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Goodbye 2010! I'll wait for 2011! A Merry Christmas

Not everything went as I wanted. The claims were few: to spend Christmas together with a few relatives, feel good together, cuddle Pagnotta, spend a few days in good company and study. Studying so much these days a little less hectic.

shattered ... all this damn cold. 10 days locked in the house, and now goes to the antibiotic. The study has gone to hell and indietrissimo with the program, the walks and romantic dinners even mentioned.

Well, I am a little sick of sick.

For the rest I'm not complaining ... I would say that I have little to complain about, I would be ungrateful!

2010 is now over, it 'been a year full of emotions, not all positive, people who are no longer with us have left huge gaps, so much pain but also lots of good memories from hold tight to not forget them. It 'been a year of many puppets scent to know. In Geneva, I rediscovered the thrill of keeping the arms a baby with you peers and languid eyes will warm your heart. Giorgia, guanciona my niece, I wish I could have more chances to snatch many smiles.

Then there's the girl Paola who still do not know.

short, a whirlwind of emotions that throw my thoughts away.

E 'was the year of so many choices, so many thoughts, so many decisions and stances. And 'the year that I am more pissed with myself for the wrong choices for the time lost, my constant procrastination. The year of some whim satisfied. And 'the year in which the signs are back in my life. I chose my way of small steps I must follow.

The year 2011 will be a year of growth. Not only for all those girls, I hope for me too.

growth and challenges. It will be tough, I already feel tired. I can not give up, I have to fight and move on. It will be the year of great strides. And there always will be just rewards. There will also be pain, I know. I hope it's worth living it!

will also be the year of the flight from the nest. My, I think and hope, and also to my brother. It will be the year of growth for someone else. The thought is already at the moment which will be painful for all, leave us in suspense every day, waiting for a call that there tranquilizzi at least for a few hours my brother on a mission in Afghanistan. I dare not even imagine the anxiety that will result, commitment for us to stay close and support especially those who live more heavily at home.

It will be a year of personal growth, but also as a family. The affection, something should be and even commitment to each other.

'm optimistic about everything, and this is a great motivation that pushes me to commit.

I put on some objective reach the more frivolous the most important.

1. Lose a few kilograms and go back to my weight.

2. Sign up in the gym.

3. Be constant in all my commitments.

4. Complete the first level of lis.

5. Finish all the exams and the thesis.

6. Graduate.

There is also another little thing, but it is not a goal, is no longer a constant path that I have to remember: do not be too taken by myself to remind me of who is next. And commit to live the obstacles to overcome and move on.

will be tough, but I can do it.

And if two of us wanting to be less tiring!

I wish you all a happy and peaceful new year, full of warmth and love.

My best wishes go especially to those who pass this day like many others:

who has no other way to pass it if not in isolation or in disease,

children who grow up without dreams and no expectations for the future

to those in hospitals,

who no longer has anyone

who instead of rejoicing is facing so much pain,

who has no food nor a house, nor anyone close to embrace.

Those who have no more dreams,

to those who have but can not achieve them.

Who does not hope for more,

who lives attached to a hope.

Who does not believe in anything,

to those who need to believe in something.

who can no longer pray,

to those who pray for a living.

that love can still flooded in your life and help you discover what it means yet

love and be loved.

I would like to do something for everyone. For now, I can only give you my thoughts!

With all my heart ...

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"that every day is better looking than its predecessor and that the former is already so beautiful and intense as not being able to imagine a better one ... that, however, I am sure will happen ... ... Congratulations."

Happy and peaceful Christmas to you all!

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c


the building was known to everyone in the village. was in the middle between the old walls and the villagers, when they passed, there We threw at least a fleeting glance. no, it was certainly the style of the imperial administration building, was also far from rich baroque and flirty to the family home of the most powerful country and he was not the sleek and austere Gothic church. was simply beautiful, a Renaissance semplicitàa perhaps, linear, light but with an indefinable something that made it inevitable, in the sense that you could not ignore in any way: in the perception of the square took on a certain evidence, although inexplicable in words.

tall columns in relief lined the square geometry of the facade sleek, lean and sharp edges of the indentations in prominence, both compassionate and tough, with small niches richly decorated ornamental indecipherable and whimsical, perhaps of oriental origin, which gives harmony to the whole. to observe the building we came upon an ambiguous attraction, with carved stones that formed that seemed to come straight from the depths of time and that mute while revealing a deep sense of existence .

many then, over the years, have been stored. had traveled the long and sensual corridors lit by tall windows, were wandering into the room in an intricate system of spaces and doors, with rooms now full of light now enveloped in the gloom. But no one could well to see if he had actually visited all the rooms, always had the impression that there was some other door to open, remained a secret in the previous exploration. This gave off in the visitor a feeling a bit 'unnerving, at times irreverent, despite the atmosphere of the building remained immersed in a delicate balance and pleasant. alternated with moments of empathy were so uncomfortable, in a constant game of mirrors in which it seemed that the building itself was hidden to conceal the eyes of the visitor to turn its real essence.

basically no one knew the story well. much speculation past owners mad with lust, greed and vices of parties. others remembered instead of discrete gentlemen and merciful, who lived in harmony in the search for God was perhaps the shelter of a wealthy don giovanni dedicated to love life or perhaps had been the home of a lonely merchant who came to relax. in fact it was known with certainty. nothing leaked from those rooms, halls or from the back garden. the lives of those who had once lived was untraceable. There was certainly a rich library, an excellent collection of works of art and music room care. surely those who had had built and furnished with exquisite taste, abnormal sensitivity and a high cultural level. but who was he?
all leaked not the revocation of a common past but abandoned a sense Continuous standby , as if life would be there soon pick up where it left off for reasons unknown. everything seemed suspended as is the case for holiday homes where the rooms are closed pending the forthcoming holiday season. something must have happened, perhaps even irreparable, and seemed to be waiting for a new event to bring life back into the building.

many of you came with the intention of revealing hidden secrets, many intimate images to make their home, but in reality no one could consider not just family. the palace, sly, indecipherable continued to fascinate travelers with its charm.

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train


Alberto as salt every morning on a commuter train Piossasco of 7.15, the direction of Porta Nuova, Turin. 25 minutes journey time 10 minutes at a brisk pace to get to the Piazza San Carlo 2 branch of the Banca San Paolo. enters the car and with an involuntary movement, and now automatically look for it. the note at the bottom on the right. Today, as agreed, he sits in front of her. does not know what it's called, but they are now months that are found most mornings on the same train, in the same car, the first of the convoy, in order to get in and out more quickly when you arrive at the station. Once he had tried to smile, but she lowered her eyes, as if he had not noticed.
Alberto sits down and crosses his eyes resentful of his neighbor, an elderly man wrapped in a scarf and heavy coat, held close to the dirty, full of dandruff. has a chubby face but crossed by worries of old age, holding a yellow envelope, similar to the post and is absorbed in some kind of cursed the bottom unnecessary concerns. Alberto asks where he is going, certainly not at work. perhaps in hospital or a medical examination, you respond with a little 'cynicism. in the front seat, next to her, there's a young guy, jerk face, haircut pop star, thick glasses as used in an intellectual fashion of the current season, near the lip piercing, jeans a bit ' shooting boots and athletic black guy from the Bronx with his pants tucked in, the acid orange laces out. Play with the i-pod immaccolato a white piece of mail, "club music".
Alberto remembers the first time I went in '92, a techno rave-jungle, completely made of mescaline, when electronic music was basically a niche, an escape from the monotonous nightlife in Turin, were the years of the first European holidays where you experiment with new genres of first ecstasy pills. a reality far removed from today, think, who lost the drive-conformist, dj overpaid, "in" who plan to repeat the nth guests offering bland music, without energy.
already, he thinks, who knows where is the energy of those years . is over, perhaps with the University of Economics, ended with his marriage to Helen and the subsequent divorce after a few years and after many attempts to have a child. once, before I knew spontaneous abortion, were convinced that they resent almost done. who knows, maybe it would have been different.
Alberto pulls out his book, Theorem by Pier Paolo Pasolini, but as the pages the visitor arrives in the house, she obsessively peeking in reality. boots and tight trousers outline the thin legs and proportionate, a sweater and attached the simple model hips and breasts under the jacket open. is shy and sensual, with green eyes turned to the world, bob brown hair and a bit 'of freckles to color the facial features fine and elegant, sometimes leaked a little embarrassed about life. is immersed in a photocopied dossier, probably something the university, is younger than him, will have 26, 27. you'll be graduating, or maybe follow his doctorate. something humanistic, definitely.

Chiara salt every morning on the commuter train Rosta of 7.05, still on the car right behind the engine, so when you arrive at the Porta Nuova railway station is just near the exit, ready to take the bus the door behind Piazza Vittorio letters where he teaches in a private high school while trying to finish his doctoral thesis research on some of semiotics. sits next to a boy. actually has a few years younger than her, but his eyes still reeks of adolescence and now feels Clare woman. smiccio looks at him without much interest, stopping to imagine that, had they been contemporaries, among them two that occurred would still interstellar distances. seems the boy a bit 'shallow, full of friends, beautiful, athletic, always trying to make nice with the girls. the kind of guy that you never had, never even wanted. so even if someone, gender, age when he was just buzzing in the head insistently, but his interest was never returned ...
shortly after she gets a little old sloppy, which was now only the most evil of life, something sboffonchia breathless, perhaps asking for permission to sit or perhaps cursed the cold. straight out of a Dickens novel. makes a great pain in the bottom.
Piossasco salt to that guy, what goes on a journey to pretend to read but that actually sets the time. and she looks at him, even if it does so more discreetly. makes her feel a bit 'uncomfortable, even if there is something that attracts him. always reads interesting books, essays or novels Russians, every once in a while 'literary classic Italian, Pirandello, Calvino ... three four day holds Pasolini. But here, no one aspect serious, intellectual, indeed. dress is always accurate at all points, with a jacket or tie 24 hours type manager that stuff. to look at him then he seemed anything but a white collar, it's weird, maybe even dessert.

Alberto stares while she concentrates on the pages of her file in her womb. if there would be, if he could. or not. indeed its not. experienced a rejection to his own thoughts. Now imagine instead of a walk with her, to be told to cook and eat together quietly, with a good red wine, Nebbiolo. and after, then yes, making love.
would attack button, ask What is reading, but fails. is like petrified on the seat, besieged by the prying eyes of passers-around lackluster. there was the empty train ... is uncomfortable, you feel stupid, surely knows that if he opens his mouth stutter something obvious, trivial. and perhaps lose his time daydreaming, you will surely have a life and over. Alberto lowers his gaze on Theorem.

Chiara stiffens when he realizes that he observed. Shooting would raise his eyes and point straight at me, but do not dare. is the fifth time I read the same paragraph and still did not understand what is written. and continues to read as if it were a shelter, a warm place and protective. What does this here? played nervously with a pen, press the button to eject the tip compulsively repeating. click click click ... you create in her a feeling of expectation, as if waiting for a major response to a question that has never done. is a feeling that continues, placid, spiteful. fantasies take shape in his mind, memories and desires that are mixed promiscuously. simply, clearly wants to end this debilitating lack of communication. But what is there to say after all? should perhaps clarify something? is still looking at the file, some process of the brain automatically reads the words in the background but no intelligence to pay attention.

Clare finally gets up eyes, eyes that never had it, I decided as an inevitable event, to look at him, smiling, to give a sign. at that precise moment, even a micro second before, Alberto plunges back into the revealing story of middle-class house Pasolini.

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kitchen


of his childhood at the end was what he remembered most clearly. other memories were dim with age, hours were lost in the murky images in his head wrapped in pale reflections of light, like looking at an old home video shot with the first digital cameras, always with the blurred images and dark.
but now the floor of the kitchen when he was child was there before his eyes, sharp, typical of Italy with 70 marble, studded with colored stones from the split. Charles remained in the room while his mother idling listening to the radio. the house was not big and he just sat there at the table, with legs that barely touched the ground, sitting listlessly on a chair while trying to do the tasks of the elementary school, constantly afraid of being scolded for some non-compliance.
always and continually staring at the floor. as escape from the kitchen, broken by the white light of the chandelier above the table, with white furniture and wood-colored knobs and the smell of tomato sauce and fry that had been soaked in walls.
knew every little detail of the floor around his seat, crossed the imaginary fantasy designs suggested by the grain and colored stones. was an expanse of exotic animals, grotesque characters, of devices that could function only in his head and who knows what could serve ... wondered if only he could see all those stories and adventures, he wondered if his mother and the rest of the family that was not nothing but a simple floor of a kitchen and he was the only child to get lost in those hidden recesses.
whenever she was scolded, whenever attending a fight, every time her mother was silent and gloomy, he shunned the tiles in the company of the parrot and the bulldozer.
carlo realized that was the only memory of his childhood continuous, the only one to emerge spontaneously.

paused to reflect.

tried to scroll in his memory, like a scroll of data and files.
then he also remembered the evenings, rare, of joy, which burst with laughter mocking the family and he literally rolled on the floor and cried and almost choked from laughing. were sultry August evening in Turin, there was no school the next day, we ate late and played pinochle.
but had to stop and concentrate those moments to emerge

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I


Monday morning, my day off, I get up with laziness, shower, coffee and relax. I go to the Boards of routine and escape through the entrance of the urban (the great condominium of polo mints already mentioned) I see it. my limbs petrify fearful. are days that I ignored, but at this point I have to. I slowly approached the mailbox, I lean a bit ', I raise a finger to the bulkhead metal spring and look inside.

dick, I knew.
recommended.

yes, in 2010, the Web 2.0 era who you can write something in the mail? excluding advertising just someone who wants something from you: agencies miscellaneous bills, police station or brigade to fines if not worse for communications ...
Oh well, expect it, I knew. never mind I tell myself.

But to look good is not the usual registered mail. NO! is Defendini. hysterical privatization and outsourcing of contracts for any costs the town has been awarded the management of communications, a private agency. I had five days to go and collect it at their headquarters which is obviously not such as e-Zone 2 steps from my house but is located in San Salvario. known to me is not too far away, but if you live on the other side of town should I lose 2 hours to withdraw it. but so, because my absenteeism unbiased in the task of viewing the mailbox now 5 days have passed. I will come another report soon.

ok, I'll wait impatiently.

Monday following the same scene. but this time the mail is recommended . I go to the post office, waiting for my turn and diligently with the package recommended withdrawal of another fantastic package that will allow me to withdraw my coveted ticket in Bellezia way, every day from 8 to 12. What a joy. Bellezia street is located in the historic center, in the middle of the ZTL (a circular perimeter that is prohibited from 7 am until 10.30 am) and in the pedestrian area.

I do My compliments to someone for this incredible shit, I do not know to whom, unfortunately. I think it takes a degree in bureaucracy to do this process to a simple fine, but it takes a real brain for evil to withdraw all notices in local storage in a single office to a city of one million inhabitants and for this task among the dozens of municipal buildings in the center to pick one, inside the ZTL and the center of the city's largest pedestrian

I also fear that if I asked what information the various branches of the department responsible for this far-sighted choice no one would know me a definite answer ...

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E 'all day around the house looking for something pink ... nothing ...

the pink t-shirt is to iron ... I ran out of pink balloons ... the pink sweatshirts are all home to mother ... all pink socks and underwear to wash.

Well, I have not found anything ... luckily she was at work!

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Today, like every day, We should remind us how important we are as women, as individuals, we must remember and love each of prevention, costs very little and helps much!

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ivan


here it is my hero. this man, let's face it, is great. at least it's a great communicator. First I have to be his grateful thanks to him because journalists, columnists and commentators have pitted bar any pearls of rare stupidity - like "it's a shame that the fans have not been searched Serbs!" with its tone outraged - our hero, alone, held in check an entire stage, that testadicazzo of chestnuts, the security service, police, UEFA, journalists, sponsors, television, commercials and millions of Italians stuck to tivvù. but what he did to deserve all this attention?

practically nothing

Come on, do not be so shocked. be in no doubt we have seen
ivan the terrible acts of violence take? we saw no
ivan the terrible armed? we saw no
ivan the terrible flood the field? we saw no
ivan the terrible throw blunt objects? we saw no
Ivan the Terrible hitting someone?

no more than he burned a flag. In fact, among the charges that will have to answer for any crime not included violence to people and look good even if property damage is minimal.

ivan, ignorant as a goat and ape with his physique, he simply climbed the glass wall and a pair of clippers with a tiny cut the network of canvas placed on protection. Then he sat down and started the show. posed for pictures, sent fuck everything and everyone, he incited his fellow patriots (Serbian intellectuals ...), all screamed and done uh uh uh ... paramilitary clothing, magliettona with the skull, all but tattooed with the face covered by an elegant hood, a true gem of style, worn not for anonymity but for the scene.

fantastic

the representation itself dell'ultras-guerrilla-extremist stereotype perfectly, ready for the journalistic service to the TV for the bar. the whole show, just like They want to viewers. ivan, at least before the cameras did not make at the end of violence, has "only" featured a style, let's face it, commendable. leaving the dirty work to his followers. and so, while the elegant employee UEFA argued with some big shot with his iphone in midfield Serbs gave wonderful examples of all forms of hostilities on live TV.

that these animals Serbs. what the hell they want. people is where it comes from. should lock them up like animals. I really hope that the police minister to him for good. for those there, the prison never eh! are the usual guarantees. eccheccazzo I want to see me the game on TV. I was ready, I was already a foretaste of the editing table, comments. and then on, the stadium is full of children, a good example! just do not know what it means to be civil, where we will end ....

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jelly


summer of 2006, Sardinia. And was there for a few days of sea, undecided on holidays had arrived in Costa Smeralda with the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing host in turn by several friends who spent the summer there. the period of Zen was still hidden in the future and enjoyed And, unaware, than would have been riots the last of his youthful impetuosity. was in fact a separate holiday , far enough away from frequenting local socialite and life that characterizes this stretch of coast. evenings spent chatting with friends old and new, evenings on the beach or simply in the garden, grilling fish. days at the beach, swimming in creeks, to drive through the streets an old Citroen Mehari ...

the last two days were spent by A , also unaware of the changes that would soon be overwhelmed. was there with her boyfriend and friends. would soon be discharged, it moved to Rome and was married with L, known right there on the beach. but at the moment A was still thinking about the costumes and the billabong shirts carhartt, to go on the table and try to surf in the winter and summer. And joined them on the beach with friends and mutual friends, all of turin, all hosted by A .

Towards the late afternoon when the sun ceased to be incandescent, E pulled from his wallet a small gelatin square, thin as a postage stamp, and about 2 mm from the side, and without being noticed if they put half in my mouth. This immediately broke up. waited about 40 minutes, just to see how his body responds, then he took the remainder. knew that in mid-afternoon under the blazing sun was not a good time, but now, with light winds, the sea front, the warm air and above all, a sunset that would not have kept you waiting, the situation seemed ideal. And had never taken an acid, even though he had a good experience and psychotropic substances. there was also some evening fun to do the cock of a different kind of exciting seasoned, but was more interested in the experience itself, the change of reality and his own conscience: every now and then he went on the Turin hills or mountains to make long dissertations with fungi, plants of power as he called Castaneda (Castaneda and just as it turned out much more effective on the uselessness ...)

began to feel the sand under him. began to roll among the small dunes of the beach. Put your arms, legs grind, now hours prone on his back. was a new feeling, comfortable, felt every single warm grain in contact with her skin had become now more intense. looked at the sky and was lost in the clouds and their golden spiral, continuously coiled swirl flaps are flimsy, dispersed and reassembled in front of him intersect with the blue of the sky. was aware that he was watching games sense of his brain, but he thought that in fact the clouds were not clear boundaries and defined as ever imagine, but which are ambiguous and constantly exchange with the atmosphere are in constant flux.
now felt at ease in new condition and emerged a sexually violent movement. strange, different from the desires that he felt normal, away from the aesthetic which was usually attracted. now a girl wanted robust, strong legs and stubby, like a housewife in the country. not persuasive theories of curves and mischievous smile, aspired now to a concrete physical, devoid of eroticism but somehow more real. smiled at these thoughts, images to woo a woman farmer in the cornfields ... stood up and dived into the sea to cool the boiling of body and fantasies, careful not to stray too far from shore. was to revel in the bathroom dry while the blue in the sky slowly lost intensity to being overwhelmed by soft pink glow, gradually more and more alive, until the flaming red sunset.

with friends across the bay, indomitable and indifferent vegetation behind the beach, then headed back home where all and took a shower in the garden and lay in a meadow full of flowers wrapped dall'asciugamano. acid rose and fell with long cycles, sometimes it was light, now eagerly pounding temples. was out of touch.

the time came for dinner, and avoided with an excuse to sit at the table, he lay down on a deck chair and nibbled figs. in reality he had never liked, but now that intense pulp, reddish and lush attracted him. from that position, as if it were invisible, quietly remarked that the party dined on the porch, waiting patiently for the slow return to lucidity.

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gray

photos courtesy of enrica

those who live in turin knows. There are those days when you enter into intimacy with the streets, roads, the rain. many identify this feeling with a color: gray turin . is a term used frequently here. Tuscany has given to generations of painters endless varieties of ocher colors, variety of land identified for these sites. turin not Tuscany. is the home of Fiat, the workers' quarters, and some of juvarra. here is the peculiar gray color of the sky property imprisoned by the Alps, a gray rainy, slow. no, the city is no longer the sexy late-summer not you watch it with a wink, do not be seduced. is indifferent, melancholy, mechanics. the flat light has now been dark, dark, yet rich contrasts, seems set in a perpetual twilight evening, as if it were independent from the flow of the usual time of day.
and I could turn for hours in the car, driving in traffic in the rain becomes more chaotic, clumsy. through the long avenues holed up among the big trees showing off their latest green, even if they are dark, before giving way to autumn impressionistic nuances and it soon turned into a difficult balance between the yellow and red, purple and orange, poised between the past summer and next winter bare. drive along the city streets, letting the large windows on the residential blocks of the 70 fruit of speculation. Mirafiori, Sao Paulo, cited turin, then go for it all away romolis reis, surrounded by the last remaining industrial buildings within the municipal boundaries, the final step to Falchera and go back through the Milano, the long-dora, port building. walking down the city streets, in doorways, then coming out into the streets to enjoy the scenic persistent rain, light and thin.

on days turin gray the center ceases to be architecture, becomes just the backdrop for the urban side of town. the street lights, traffic lights glowing, the cobwebs spun by steel cables and electric tram network, signage, lights of cars, signs of bars and shops, public transport stops shelters ... these elements, usually intangible, marginal, now assume the roles of the protagonists of the townscape. no longer the hill, the river, the baroque discrete and the Alps in the background. on days turin gray the city is lost in its recesses, in uniformly wet cobblestones, in the tails of the point on the overpass above the railway.

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here, spend Sunday afternoon locked up at home has its advantages. like to see steady yet another Tarkovsky film. stalker seen at the end of August and beginning of the saga, and until I see them all I will not rest. I chose
nostalghia. I open the package, I put the DVD into your PC and start watching. there is something that escapes me, had to be a writer's journey in Italy but here the guy is a director. hmmm. yes, yes, they are not polished, but something I did not come back. almost like a film that tells the story of the film that you should run. a Metafilm. retroactive to tie a loop in my brain. a Metafilm speaking of himself and of the cinema of the author.

ok, here, in the box there were TWO DVD, ONLY who had not written anywhere, I have seen time travel instead of nostalgia ...

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except for a nap. that ass. a handsome man like him, upright, never tamed, never bent ... it is the personality charismatic as Belpietro that bother them. and so they have to kill him. bastards. insurgents. TERRORISTS. here it is terrorism, here they are, the fanatics! a man, a murderess, disguised as a financier! but the mica Belpietro you eh! Fortunately her agent instead of stock to go up with him in the elevator this time took the stairs to surprise the attacker possessed the landing. the latter pulled out his gun to shoot him in the head, but ... is jammed. obvious. then the killer cleverly passed the policeman down the stairs and escaped. the man in the Commons, however, is a tough cookie, followed him and fired three shots. I lack the smear was taken. fuck, you're a cop, shoot few meters 3 rounds, and not even a leg, an arm, say, a tuft of hair ... Then the bomber, despite the frantic manhunt, and manages to disappear ...
here, the fact is that I do not believe, and I think that few people believe it. but then maybe it is not yet another staging of this state of puppeteers but it really happened. skipped the motivations and the moral evaluation of a similar gesture, I dwell on why none or very few believe this shit could be crazy but likely: will mica for the lies we tell for 40 years?

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sometimes not I know how to behave ... maybe better to take out laughing.

The scene ...

I semichina girl sitting on the bidet to wash ...

and grandfather who approaches me and says, "Anything I can do to help? Maybe I hold out her arm? So do not you get tired!"

I appreciate the gesture, an offer of help is always a nice gesture, but I say, a man in her life has never helped in looking after children, sons or grandchildren, wants to start now holding her arms while working ?!... it's not that much help, then they pay me to do what I do, fatigue is setting in mind ... and I love it ...

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beautiful race


in the middle of the beautiful it feels good.
sure, nice discovery.
But like every thing even trivial and obvious This has several degrees of awareness - a bit 'like when you read the Gospel that says you have to be good and righteous. but surely that must be good and righteous, mica is needless to say no? and then, sorry, but what is beautiful? in the age of relativism and consumerism who can now speak of beauty? Sgarbi? Celentano? a guy I know, but I know really well, considering the beauty, as much or little it is, as an intrinsic property of any phenomenon or thing, especially beauty, according to him, is proportional to the degree of organization of a complex structure, in practice increases the entropy of the universe of beauty dimininuisce resulting in extinction of the same ... as say: Drop Dead Gorgeous - then said of beauty. a few weeks ago my eyes rested gently on coastal stretches between crock lemon intent to observe the endless blue sea, I then dipped in dark and silent woods that were lit only by a thin cloud faint glimmer of light that fell nientepopòdimenoche from the now rarely seen (for me) the milky way, I walked into the ancient cobbled streets surrounded by villages whose blocks of stone exude history and poetry ...
here, strangely my head in those days was a plethora of fantasies, tales of the rich metaphorical subliminal words, abstract ideas that took form in figures ever imagined.
then went back to turin, the routine, the inevitable tangential (but actually gives supreme sunsets) and the usual things. and the only stuff that I wrote was a crap ...