But I knew it would not last long. I would be eaten alive. No one could save me. I was alone in front of my death, a terrible death, it would make me suffer so much. I have never seen the end of this nightmare. The idea was so unbearable that I woke up first. I know that I would die at sea. Just as I was born in the water so I die there. Every time I see him, immense and still, a primitive and absolute silence, I would like to disappear inside, forever. How it would break through from there, from the fourth dimension that is water. The water is as an interface between two worlds. That's why I love swimming. Have you ever experienced the sound propagates under water? And 'the sea's voice, the voice of the abyss.
When I think I want to be in a fish to live. I dive, and before I try to emerge a little pain, suffer acutely in leaving that. The re-emergence, the water's edge, is the transition between the two dimensions. I'm over, I begin to breathe with my lungs, I see the sky, the sun warms me. Yet I suffer because I separate ...

Free Plans For A Optimist Dinghy

blogs I visited beautiful, true works of art. I wondered why sentissi l'esigenza di creare un blog ma ancora non ho saputo rispondere. Da una parte pare un'esigenza estetica connessa all'impulso di creare che in questo periodo sta occupando la mia mente a tempo pieno. Dall'altra c'è questo fatto delle cose molto personali che normalmente si bloggano, e che anche se non lo sono apparentemente, in realtà parlano di te più di quanto te ne possa rendere conto. Non saprei dire quanto un blog lo faccia chi guarda o chi scrive. A volte mi sembra che sia l'osservatore, il navigatore casuale che si imbatte in quella pagina, proprio quella in mezzo a milioni di altre, che dia un valore a quel blog più di quanto possa averne in sè stesso. Se non ci fosse l'occhio anonimo del visitatore, del lettore, il blog exist? The books exist without reader? It 's the same thing when we ask if the tree falling in the forest with no one feels it makes a noise ...
do not know if the idea of \u200b\u200bmy blog would have taken shape without the thousands of eyes peering from the darkness of the virtual world. Moreover I would like to develop it, improve it day by day as you do when you buy a new home. The first time you go in and feel it and you start thinking what to put in, starting with the essentials to get the decorations, the supellettile, paintings, everything that makes you feel really yours. And my house that I do not have it, and who knows how long I will not, I decided to take this space of nothingness, this virtual apartment of my own, I can costruiredipingerearredaredistruggere way I like it. Where there's only me I open the door and I let the guests. Where can I go if I scream and smash everything. Where do I stand up and shutting myself in my world, and play with words, letters and sounds. Where can I muovermisaltareurlare. I've done it. I opened, I baptized ... Welcome
blog in your virtual world

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HOMESWEETHOME

Symptoms,brain Aneurysms

Normal size

not just an hour. I will do it but not enough simply to tell you all I have. I discovered a world while traveling on a train to the old station of Milan in a gray morning.