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Shame! coward!

How beautiful you are or who you offended outraged, disgusted and moralists, pompous and wicked as you are yourselves, you who bets and watch your finger on the violence in Rome the violence of all places, the violence of all places of rage and hope you go to Ministers. Are you so sure that outside of your backyard, with your green plastic watering can and the fake Chinese rubber plant, and far away your home safe and reassuring, that without the earpiece of your glasses from suck to linus give a tone, not alzereste a finger, a little girl, hand, if exaggerated, and if exacerbated if desperate?

you all peace and love but everyone regardless? All carriers (?) Of the other cheek? The violence is not justified, must be ordered, the trains with him came the time (especially in Poland), and oxen from your wife, not born from nothing insane bombs come the flowers (and their children, came to the world as rabbits) . It 's not time for you and maybe it will not' ever, but one day wake up from the disc that clicks and the story that everything goes well, you too will pass here, in situations in which there is little other choices, or if you just have one. Then find one morning with the picture in the paper in that last window with Annozero want to shout "Shame!" "coward."

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The TV in my mind I thought it was unwatchable but I

I returned after my long exile, chained and gagged in a charming basement of the ultras of Williams, after my last piece of love and reverence for the park sisters club, I managed to break free and then find the strength to be here among you, once and for all times to be (?). What better opportunity then to celebrate the historic event that finally led to our country the chance to love our sport freely no chains no longer like a hawk in the middle? Yes, I mean just Supertennis, Wikileaks of the tv, built against everything and everyone, to the delight of all of us from different Assange, Angelo Binaghi.

now seems distant times Telecapodistria Faust, who gave us the biggest tournaments without a mortgage, tournaments that have made us grow, discovering tennis and love the great champions. Auspicious times then become detrimental, with more than one canvas paintings then become blacker then (after protests from viewers leaguers) become Sky Sky just now and then football and tennis, Wimbledon aside, there could not care less. Times unfortunate that we have forced a bit ' unlikely to seek all streaming from videophones to continue to love and praise our champions, of course, changed over time, to our sadness. (Plural nous).

But now something has changed, and no matter the various criticisms that you do mystifying rain pushed each point (this is for tastes delicious), ungenerous criticism of a TV quality video illegal in Uzbekistan, the graphics given birth to a commodore 64 infested virus, and another game is also a darkness signal during the Davis Cup final, the transition to digital terrestrial difficult as the Fibonacci series in memory after five pints of beer, the newsreels of the son of Gale (yes, Gale's son) and Galimberti engaging and relevant as those of Del Debbio comment on whether the Golf.

This is just gossip. Supertennis Force, a new Italian miracle.

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League

inspired by a recent article in the Guardian that the charge of racism latent (?), The American press. Having never seen the Williams sisters take kindly to journalists from overseas were welcomed with enthusiasm, crackers, champagne, bananas and raspberries Wozniacki of the ascent to the top of the WTA rankings. Why? Simple! The Danish company is young, white, blonde, pretty with its graceful look of one who does not know the Beatles. The Williams instead with features, and self-propelled movements that have never, do not and will not ever think of dinner by candlelight.

"So what?" Will be wondering the two or three readers of this blog, waiting even a few lines explaining the unnecessary and boring preamble. So. The Williams, in my eyes, have always been unwatchable. Racquets used as a shovel to dart (?) Beyond attacking the network, services to 200 km / h, graceful movements of a cormorant and a predisposition al'elargizione agony of love and sympathy to the public, to the umpire and line and into the opposing

At this point who was inspired article in the Guardian could take inspiration from my idea of \u200b\u200bwho was inspired by that article for heels of "racism". Because in addition to everything above, Williams is also black (but it should be?). So any negative feedback part, by racist assumptions, in turn, the interlocutor, a latent and thinly veiled hint, in fact, racist.

When it is simply a matter of feelings and emotions. That women's tennis has stopped giving for years. Since women's tennis does not and tennis is not even more feminine. Since the dawn I have Graf, Seles, the Sabatini, Novotna the left in a wasteland of shampiste, pin ups, screaming beast and sickle. And any player is in the head, the unwatchable Wozniacki shovel or sisters, is still the sensation of absorption. Of each emotion.

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Simply ... more! Emergence

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Pago for my suckling pig

last hour. The famous sports announcer, not that great connoisseur of our beloved sport, T-Bone, said "Giampiero Galeazzi, yesterday night was the victim of a terrible incident of crime. At about midnight after another day spent in the canteen Rai, the reporter came into the hall of his palace accompanied by the escort, as happens now from 30 anni.Ma this time something has changed. After taking the elevator to reach the mezzanine floor where the site (?) His apartment, T-Bone greets John (the man in the Commons) and entered the house. E 'at this point that the nightmare begins. No time to put down the sandwich with the lamb and the keys on the table a roar that shakes the windows and walls. "At first I thought it was the fall mortazza I keep on the bedside table, but when John came knocking at the door, pale face told me the all I understood what had happened, what I had risked. Me and my family. "

According to a first reconstruction done at Grissom, which are entrusted with the investigation, the heroic John, after greeting the Prayer, he stumbled on the stairs ("I did not take the elevator because I had decided to fumarmi of Napalm ") in a man armed with a pizza takeaway lurking not far from the apartment where Giampiero had just entered. Late at night, when I write these lines, obviously the trend is still to be clarified, but the testimony of John, it seems certain that the man who waited for the reporter Rai wearing a uniform waiter. Be suspicious attitude to the john, pointing the gun in order, ordered him to fermarsi.È at this point that, showy discovered, while giving the criminal to escape threw the ham and mushrooms in the direction of the agent's stock. Which is still a little peckish, wanting to sample the piping hot pizza scattered on the steps, she discovers what could lead to untold consequences and not think twice to fire the bullet-riddled neighbor who was returning with the dog, the dog, the old woman upstairs in the lobby for release in the meantime the noise of the truck and the boy out of the stable mentres sausage served the last of the day. With the bomber were unfortunately dileguatosi shadows.

is now trying to reconstruct a indentikit then to start the manhunt, sure that Grissom and his men succeed aa deal with them. "If he had rung the bell, with the uniform of a waiter, I would certainly open the ham and mushrooms I'd eaten well. Realizing too late that the lack of peppers I always put on the pizza I order. I pay for my suckling pig. "

developments are expected which makes you share in the coming days. For now we can only embrace Bone and his family happy and tell us that everything is finished well.

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adolescent


And do not hide ... talk!

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If this is a man

There was a time when tennis was still the Tennis. A time when there were still Fognini, the cuttlefish, Bolelli and Starace, unspeakable talent blossomed and got only few decades later, a time (it is already the third time that I write, if you want to suggest a synonym can also answer below) in which every boy or girl had not spoiled for choice as to which standard to choose to identify with and cheer. About the coldness exciting Edberg, who cuffs Sweaty Lendl, who dresses the color of Agassi and who, coming to me, the elephantine elegance of psychopathy Bum Bum Becker. Years pass and 10 are long. Some samples are unknown, others have become writers, others have given to the commentary, the other crafts.

Everyone did a decent short order. Everyone, with few exceptions. Few exceptions including him, what's left of him. The blond-reddish (or red to blond) diving on any field, and lake place to pierce the opponent. The awkward elephant who could not stay away from the network and with a touch unthinkable. The impatient monological psychopath for hours on the sideline by himself looking for because of their dramas. The Brave against whom he had married a black girl in a country not exactly loving towards the unlike German. I sighed several times reading of his divorce, his children scattered like a Cristiano Ronaldo all, their suitcases on the bed for those long trips to the chilling commercials for poker tournaments (a bit like seeing Tyson advertise tournaments Trivial ). But the last straw that broke the pint of my discomfort was his image, swollen like a skin, sitting in quell'Ocktober fest did not think to drain the tenth liter of beer. A sad picture, I knew of more than a muted, more than 10 Grand Slams in a row to Nadal, more than "we are a very strong team" after losing two singular in two hours doing little more than 10 games, more than ever, as before I will love you, bum bum.

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A ray of sunshine.

That WTA had ceased to have anything to do with tennis and women's tennis could refute it (?) For years. The domain of the sisters Serena and Venus, four arms torn ATP, a shovel had removed the surplus (?) Class, grace and elegance that also called for the male audience, usually sexed and racist in this sense ( and do not shake your head saying no) to sit on the couch to watch matches. And waiting for some breath lenisse these cleavers racket disguised as (or vice versa do you) had meanwhile reached the wrong one (of wind): an infinite number of clones (or clone?) howler from the east, to the wonderfully nice covers, bedroom or truck, but to no avail irritants, including Mossetto, wheedling, thighs and mosquitoes and the monotony of their game.

And in this ominous gray sky that shot (?) Swallows who have never done spring, Maria Jose Martinez Sanchez, Romina Oprandi, Alexandr Dolgopolov to give us glimpses of class and poetry . Squarci tarp and overshadowed by the physical and the mind unstable that plagues almost always the folly of talent. (?).

For this, (I had lost the reason for this preamble) (but I found myself) I would like to thank (and you should, too) Kim Clijsters, who returned recently More than a year, in slippers, dressing gown and a child which to burp every day. And to demonstrate, in the meantime, winning two Grand Slams, was clearly lower than the level of competition. Not for sminunire the scope of his victories, also to resize a domain of the muscles on the talent. To appeal, may not excite doubt (some people find exciting Chuck Norris) but that was perhaps inevitably broke his balls (a French release it every so often).

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The loneliness of the Spanish numbers. Question

We talk about the loneliness of the numbers? We want the tumbler boring pages of records? We want to rattle off statistics sterile? After Nadal's triumph at the U.S. Open (which was easy to define "announced" after the departure of the King) is, the English vogliamo.Lo the tender age of 24 years and hurry up, put in your pocket and 2 9 slam finali.Alla very very young puppy (for female readers) the age Messiah had collected 6. Like it or not, (favor (?) For less) whereas the sun is now dell'Innarivabile sure thing (and swallow at the Australian Open has now been demolished) English is destined to become the strongest of all time . No, wait. Now I can come up with the class, elegance, grace, forehands, backhands. No.NO. We're talking about titles. Of charts. Of those annoying comparisons with the giants of the past. If you were worth the immense then must apply for Rafael yet. Four, five years older levels still lie ahead.

Recital (I've used but this time I do not have a synonym accustomed (?)) The intangibility of Murray, the absence of predictable Vate, the inconsistency mental and physical characteristic of a number of cormorants Roddick and Del Potro, Djokovic of discontinuity (which is the praise for the wonderful match with the Supreme) (match humiliated that he would lose if the iridescence is not now a shadow of himself ) will overwrite all the pages of this sport (tennis for those who still did not know what I'm talking about). For joy, crying, delirium, voodoo dolls, discomfort, onanism, crime and punishment of all the fans. And maybe, perhaps, who complained about the dictatorship of the Swiss should seriously start worrying about that yet Spagnola.Rimpiagendo times gone by, when Wimbledon was the whole campaign.

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with Susy.

A great leader and politician. An attack that punished under laws ad personam with making Dr. Strangelove laws affecting the society, has the right to govern without any interference from iperpoliticizzati segments of the judiciary who want to put him offside.

A dictator surrounded by the paranoid racist, actual people who believe in imaginary worlds, and who understand the mood of the people. A leader of a government that has done so much for the Italians, disaster for the school, for jobs, the economy. In the five points he did not put anything to jump-start the economy and make it competitive.

A leader of a great national party, a big party occidentale.Il PDL is gone. With specific reference values: freedom, respect and human dignity. And we will not be intimidated by his paranoid and pathetic campaign. Indecent because paranoid and pathetic because they are not aware of the contempt that is mounting around.

A party that has opened horizons of great hope, a source of ideas, a lung that breathes oxygen and gives the whole party nazione.Un subjects declassified at the leading edge, where the distinctions are treason.

we are all grateful. There is an Italy worried. The Italians are tired of this perpetual campaign that never ends, this triumph of propaganda, this ordeal quotidiana.E then, in the name of a truly liberal center-right National reformer, social, European, and freedom to continue with future Italy.

I am sure that he did not take.

I say this without irony.

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I return in mind.

"The place is not fixed everything, seek God." Who could have uttered such unattainable, LSD and hilarious shit? A businessman on the verge of bankruptcy vinavil doped up to? Bondi intervened to calm everyone down to an assertion of the unemployed? (Formerly unemployed) ("the government of doing" immersed in the usual trivial matters to them heart to heart as Rosy Bindi the state contribution for the nipple rings to twelve years old indigent ).(?).

No, much more depressing than the answer. To utter a word that is otherwise pathetic Puff Daddy Piazza San Pietro (rings and chains that feed the Belize, which is advancing with the feeding of the Congo), the top of her dress funny slippers Prada, the smoking of crack 19 April 2005 has made our country a worse place.

What would you say the news (if you're still having my biblical times). No, the indolence of Safin is out of my body and I did not know where to fucking start.

With I learned to defeat the hilarious U.S. Open? With Tila Tequila stoned making them only two scratches? With the brilliant idea of \u200b\u200bBersani's Witnesses to knock on doors of every Italian? (Here are the point of no return) (I'm trying to close this piece with the same familiarity that Edward Scissorhands was closed in the bathroom).

There, now that I think about buying in the last moments of football market Rinaudo by Juventus could make me pass on key rivers. But it ends well, this brief intervention if they va.Il mouse clicks and send this idiocy. But wait and you'll have another. It was better to die than say small crime, and another written (?) begin.

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Just a few years ago, and Ezio Mauro Eugenio Scalfari , on the occasion of the death of Gianni Agnelli, he recalled the gigantic figure of twentieth-century Italian man, a symbol of an era and epic.

of him everything from family events to the battles of captain, from the political (in a context that had somehow contributed to) the family misfortunes, the weaknesses and contradictions of man.

a man deeply admired Kennedy and Kissinger who was able to distinguish capitalism from the great failure that the ultimate consequences of a relentless system could be determined. A man, sum up, of which today feels terribly missed.

more so these days, when the arrogance and the arrogance of an industry now headless like Fiat (the young Elkann is a diaphanous figure grossly overshadowed by the royal hawk and racketeering Marchionne), looking towards the globalization of own profit, ends up transformed into rage against three workers guilty of having defied a protest with the relentless race to the overproduction no extra cost (direct legacy of that Pandora's box that capitalist system is the matrix of Eastern Europe).

Three laid-off workers on suspicion of three trucks have blocked the production line during a strike (as they are distant memories of the occupied factories, or of women and men who died during protests workers) and reinstated by the national working in the factory SATA Melfi (PZ).

And to think that this factory is the most eloquent of a mixed public-private investment, which led to work in those wilderness of southern Italy but has lost the very memory of his DNA, an industry group created by public funding and that does not recognize a ruling of the court. Already, because Today, the three workers are due back to work at 14 with the police and with their lawyers and court bailiff in tow, because he had been told not to go to the factory because so much would be paid anyway until definitive pronouncement of the Judicial sull'ennesima opposition made by the Lingotto.

Returning yes, but without a function, stripping of their identity as workers and oppressed beyond all limits.

I can not remain silent. No.

One because that is a fact about my land.

Two results of this because I believe in the capitalist system "in the principle of communicating vessels between economies at different longitudes "sinks centuries of conquests and trade union demands.

Three behind all this because I read the worst failure of Berlusconi-business system that is infesting the national economy with all the worn-led antigiustizia.

E four, if I may, because I start to get tired and, as I said in another post , I believe in freedom as the antidote to fear.

And I feel free.

That works .. . even with my money.
But not in my name.

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Not in my name Do not you trust me?

Yesterday, a day in the land of Pollino.

The occasion was offered by the party with their parents on the sidelines of a scout camp which was attended by my eldest son. Obviously, the emotion was very strong in the hold them again after eight days away from home, lived in a "limit" as a scout is expected to experience.
During lunch, my puppy (ten years but for me remains the pisolotto ever), I said, 'Dad, if you come with me into the woods I'll show you something. "
I felt sad because my little man was looking for complicity with his father's eyes denouncing mixed emotions ranging enthusiasm to the party required to share a puppy of a man looking in the father.

"Let's go!" I said with an air of pride.
We walk in a beautiful grove of Farnetti, elegant and sinuous for the short slender stalks that flood plain of the refuge, the glint of sunlight raining down through thick foliage, an essential and useful to generate a minimal shadow. After all, this seems to be just the charm of a wood Farnetti.
At one point, while the leaves dry out loud trampling of the undergrowth, my little breaks, "Close your eyes and give me your hand." I did it, how do you usually with small children when you want to grant will remark the pleasure of the adult.

After twenty steps with eyes closed, but the thing is complicated.
'missing much? "I asked. "No. But do not open your eyes, "the answer.
"Could it be that I'll run into a tree?" I pointed out, fearing the worst, not being accustomed to walk in the woods with your eyes closed.
"Do not you trust me? Can not you see I'll take your hand? ".
Ten years, 1.40 tall, 53 kg, black eyes, black hair, olive complexion. I remember when I kept her up at night to sleep and indomitable constantly in search of food. Little man holding his hand to me yesterday asking me for the first time to trust him.
And the mind is racing to Levi-Strauss and the rites of passage of the Aboriginal population, roughly the age of my son, leave the boys alone in the woods at night because they become adults. The rite of passage that will make the child a man so consumed in nature and is exposed to risks it may present. In the morning, that puppy becomes a man and can drive, work, providing food for the family clan, plan the emotional life and its dimension of "adult".
Yesterday I heard for the first time my son as a small adult (allow me the oxymoron) and I was happy. Also because the ceremony took place just as in nature to the aboriginal peoples of Africa Central and South-because I felt that I could start having to trust him.

And I? I kept my eyes shut until we reached an artificial wall of wood where you could climb to exercise (his memory was gone when we tried it with a lot of fun on a cruise ship six years ago).

The strong emotion that I carry in the hand is not so fine a boy who goes with sure-footed grip and the other, taking "responsibility" to lead them to a destination.

Solidarity and / is responsible.

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How nice to think ...

Recently, I was often alone.

However this time it is the loneliness that I want to talk.

Far from everything and everyone I have found the right mood to work, to read, to listen to my music, to go out suddenly for a coffee at the bar, to stroll among the people: even the courage to strumming the guitar with joy.

photographic memories and I walked through the alleys of the old center of my city, never quite finding enough. The morning sun and fresh air evening offered solace to the heart, ever so slight a long time.

And then the thought has reconstructed many pieces of my life that some have combined "freedom", without criteria and without any order, an internal logic that governs the structure.

And suddenly everything became clearer. And that is why everything has become more bearable.

What should reserve this summer I would never have said. Taken as I was by the anxieties (often unfounded) of everyday life, events, conflicts had lost its sense of direction for myself.

Somehow I thought the sea and what they are, I heard from friends who did not feel much, I wrote, sang, danced. I discovered how many people love me and that I often end up neglected. But above all I

much thought, abandoned to the rhythmic beat of peaceful intimacy finally balanced.

How many reflections that I wanted to stop in a post but after I settled in well as the dreams have vanished at dawn. But I also know that, just like the dreams of the morning, leaving us in feelings, moods, passions, and to determine the mood of the day.

And I realized that thinking was possible only away from the worries and the daily routine, a new management of my time I returned the sense of my life and gave me an inner peace that I had lost long ago.

accomplice in all this, the silence. The silence I read the post 365 364 sunrises sunsets which borrows a reflection from a sharp Stefano Benni: the exploitation of that silence, which comes from the words and that is a prelude to life. A necessary silence, whether a moment or an hour, as long as you turn into an opportunity for life and not in a blackout.

And the silence and solitude I also have to rediscover the profound sense of freedom. Discover yourself, what you are, what you are capable, they are a freedom-enhancing features that can meet others who accepts the other's thoughts and not the complaints, and that does not separate approaches.

In the silence and solitude I re-discovered love, the true one, that deep, which feeds the infinite and profound stillness.

E 'was great to meet me.

They are also missing, in the light of awareness, so many fears. Have dissolved many many fears and insecurities have evaporated. Find that each of us is a universe that is a value that can never be questioned. From anyone. The assets that we bring in is the gift of life and existence product, constantly evolving and constantly exposed to the crossfire of existence. Protecting this heritage is the most significant gesture of strength, freedom and love for themselves, that secures and strengthens the step in a complex and hard to face but that the strength of women and men who have the courage to keep your back straight can improve. Just as wisely concludes an enlightened editorial Ezio Mauro in La Repubblica on 23 July entitled "Sludge Factory " incitement to withstand the difficult times that we live in, finding the strength to still appalled and having the courage to inguistizie their ideas, "thus demonstrating that freedom is stronger than fear" .

I still believe.

for me.

For my children.

For those who love me and the person I love.

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Blog suspended and thanks

As you'll notice this blog has not been updated for months.
The reasons they can imagine, we were busy in the launch of our new film, The Band of the Brazilian, who is going beyond expectations.

We know ... We are not people who are used to make the blowjob alone, but a little 'results of our little film got you and for once let us do a "progress report".

We are moving towards the goal of the 40 screenings across Italy, including self-managed by John Snellinberg Film screenings (a series of sold out the small cinemas in Florence and Prato not seen for some time), festivals and film clubs for a total of almost 8000 spectators, mostly paying. If you know a bit 'zero budget independent films to know how often the echo of a film runs out in the narrow circle of friends and relatives. Well it is true we are numerous, but we have so many friends, nor so many relatives!

We got reviews, articles and passages on the national editions of La Repubblica, Corriere della Sera, Raitre, Radiodue, Radio101, Filmtv, Nocturne, Wild Bunch, and many others, appreciated by Mario Monicelli in person and by critics such as Mark Giusti, Roberto Curti Francesco Alo, Antonio Bruschini, editors and young militants Filmtv, Indie-Eye, Cineclandestino, Cinema Bizarre ...

In collaboration with many musicians and we put up with Escalation, let us say, a soundtrack with controcazzi. The soundtrack CD is almost sold out. The Band of Brazil has begun to perform a couple of months these days, and will tread the stages of major festivals in the company of people like 35 and Caliber Baustelle.

We have earned a national distribution on DVD by the CG Home Video catalog and we finished well with other Filmon. The DVD can be found on June 8, or you can take anywhere from Blockbuster, FNAC, Feltrinelli, Mediaworld, as well as on the shop's online site and our sales are going well it seems.

We have just finished the script of our new film and we have good reason to be optimistic!
For this and a thousand other reasons
Thank you all very much!

All info on Brazil and on our business, from now on you can look for sites:
http://www.labandadelbrasiliano.com/ and http://www.johnsnellinbergfilm.com/

Saturday, November 7

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semiseria Chronicle of an evening of celebration

last night. Holidays for the patron saint. During the overcrowded city.
Illuminations, noises, sound Taranta!
The course is tight and people from swarms Banquet improvised by immigrants looking for a bit of survival.
I will not go into a tirade in defense of legality and certainly not in a forgiving and too easily prone moral poverty: I merely observe.
Two police officers (one man and one woman), solitary in the unequal battle against the illegal trade of counterfeit products were roaming the streets of the course to be decommissioned, a street the other, all improvised "windows" of improvised as sellers. Via
phony handbags, sunglasses cheesy way, via jewelry, pendants and necklaces ... all away!
As they turned the corner, with the dexterity of the best times of Silvan, that's all just reappear as before.
But most of all what made me shiver was to observe the aggressive look which is formally called "collect them all!" ... "Everything away" ...
I wonder why these raids, but never occur in the barracks (at least four in the entire city) operated by locals with doing business and that this administration has allowed the use of public land by giving even pre-fabricated gradually became more and more recognized the illegality of the stores. Yes: the native question in disposing of all (unbearably tolerated), to be counterfeit DVDs and CDs to games consoles and hi-tech change, needless to say, scontatamente illegal.
So what? What's the catch? It will not be the case that under the table, in addition to counterfeit marks, pass Palmieri of bribes that allow the exercise of professions abusive?
Oh I forgot! Many customers are law enforcement officials in those shacks!
enter it anything?

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This age


At this age it is in perpetual flight
staring under him,
to watch the world moves broken steps. At this


awareness declines in happiness.
At this age it is true.
At this age, you recognize.
At this age we live.

At this age, only at this age, it is poetry.

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The greatest discovery

About two months ago.
a stroke.
Then another.
My father is seventy-four, blue eyes and a great soul.
My father is fine now, thankfully!
I "suffered" these events with unexpected ease: worried but calm.
I thought that nature was doing its work and that nothing would have been for childish attempts to reject the event, relentlessly by opposing the inevitable: I dived into the river and I got carried away, "adhering" to the situation and striving to live intensely.
And then I discovered something never before seen in his forty now.
I saw my father mention a cry of despair (never happened before, not even the death of his parents) and close to the heart led me to a greater closeness to him.
With the right side completely blocked for the first few days completely dependent on me, the only son.
A cord made of heavy trade, encouragement of mutual smiles, tradottesi in all situations be a force to each other, convinced that we would have won the battle. And so it was.
But what moved me (almost to upset) was a close contact.
Unable to shave the beard I have repeatedly made.
A sunny morning at his home, just finished a hot bath ... I approached her face to his intention to raze it and being careful not to hurt him.
Those eyes, deep blue gray veiled by a look of age I gave back everything to me.
My God! I had never seen so closely. My eyes had never crossed her that way. It was my father. I was his son.
I communicated with modesty and a little embarrassment of his gratitude.
But I was grateful to him for that look. And
to chance, because I had allowed him to enjoy it before it was too late.
I love you dad.

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Perfumes

hit and sunk in an instant!

Over the past two days, thanks to the spring looming, I was shaken by two episodes pleasant.

Thursday: the waterfront of Salerno. Ore 18.50.

pleasant walk between budding athletes, families walking, distracted people conversing a little oblivious to what is happening around. Suddenly, a strong scent of flowers pittosporum strikes my senses and opens the soul to the memories of the night armed guards in an intense spring of twenty years ago. Immense joy to the next emotion.

morning: walking the town. 11.30.

The city on Sunday morning, sparse flows and diluted in the air of joyous celebration, takes me to a coffee and keeps me company in the stroll aimlessly produced by personal escape from asphyxia. It 'nice to walk and are basically a little distracted, too. Suddenly, a strong smell of broom sweeps me and lifts me up to the extreme serenity.

I feel I have a little orphan this morning, but happy, happy because the air around me greets me and makes me cuddles.

I really needed it.

And maybe I'll put on my two small terraces planting in memory of this season: a broom and a hedge of pittosporum.

But the smell will go well this time shared with anyone. Or not?

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many things ... Coherence

missing from my blog for more than two months: how was it possible?
I have no desire to communicate.
I'm not saying that my life has been so flat that it hardly had anything to say, but I did not intentionally want to write though it often has thoughtful posts.
My post "unspoken", in truth, have been translated into daily contact poetic and exclusive love shared with the person I love.
was thinking this afternoon about his desire to go back to writing: in doing so I realized that perhaps at the end I had no desire to listen to the deepest part of me, in a vain attempt to silence my most intimate emotions.
And just in time to say that the silence of those things have happened (good and bad), but tell little at a time in later posts.
For now I just re-contact with the depths of my soul, the great absence of recent times, just because they recently sent me clear signals.
And the need to give her voice a tear from my understanding, the same a few days (and some nights) bothers me as a reckless my pretty face:-P!

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Solitude Federasti numbers. I will pray for you

public face (for those four dogs, two pigs, the mouse and the elephant that I read) fine, to be reached Tuesday without saying a word even to the first Grand Slam of the season. But only a few minutes I am awakened from deep sleep into which I sank gently lapped by the sea of \u200b\u200bwoes that of Melbourne. (I read a moment what the hell I wrote) (here, now I can continue).

I stayed at 63 64, struggled as dall'abbacinante Galeazzi un'amatriciana struggle to devour, with a reagent such as De Niro Murray before he got Robin Williams and the other (the sample, the epitome of beauty, the Michelangelo of the racket, table tennis of the law (?)) to restrict themselves to a boring imitation of a tennis instructor, evince sol'ora I be lost in the final scene of the illusion of recovery granted, clearly returned to the sender for too much respect, devotion and love for the one who invented the tennis.

You could open or continue with the chapter of the sad record of victories, the charts of all time, the fastest laps (this is fine) without any opponent beyond the hedge. You may open or continue. But no.

Anything else? Too easy to paraphrase, but it is hard to remember a memory Federasta to slam more exciting and less depressing. All or almost already written in advance. The usual laughable Italiaca carnage that will be redeemed in the eyes of the Italians of the profession with the second challenger to the shift of Voghera and Pantelleria, the usual pathetic curtain talent suicide (Petzschner and Gasquet Leopardiani more poetic in their idiocy), the usual pantomime Djokovic rightly ridiculed worldwide by Tsonga interview after the game and then take in turn deride (Tosnga) in the upcoming match against tennis. (But I tell you to do).. The sad realization that the only vaccine for this solitude of the Swiss numbers is now lost in his body sore and run down.

find something to save and a sense in this tournament although did not make sense? The exploits of the ever unjustly underestimated idol Binetti, reached the final by Henin, which further demonstrates how the distressing level of WTA is also a former tennis player just retired for years to lecture at Eastern schampiste screaming. But expect the shovel sister lost two finals in a row with two ex back in vogue (?) Was in fact too much for Ivana Vaccari. And finally the highest point of the tournament, the one that has moved us all. First game, first stage of the tournament, the first ball served by I Am Legend. The judge called the Out, He 's Hawk-eye. Applause.

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Many times everything goes in the noisy clamor of days.
But the simplicity and clean will save us!
In love, of course.
uncontrollable and inexorably simultaneous imperatives.

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Too often I have flown and I threw darts toward the trash TV that corrupts our minds and making them slaves accustomed to just nod passively, but this time I was not able to stand up and applaud, tore his clothes in front of this setting (perhaps second only to the discovery of penicillin) and thank fate for having made me stand between a dull spot of pads and flying idiots who draw circles in the desert and then making me watch all this .

was about time that someone was thinking seriously about improving the lives of our increasingly forgotten and abandoned anziani.Dimenticati, at best, in front of the TV, while all flowing, revelers smiled without realizing it (to be party animals) (and that everything flows). And surrender, when it's bad, and shipped in a nursing home between the children too busy weekend in the mountains and pilates at the gym to lose time for the almost extinct.

was about time after all their suffering, these people relegated by society after a life work (?), Having to survive on 500 euro per month, these people forget that created beings, raised, educated and fed, they people forced to derision for alms bestowed with a nice card from the government of doing, these people eventually return to life.

Now these dead eyes from the light of life, these hearts that beat there is only inertia but that would sound whenever the date for the upcoming weight, finding a pattern, one more reason, the life force that will drag them with you. And all this thanks to Prex . which has now finally found space in the kennels, and perhaps on those Mediaset Rai, floods like manna from heaven for our loved ones happiness.


"Think of your mother and grandmother who finds herself all day alone in the house while you're taking all your activities would feel less alone with the friendly voice of the rosary digital prex"

"the digital rosary and 'the ideal inseparable friend the friend who will pray with you, the Virgin Mary. "

words he wanted to write De Andrè, words with which I conclude my writing, with the legacy of tears coming down my face, making him bald.

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catch the last orange.

Bossi: "We are racists? They make out the Christians. "Maroni" fight without hesitation illegal immigrants, "Calderoli," you are too kind to immigrants. "Gelmini" ceiling of 30% of foreigners in the Italian classes "(like what does the Gelmini?) (ah here). Certainly nothing new under the snow, but reading these words Garroniane fraternal and someone who had suddenly awakened from a coma, a film by Muccino or a congress of the Democratic Party might wonder what ever happened. These words, just words, words between them, the party of love, are only the latest tribute to the slaves at that Rosarno.

Schiavi paid half of a misery to gather oranges of lavish meals and canteens fates of those who hate them. Exploited slaves, slaves humiliated, hungry slaves, slaves, and slaves silenti.Silenti frozen until, impallinati for fun or as a profession (and loving it), poured into the streets, venting anger in which they were entitled. Asking to be heard.

asking to have dignity. Asking not to be in exchange animali.Ottenendo hitherto dormant hatred of the people whose work had been stolen, the beatings that crime does not exist and never existed I did not see anything I have not heard anything and if there was I looked at the TG4, the delusions of homophobic party Tolkien, the editorials of Avatariani Minzolini, the indignation of the Faith, the Santanchè menopause.

Their (the slaves), reinvented in reality reality reality rassicurante.La to the delight of young and old, encouraged and reassured that it was not changed anything and in fact, there is one more reason to continue to be people that makes' intolerance, dormant for decades, a virtue and ignorantia.Quel people that "I'm not a racist" and then vomits on the frustration that first desperate grasps an orange for a wretched morsel.


That people who humiliates and offends the taxes and then get an apology and pence Balotelli (like what does Balotelli?) (Ah ok), it is unpleasant, it is intolerant, it is annoying. But it is a laughing clown infinite power that has to pay duty and ask for forgiveness to the man who forbade the benches, for the clearest truths about his town and for being simple defense.

Ends up this short story goes away. With the runaway slaves, who knows where accepted, who knows how humiliated. But wait and you'll have another "Once Upon a Time" will tell the cantastronzate slavery and another will begin.