Join me in my soul.
Transform. Renew.
Fa 'that I and all of us become people
where your love is made present
and the world is transformed "
Benedict XVI
Saturday, December 25, 2010
How Long Does A Movie Take To Go On Dvd
Merry Christmas
Lord Jesus Christ, tui that you were born in Bethlehem, come to us!
Join me in my soul.
Transform. Renew.
Fa 'that I and all of us become people
where your love is made present
and the world is transformed "
Benedict XVI
Join me in my soul.
Transform. Renew.
Fa 'that I and all of us become people
where your love is made present
and the world is transformed "
Benedict XVI
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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RANKING LIST A CHRISTMAS CONCERT
ITALIAN RED CROSS
provincial committee VERBANIA
See Notice
ITALIAN RED CROSS provincial committee VERBANIA
The Provincial Committee of Verbania is to establish a ranking list from which to draw in anticipation of the possible authorization of care through contract administration, units of the technical role - Area A, pos. A2 (driver unit) for the year 2011. submitting their application by 12:00 pm on December 16.
See Notice
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
97 Mitsubishi Eclipse Cigarette Lighter Fuse
VERBANIA CRI - CRI Piedimulera
"CHRISTMAS CONCERT"
with the participation of:
ITALIAN RED CROSS
DELEGATION Piedimulera
The Delegation of Piedimulera CRI organizes for Saturday, December 11, beginning at 20.30, at the parish church of SS. Antonio and Giorgio GC - BODY MUSIC FOMARCO
- PARISH CHOIR OF ST GEORGE of Beura Cardezza PARISH CHOIR
- CIMAMULERA
- PARISH CHOIR Piedimulera
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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Vittorio Bodini-After the moon, "as do" Dino Buzzati
There are souls made to ask / answer and others to: / Mine is a Persian with green eyes behind .
Vittorio Bodini, After the moon, "How am I"
Best Life Vest For 18 Month Old
-Christmas Decorations
And you what do you do at Christmas?
"Well, I thought of doing the usual tree, but Giantomaso and Almachiara, my children, they began to argue, say they absolutely do not like to Mao. I do the crib, but it seems that the most advanced of the council have put in quarantine. I put some silver garland, some crystal ball, any candle, and so on, at least in the corner where they pile up on the eve of gifts, but Pierre, my second, says it's a rite disgustingly consumerist. I thought, over and around the fireplace, to showcase the "christmas cards" received, there are funny as hell, but Giorgiopaolo, my big, says that Marcus is not. I thought I was on the terrace outside, to build a nice Santa Claus with snow, but the colonel Bernacca says that will not be snow for Christmas. " "And for Christmas you at home, what do you do? "
" So? "
" Nothing. Will clean the glass. "
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
How Do I Cook A Boston Butt On The Green Egg
Camus-the smell of lemons
Jacques's mother, came home one evening, fresh and rejuvenated and with his hair cut, saying, with a false joy, what transpired behind the unrest, he wanted to give them a surprise. In fact it was a surprise for her grandmother, who had merely to say, in front of her son, who now looked like a whore. And it was then returned to the kitchen. Catherine had stopped smiling, and his face had been painted all the misery and weariness of the world. Then he met the eyes of his son, he tried again a smile but his lips trembled and tears rushed into his room. Jacques le had approached. "Mom, Mom," he said, touching it tentatively with one hand. "You're so beautiful." But she had heard, and with a wave of his hand, asked him to leave her alone. And the boy had retreated from the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, he began to turn into tears of love ed'impotenza.
Camus also raises the veil on her secret desire for life:
this anguished heart, eager for life, deadly rebel order of the world, continued to fly with the same force against the wall that separated him from the secrets of all life, with the will to go farther, go further, and to know before you die, to be finally know, once, just one second, but forever.
Years before he had long worked on developing Caligula . The intellectual contemporaries recognized, behind the mask of the mad emperor, the figure of Hitler and other prominent personalities the clear consciousness of those who, at that time, although aware of the tyranny, he could not oppose it because of the weakness of their own identity culture.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
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Vincenzo Cardarelli-L 'waiting
waiting for you now that you're not coming.
And your absence I know what I say,
your absence that tumultuous
into the void you left,
like a star.
says he does not want to love me. What a summer storm
being announced and then goes away, so you
denied to my thirst.
Love, in the bud,
has this sudden repentance.
Silently we understood.
Love, love, as always, I cover you with flowers
ed'insulti.
(from "Poems", 1958)
Incredible Hulk Cake Pan
Plots, 16 October 2010, the Territorial Museum Biellese
Have you ever wondered what your personal relationship with the cultural heritage of the area where you live? A museum is only a repository of collective memory, or it can become a place of relationship building with the contemporary heritage?
Have you ever wondered what your personal relationship with the cultural heritage of the area where you live? A museum is only a repository of collective memory, or it can become a place of relationship building with the contemporary heritage?
Dhammika, Iman, Habiba, Bashir, Song, Stefka and Gerardo have told and revealed unexpected correspondences between museum objects and walks of life in a collaborative exhibition. Alessandra Chiara and gave further voice to the exhibits. Objects that have become a pretext for narratives can outline new paths of meaning for the heritage revisited with other eyes. A heritage museum is not only preserved but more exposed and put in direct contact with the inhabitants of a territory of reference if they are symbolically re-appropriated. A web of stories in which the museum becomes a place of relationships that implements a virtual process of sharing authority in the transfer of meaning. Democratic space for participation. At the end of the tracks told the opening performance was enhanced by contemporary artist Gigi Piana that he wanted to involve the public offering to write on strips of PVC, which were then twisted to form a structure equal to that on which were projected images shot during the selection of museum objects in storage by migrants.
Photo: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=85567&id=1455487651&l=3578b833e2
friend Look down, you will not see roots, but feet.
_
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Farting Through Vergina?
Eugenio Montale Pier Paolo Pasolini
Intelligence weight will never, never
in the proceedings of this public opinion.
Not even the blood of lager, you'll get 
Intelligence weight will never, never
in the proceedings of this public opinion.
Not even the blood of lager, you'll get
from one of the millions of souls of our nation,
clear opinion, wholly indignant
every idea is unreal unreal, every passion,
of this people now dissociated
For centuries, whose gentle wisdom
they need to live, no one has ever released.
Show my face, my leanness -
raise my own childish voice -
no longer makes sense: the cowardice accustomed
to see die in more atrocious
others, in the strangest indifference.
I die, and even this harm me.
Monday, October 4, 2010
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Happiness reached, you are walking on the edge of the blade.
six eyes gleam that wavers,
the foot, tense ice cracks;
and therefore does not touch you who loves you more.
If you come upon the souls of sadness
invaded and cleared, your morning is sweet and
disturbers like the nests of cornices. But nothing
charged the baby's crying
that runs the ball between the houses.
(from "Ossi di sepia", 1928)
.
Friday, August 20, 2010
How Do I Beat Funbrain
Buzzati-Happiness Dino
I wish you come to me in a winter evening, and close together behind the windows, watching the seclusion of the dark streets and freezing, recalling the winter of stories, where you lived together without knowing it.
For the same paths because we spent enchanted you and I, with timid steps, we went through the forests full of wolves, the same geniuses we watched clumps of moss hanging from the towers, including flutter of crows.
Together, without knowing it, beyond perhaps both looked towards the mysterious life, which we aspettava.Ivi quivered in us for the first time crazy and tender wishes. "Do you remember?" We tell each other, and joining gently in the warm room, and you smiled at me daran gloomy sound confident while outside the plates shaken by the wind.
But you - now I remember - do not know the old fables of kings nameless orcs and enchanted gardens. Never didst pass, kidnapped, under the magical trees that speak with a human voice, nor Battesti never desert the castle gate, nor walked in the night to the light far away, nor will addormentasti under the stars of the East, rocked by sacred canoe. Behind the glass in the winter night, probably we will remain silent, I lose myself in a fairy tale death, you in other treatments unknown to me. I would ask "Do you remember?" But you do not remember.
I would walk with you, one spring day, with the gray sky and a few old leaves of the first dragged through the streets by the wind, in the suburbs, and that it was Sunday. Often arise in these districts and large melancholy thoughts, and in hours dates vague poetry joining the hearts of those who love.
born also hope that you do not know how to say, favored by the endless horizon behind the homes, fleeing from the train, the clouds of the north. We'll just go with the hand and light step, saying something foolish, stupid and expensive. As long as you switch on the lights and the squalid tenements of the city left the stories come out, adventures, the cherished novels. And then we will be silent, still holding hands, because souls can speak without words.
But you - I remember now - never told me things senseless, stupid and expensive. Nor can I say then love those Sundays, or your soul can speak to my silent, recognizing the right time the spell of the city, nor the hopes that descend from the north. Do you prefer the lights, the crowd, people who look at you, the streets where they say they can meet their luck. You're different from me and if i went for a walk that day, you complain of being tired, only this and nothing else.
I would also like to go with you in the summer in a remote valley, constantly laughing at the simplest things, exploring the secrets of the woods, dirt roads, some of the abandoned houses. Stop at the wooden bridge watching the water pass, listen to telegraph poles in the long history that is endlessly from one end of the world and will never go nowhere. And rip out lawns and flowers here, lying on the grass, in the silence of the sun, to contemplate the depths of the sky and white clouds that pass and the mountain tops.
you would say "That's nice." Anything else you say because we would be happy, having lost the body weight of years, the souls become fresh, as if they were born then. But you - now that I think - you look around you without understanding, I'm scared and worried you'll stop to look for socks, I would ask another cigarette impatient to return.
And you would not say "That's nice, but other poor things do not matter to me. Unfortunately, because you done so. And we would not be happy even for a moment. I would also - let me say - I would like to arm yourself with the major cross streets of the city in a dusk of November, when the sky is made of pure crystal. When the ghosts of life run over the domes and touch the black people at the bottom of the pit roads, already filled with anxiety. When old memories and new blessed omens go over the ground, leaving behind a kind of music.
With the arrogance of white children look at the faces of others, thousands and thousands, that we spend next to rivers. We will send you unknowingly the light of joy and all will be forced to watch, not to envy and malice, but smiling a little, with a feeling of goodness, because of the night that heals the man's weaknesses. But you - I understand it well - instead of looking at the crystal sky and the air colonnades beaten the extreme sun, you'll want to stop and look at the windows, the gold, riches, silks, petty things. And then you'll see ghosts, or of that switching, or you feel like me calling fate proud. Neither udresti that kind of music, or you would understand why people look at us with kind eyes.
You think of your poor tomorrow and unnecessarily upon you the golden statues on pinnacles rise up their swords to the last rays. And I'd be alone. It's useless. Maybe all this is nonsense, and you better than me, do not assume so much from life. Maybe you're right and it would be stupid groped. But at least, that's true at least, I would like to see you again. Whatever happens, we'll be together somehow, and find joy. No matter whether by day or night, summer or autumn, in an unknown country, in a bare house, in a dingy inn.
I Just having you near. I will not here to listen - I promise - the mysterious creaking of the roof, or watch the clouds, I will not listen to the music or the wind. Give up these useless things, that I also love. I will have patience if you do not understand what I say, if you talk to me, strange facts, if you complain of old clothes and money. There will be no so-called poetry, common hopes, the sadness that friends love. But I'll close.
And we'll see, to be quite happy, quite simply, a man with a woman only, as usually happens in the world. But you - now I think about it - you are too far away, hundreds and hundreds kilometers difficult to cross. You're in a life that I do not know, and the other men you are close, which probably smile like me in the past. And it did not take long because you forget about me. Perhaps you just can not remember my name. I have now came from you, confused between the many shadows. Yet I can not think of you, and I like to say these things. 
I wish you come to me in a winter evening, and close together behind the windows, watching the seclusion of the dark streets and freezing, recalling the winter of stories, where you lived together without knowing it.
For the same paths because we spent enchanted you and I, with timid steps, we went through the forests full of wolves, the same geniuses we watched clumps of moss hanging from the towers, including flutter of crows.
Together, without knowing it, beyond perhaps both looked towards the mysterious life, which we aspettava.Ivi quivered in us for the first time crazy and tender wishes. "Do you remember?" We tell each other, and joining gently in the warm room, and you smiled at me daran gloomy sound confident while outside the plates shaken by the wind.
But you - now I remember - do not know the old fables of kings nameless orcs and enchanted gardens. Never didst pass, kidnapped, under the magical trees that speak with a human voice, nor Battesti never desert the castle gate, nor walked in the night to the light far away, nor will addormentasti under the stars of the East, rocked by sacred canoe. Behind the glass in the winter night, probably we will remain silent, I lose myself in a fairy tale death, you in other treatments unknown to me. I would ask "Do you remember?" But you do not remember.
I would walk with you, one spring day, with the gray sky and a few old leaves of the first dragged through the streets by the wind, in the suburbs, and that it was Sunday. Often arise in these districts and large melancholy thoughts, and in hours dates vague poetry joining the hearts of those who love.
born also hope that you do not know how to say, favored by the endless horizon behind the homes, fleeing from the train, the clouds of the north. We'll just go with the hand and light step, saying something foolish, stupid and expensive. As long as you switch on the lights and the squalid tenements of the city left the stories come out, adventures, the cherished novels. And then we will be silent, still holding hands, because souls can speak without words.
But you - I remember now - never told me things senseless, stupid and expensive. Nor can I say then love those Sundays, or your soul can speak to my silent, recognizing the right time the spell of the city, nor the hopes that descend from the north. Do you prefer the lights, the crowd, people who look at you, the streets where they say they can meet their luck. You're different from me and if i went for a walk that day, you complain of being tired, only this and nothing else.
I would also like to go with you in the summer in a remote valley, constantly laughing at the simplest things, exploring the secrets of the woods, dirt roads, some of the abandoned houses. Stop at the wooden bridge watching the water pass, listen to telegraph poles in the long history that is endlessly from one end of the world and will never go nowhere. And rip out lawns and flowers here, lying on the grass, in the silence of the sun, to contemplate the depths of the sky and white clouds that pass and the mountain tops.
you would say "That's nice." Anything else you say because we would be happy, having lost the body weight of years, the souls become fresh, as if they were born then. But you - now that I think - you look around you without understanding, I'm scared and worried you'll stop to look for socks, I would ask another cigarette impatient to return.
And you would not say "That's nice, but other poor things do not matter to me. Unfortunately, because you done so. And we would not be happy even for a moment. I would also - let me say - I would like to arm yourself with the major cross streets of the city in a dusk of November, when the sky is made of pure crystal. When the ghosts of life run over the domes and touch the black people at the bottom of the pit roads, already filled with anxiety. When old memories and new blessed omens go over the ground, leaving behind a kind of music.
With the arrogance of white children look at the faces of others, thousands and thousands, that we spend next to rivers. We will send you unknowingly the light of joy and all will be forced to watch, not to envy and malice, but smiling a little, with a feeling of goodness, because of the night that heals the man's weaknesses. But you - I understand it well - instead of looking at the crystal sky and the air colonnades beaten the extreme sun, you'll want to stop and look at the windows, the gold, riches, silks, petty things. And then you'll see ghosts, or of that switching, or you feel like me calling fate proud. Neither udresti that kind of music, or you would understand why people look at us with kind eyes.
You think of your poor tomorrow and unnecessarily upon you the golden statues on pinnacles rise up their swords to the last rays. And I'd be alone. It's useless. Maybe all this is nonsense, and you better than me, do not assume so much from life. Maybe you're right and it would be stupid groped. But at least, that's true at least, I would like to see you again. Whatever happens, we'll be together somehow, and find joy. No matter whether by day or night, summer or autumn, in an unknown country, in a bare house, in a dingy inn.
I Just having you near. I will not here to listen - I promise - the mysterious creaking of the roof, or watch the clouds, I will not listen to the music or the wind. Give up these useless things, that I also love. I will have patience if you do not understand what I say, if you talk to me, strange facts, if you complain of old clothes and money. There will be no so-called poetry, common hopes, the sadness that friends love. But I'll close.
And we'll see, to be quite happy, quite simply, a man with a woman only, as usually happens in the world. But you - now I think about it - you are too far away, hundreds and hundreds kilometers difficult to cross. You're in a life that I do not know, and the other men you are close, which probably smile like me in the past. And it did not take long because you forget about me. Perhaps you just can not remember my name. I have now came from you, confused between the many shadows. Yet I can not think of you, and I like to say these things.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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Intrecci
Many think of the museum means thinking about the past. For dusty objects that testify to a past that they can bind to the thread of memory. For some, the museum evokes feeling even a little attractive cemetery. Yet, especially when some museums are combined in their name with the word territory, should evoke different feelings, related to the life and the present, people who live in the territories weaving different paths and lives. The Museo del Territorio Biellese is currently working on the project Interdependence: ancient places, new people with the main objective to foster mutual understanding among the migrant population on the territory of Biella and the institution, following the wake of the museum role as organizer of culture open to the participation of civil society.
Intrecci Specifically, thanks to the involvement of some classes of Permanent Territorial Center and other groups of migrants in the area, intends to move in the footsteps of previous experiences as worthy of that meeting in 2008 (African Studies Centre, Turin, Anna rs Maria Pecci) involving, among other prestigious museums, including the Museo del Territorio Biellese with the presence of mediators of cultural heritage as story tellers in the collections of objects from outside Europe (not shown) and other similar experiences, for example, language against language, a collaborative exhibition ( CSA, 2009, Anna Maria Pecci rs), held at the Museum of Ethnography of the University of Turin, in order to be actively involved and aware of the migrant population to bring it to the knowledge of the collections and activities of the museum.
Intrecci Specifically, thanks to the involvement of some classes of Permanent Territorial Center and other groups of migrants in the area, intends to move in the footsteps of previous experiences as worthy of that meeting in 2008 (African Studies Centre, Turin, Anna rs Maria Pecci) involving, among other prestigious museums, including the Museo del Territorio Biellese with the presence of mediators of cultural heritage as story tellers in the collections of objects from outside Europe (not shown) and other similar experiences, for example, language against language, a collaborative exhibition ( CSA, 2009, Anna Maria Pecci rs), held at the Museum of Ethnography of the University of Turin, in order to be actively involved and aware of the migrant population to bring it to the knowledge of the collections and activities of the museum.
The proposed methodology, the anthropological, the solicitation provides the cultural and biographical narrative on the basis of speeches built around shared concepts (the name, home, body, etc..) which, although apparently highly discounted because of their closeness to everyday experience are surprisingly able to initiate profound reflections on life experiences and cultural lifeworlds from many different meanings. Personal and other evocative photographs that will be used to gather other stories to be woven in later with the history and significance of available objects in the collections of the museum. This methodology might be called a kind of Socratic culture, tends to produce a speech as much as possible out of the rhetoric produced by using common, often naive nationalistic stereotypes. This activity aims to enhance the museum in its connective function and its role in the contact area open to the participation of the inhabitants of its territory.
meetings, besides wanting to make more aware the next time you visit the groups of immigrants in museum collections, will be aimed at deepening the cooperation with those who are particularly interested in following up the implementation of the project routes narrated concluding that arise from comparison biographies and experiences between museum objects, the unveiling of a series of plots and possible reflections between concepts and objects, cultures and collections, to be proposed in the form of biographical narrative, with the possibility of an account linked to a cultural practice. Moreover, we are immersed in a world narrative film, comedy and stories Novelas on TV, newspapers, people, friends tell their stories, we know from history books, travel, dreams. Objects also have a history, all have stories to tell. We feed off of stories. Plots will try to retell the stories of migrants intertwined with the meaning of objects in the collections of the museum trying to give them new content and interpretations related to this constantly changing.
meetings, besides wanting to make more aware the next time you visit the groups of immigrants in museum collections, will be aimed at deepening the cooperation with those who are particularly interested in following up the implementation of the project routes narrated concluding that arise from comparison biographies and experiences between museum objects, the unveiling of a series of plots and possible reflections between concepts and objects, cultures and collections, to be proposed in the form of biographical narrative, with the possibility of an account linked to a cultural practice. Moreover, we are immersed in a world narrative film, comedy and stories Novelas on TV, newspapers, people, friends tell their stories, we know from history books, travel, dreams. Objects also have a history, all have stories to tell. We feed off of stories. Plots will try to retell the stories of migrants intertwined with the meaning of objects in the collections of the museum trying to give them new content and interpretations related to this constantly changing.
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Mirror Worlds [video] Who is Fabio
The documentary is the story of some particular histories of immigration in a small town in northwest Italy (Biella). The activities organized by the Tamil community of Sri-Lanka, the discourse on the everyday social relations and sill'importanza entertained by two friends from Africa and the choice of a group of Pakistanis to occupy a desolate town square where play cricket matches fuel the metaphor of the mirror, divided into different reading levels, calls for reflection on the practices of others and that they constitute a privileged occasion for compransione of our cultural habits. From a project Fabio Pettirino Soilihi Djaé and Soulé, video footage of Gigi Piana, editing by Barabara Rossi. _
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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Ada Merini
You do not know: there are birch trees that rise up at night their roots, and you never would believe that the trees at night or walk become dreams. Do you think there is a violin in a tree of love. Do you think that a tree sings and laughs. Do you think a tree is in a crevasse and then becomes life. Like I said, poets are not redeemed, must be left to fly through the trees like nightingales ready to die.
ALDA Merino, The soul in love 
You do not know: there are birch trees that rise up at night their roots, and you never would believe that the trees at night or walk become dreams. Do you think there is a violin in a tree of love. Do you think that a tree sings and laughs. Do you think a tree is in a crevasse and then becomes life. Like I said, poets are not redeemed, must be left to fly through the trees like nightingales ready to die.
ALDA Merino, The soul in love
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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Anna Montero-I lived your skin
I HAVE LIVED YOUR SKIN
I lived your skin
your dreams.
Beyond you and me
nostalgia of old horizons
creeps. From light
more uncertain we will spend
nights, days,
the darkness and distance.
see the procession pass
of the absent
and fear we will look out the window.
I lived
your skin and your dreams and in the house we built
a room or a river that leads to other
dreams that maybe we will dream up the look
last.
(from "They talk about women - Catalan poets of the twenty-first century, Pironti, 2008)
.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
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Tjutcev FI - I love your eyes
I love your eyes, my friend,
And their game of charm and fire
When suddenly you raise them
And like a flash in the sky
Quick look around you ...
But there is still a charm more intense
When in your eyes downcast,
When the passionate kiss,
Through your lower lashes
burns the dark fire of desire.
(FI Tjutčev)
Saturday, May 8, 2010
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ArsenijTarkovskj-"and dreamed and the dream ..."
"And he dreamed, and dream, and I'll dream it again, one time or another, and all be repeated, and everything was in place, and dream everything appeared to me in a dream. There, apart from us, apart from the world after another wave breaks onto the shore, wave and the star, and man, the bird, and reality, and dreams, and death: a wave after another. I do not need the date: I was and am and will be. Life is the wonder of wonders, the wonder and knees only as an orphan, I ask myself only, between mirrors, reflections on the network seas and cities shining through the smoke. And her mother in tears you put the baby on his lap. " 
"And he dreamed, and dream, and I'll dream it again, one time or another, and all be repeated, and everything was in place, and dream everything appeared to me in a dream. There, apart from us, apart from the world after another wave breaks onto the shore, wave and the star, and man, the bird, and reality, and dreams, and death: a wave after another. I do not need the date: I was and am and will be. Life is the wonder of wonders, the wonder and knees only as an orphan, I ask myself only, between mirrors, reflections on the network seas and cities shining through the smoke. And her mother in tears you put the baby on his lap. "
Monday, May 3, 2010
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ArsenijTarkovskj-First meeting
Kokoschka- The bride of the wind
Kokoschka- The bride of the wind Every moment of our meeting we celebrated the
like an epiphany,
alone in this world. You were more daring and slightly
of a bird's wing, descending like a vertigo
skipping steps, and leads me over
wet lilacs in your possessions
beyond the mirror.
When I arrived the night was made
grace the doors of the iconostasis
were opened, and which shone in the darkness and slowly leaned
nudity in the wake: "You be blessed," said
, conscious of As irreverent
was my blessing: you were asleep, and the lilac
tended to brush off the table
the galaxy with the blue lids, and tap from light
eyelids were quiet, and his hand was warm.
In the crystal pulsing rivers,
fumigated the mountains, the sea sparkled, while asleep on the throne
were holding a crystal ball,
and - my God! - You were mine.
you destasti and cangiasti
the daily vocabulary of human speech and
really was filled with meaning, and the word you
unveiled its new meaning: the tsar.
Given everything was transfigured,
even the simplest objects - the bowl, the pitcher - when
as a guard stood between us
ice water, in layers.
We were led nowhere.
It opened our eyes, like mirages,
city lots to spell
mint stretched themselves under their feet, and the birds were
fellow travelers,
and fish up the river, and the sky
opens our eyes ...
When fate followed us step by step, like a madman
with a razor in his hand.
("first meeting, in Selected Poems" 1989
Saturday, April 24, 2010
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The Sentence-Anna Akhmatova
I have a lot to do today / necessary to kill all the way memory / you need the soul to stone / you need to learn to live again. " 
I have a lot to do today / necessary to kill all the way memory / you need the soul to stone / you need to learn to live again. "
Friday, April 23, 2010
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about the beauty of imperfection
In a world that theorizes wars "smart" goals "targeted", barbarism is not formed by the destruction, but by construction. This book is about the nostalgia of lost objects and places, speaks of negligence that man has for things that are his destiny, speaks of the violence that modern technology on our work places and our world, the quiet walk in a country lane, the courtyards of abandoned, rain dripping on the glass. Are the poor things that testify to a lost world whose traces are visible when the fabric of our lives.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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Mens sana-first steps ..
V. Van Gogh First Steps 1889
"" Every journey begins with the first step .. "" 
V. Van Gogh First Steps 1889
"" Every journey begins with the first step .. ""
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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Why I like Hopper ....
E. Hopper, Cape Cod Morning (1950), oil on canvas.
I often think of a painting by Hopper to express a feeling, impression, a thought not completely defined. Define a painter for a non-specialist is like going into an unknown place without the necessary points of reference, but art is not just for art critics, not even art critics. So I try to explain why I like Hopper.
is the painter of the windows bow windows, bay windows with curtains fluttering open, half closed or empty rooms on the sea.
is the painter of non-places-places: lockers train, waiting rooms, service stations with or without the presence of men. But where there are people are people waiting, waiting someone, they think of something that you know it. Why are people like you.
also paints landscapes of extraordinary beauty: serene, enlightened, in which man is there but not seen. There is the sea, often. And there are lights where you know that somewhere there is a window looking out to some man or woman who looks around.
But it is also painter of scenes that tell: pictures photographs that appear to give an idea of \u200b\u200ba whole life behind. You could probably tell you who the people depicted in certain scenes, to say that links to one another and explain what motivated you to be there where the painter sees ....
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Brazilian Wax Billerica Ma
Hanna Arendt - Eichmann in Jerusalem
Thought is not knowledge; is the ability to discern good from evil
, the beautiful from the ugly .. 
Thought is not knowledge; is the ability to discern good from evil
, the beautiful from the ugly ..
Monday, April 19, 2010
Why Was The Razr2 Discontinued
Alda Merino-soul love
I do not need money.
I need to hear
of words, carefully chosen words,
those thoughts of flowers, roses
of these admissions,
dreams that inhabit the trees,
Lyrics that do the dancing statues,
of stars whispering in the ears of lovers ....
I need poetry,
this magic burns the heaviness of words,
that evokes emotions and those new
soul has its own shelter as the temple of love un'avarizia earthly gods can not touch, but the soul is also a word, the word unconscious. E 'wrong to identify the unconscious with the temple of the soul is another season, is another food, we feed on things unrelated to human speech, things that do not yet have reason to be, things that hiss like snakes and instead are angels of light.
From soul in love with Alda Merini
I do not need money.
I need to hear
of words, carefully chosen words,
those thoughts of flowers, roses
of these admissions,
dreams that inhabit the trees,
Lyrics that do the dancing statues,
of stars whispering in the ears of lovers ....
I need poetry,
this magic burns the heaviness of words,
that evokes emotions and those new
soul has its own shelter as the temple of love un'avarizia earthly gods can not touch, but the soul is also a word, the word unconscious. E 'wrong to identify the unconscious with the temple of the soul is another season, is another food, we feed on things unrelated to human speech, things that do not yet have reason to be, things that hiss like snakes and instead are angels of light.
From soul in love with Alda Merini
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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