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Paradise

[...]4

The girls came down and we started out on our big night, once more pushing the car down the street. 'Wheeoo! let's go!' cried Dean, and we jumped in the back seat and clanked to the little Harlem on Folsom Street.

Out we jumped in the warm, mad night, hearing a wild tenorman bawling horn across the way, going 'EE-YAH! EE-YAH! EE-YAH!' and hands clapping to the beat and folks yelling, 'Go, go, go!' Dean was already racing across the street with his thumb in the air, yelling, 'Blow, man, blow!' A bunch of colored men in Saturday-night suits were whooping it up in front. It was a sawdust saloon with a small bandstand on which the fellows huddled with their hats on, blowing over people's head, a crazy place; crazy floppy women wandered around sometimes in their bathrobes, bottles clanked in alleys. In back of the joint in a dark corridor beyond the splattered toilets scores of men and women stood against the wall drinking wine-spodiodi and spitting at the stars - wine and whisky. The behatted tenorman was blowing at the peak of a wonderfully satisfactory free idea, a rising and falling rift that went from 'EE-yah!' to crazier 'EE-de-lee-yah!' and blasted along to the rolling crash of butt-scarred drums hammered by a big brutal Negro with a bullneck who didn't give a damn about anything but punishing his busted tubs, crash, rattle-ti-boom, crash. Uproars of music and the tenorman had it  and everybody knew he had it. Dean was clutching his head in the crowd, and it Was a mad crowd. They Were All That tenorman urging to hold it and keep it with cries and wild eyes, and He Was raising Himself from a crouch and going down again with His horn, looping it up in a clear cry above the furor. A six-foot skinny Negro woman Was rolling her bones at the man's hornbell, and he just jabbed it at her, 'Ee! ee! ee! '

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I'm back on the blog to see if in the meantime he had written something interesting, for an unknown author or my hand, while some other personality was in control. But nothing. So I may not follow it myself more than this blog, because it is unoriginal, just curious. Not follow it more as a player, for sure.
[:

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The flesh is sad, alas! and I read all the books.
Flee! there away! I feel that birds are drunk
To be among the unknown foam and skies!
Nothing, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes
keep back this heart steeped in the sea
O nights! or the clarity of my lonely lamp
On the empty paper whiteness
defends nor the young woman nursing her child.
I leave! Steamer swaying masts
weighed anchor for exotic lands! A
Boredom, wasted by cruel hopes, still believes in
the farewell of handkerchiefs!
Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages
Sont-ils de ceux qu'un vent penche sur les naufrages
Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots...
Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots!

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13.13

Ho pasta fredda per una vita. Pasta fredda, ciliegie e albicocche. O cigliegghie.

Credo che lo studio faccia male, fa male e mi fa venire strani pensieri quindi smetterò. Soddisfazione personale. Ma che ne voglio capire. L'errore del governo iraniano è stato investire così tanto nell'educazione. Lo studio fa venire strani pensieri, la cultura fa sperare. Tutti questi universitari in uno stato dittatoriale, no no c'è qualcosa che non va. E si finisce come Neda, la Voce si spegne con gli occhi aperti.

C'è questa scritta al neon nella mia testa. Si accende e si spegne, così. E' da un pò che c'è. Se guardi, c'è scritto "SCAPPA". Scappa. In rosa, giallo, verde. Tutta circondata d'argento. E a volte capita che qualcuno ci si mette davanti, e allora io non la vedo più. Però la luce si vede comunque, anche se davanti ci si mettesse una montagna. Vedi questa luce che lampeggia, che crea uno strano alone alla persona che ci si mettesse davanti. Quindi, anche se a un certo punto non ti ricordi più cosa c'è scritto, non puoi dimenticare la sua esistenza. Perchè c'è sempre la luce . E allora tu, che ti sei dimenticato cosa c'è scritto, continui a vedere queste luci che si alternano, si spengono, si accendono. E allora dici "Spostati, và, che voglio vedere cos'è che fa tutta questa bella luce." E allora, prima o poi, riesco a far spostare tutti. E rimango io, davanti a questa scritta al neon, che la guardo e penso. E sotto alla scritta c'è un bar. Un bar di quelli di paese, che si vede che sono vecchi, che hanno i tavolini fuori dove si siedono sempre gli stessi clienti, abituali da settant'anni. Si, l'ho messa apposta la virgola, là, tra "clienti" e "abituali". Clienti, abituali. Così. Insomma, questo bar sotto alla written seems empty for a hundred years, but has all the things that should have a bar that you understand that is, precisely, a bar, not a copy shop, nor a house nor a race track. And out of the customer, usually, there's only one. And it's a little old, those with a hat and clothes that make them look partisan retired. And, you know how usually the older of these bars always say the same things that are so commonplace that you already know how it will continue the conversation, but deep down I'm also a little bit true. Type: There are no more between seasons. Type E: the youth of today have no respect for anything more. E: it's too hot, I prefer the cold, because at least if it's cold you can cover, you put a sweater and then another and then another (writing this I had a very cold, really) until you have hot, but if it is hot, at most you can take off your clothes and then? There is nothing to remove. (No one has ever noticed that now there are fans and air conditioners, useful gadgets that eliminate the problem) Well, this customer, usually dressed as a partisan, with so many lines that it seems that a spider is weaving a web around a thousand years, continues to look the word. It is a strange feeling, because you see this old man's face lighted spider web with all these lights. The old and new, perhaps that is what makes a strana sensazione. E insomma, il vecchietto guarda su, e scuote la testa, e dice una frase. Poi pensa un pò, guarda il tavolo del bar, si guarda in giro, si gratta una guancia, guarda di nuovo su. All'infinito. E continua sempre a dire la stessa frase.

"Scappa? E dove vuoi scappare?"

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Bart conosceva qualche vecchia reliquia di quando ancora si fumava oppio.

Labbra viola, vino rosso.
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Ti piacerebbe Roma, dove le notti sono d'arancio? Le parole rendono belle anche le cose che perdono le proprie qualità, come la notte il suo buio.

Troverò un modo per distruggere ciò che di nuovo sta crescendo intorno a me. Sono fulmine in questo senso. Creo terra bruciata.


"The most dangerous thing to do is stand still."

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Baudelaire.

"Just now, as I crossed the avenue, in great haste, and jumping in the mud moving through that chaos where death comes at a gallop at the same time by all parties, a sharp movement for my halo slipped from the head down in the mud of asphalt. I have not had the courage to pick it up. I found it less unpleasant to lose the signs that make me break your bones. And then I said, Every cloud has a silver lining. Now I can walk incognito, take actions available, give me the gluttony, as mere mortals. And here I am, very similar to you, as vedete!"

Le Spleen de Paris.

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No more laughs at the bar and the walls will be at your ankles.

Al di là del vetro scorre questa città, al di là del vetro scorre il suo riflesso. And we are the people of the world. La luna bianca, piena, lassù, tra gli alberi neri. E quelle persone là fuori hanno tutti le stesse paure, le stesse incertezze, le stesse storie particolari. Ascolta chiunque per abbastanza tempo, scegli a caso tra tutte queste persone. Scoprirai che ognuno è speciale, quindi nessuno lo è. E continua a scorrere la città, ruvida, ubriaca, come Leonard Cohen che mi sussurra nelle orecchie. Ho gli occhi stanchi e la mente libera dalla lucidità and I can see the future, baby, and it is murder. Non so cos'abbia la notte. Non so cos'abbia io. Cos'abbiano tutti. Cosabbia. Era inutile scrivere tutto questo.
Mi ricordo un sorriso che illuminava la stanza. Mi ricordo il riflesso di occhi verdi pieni di lacrime.
Un salto del cuore ma poi, poi, poi sapere che è meglio così. Sapere che mi conosco abbastanza bene per sapere.
Nessun riferimento, se ci fosse capireste male.


Tutto è un attimo e.

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Volver.

Capolinea. Tra le persone indistinte faccio quel passo sospeso per scendere dall'autobus.

Il sole fa male agli occhi. Ma ora non più, con gli occhialidasole.

Due signorediunacertaetà, due signoreperbene, fermano il loro discorsoperbene e mi fissano. Mi odiano perchè ho ciò che non è più loro, la gioventù e quella bellezza che solo gli altri vedono in me. Ma in fondo non mi interessa, il semaforo è verde e possono trotterellare per le strisce pedonali, guardandomi mentre mi allontano più veloce di loro.

Il vento mi butta i capelli sugli occhi, ma in fondo non mi interessa. Chi mi vuole me li scompiglia sempre, i capelli.

Un uomo con l'impermeabile blu esce da un cassonetto.

Macchina blu, macchina grigia, macchina grigia, macchina grigia. La macchina nera si ferma, mi fa passare. Sorrido alla macchina.

Salgo gli scalini, and the last seconds of music are nice. Then silence citizen, the fact that silence of machinery and birds.

And I'm fresh back in the womb. Volver.

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I say that the day that bologna disappear underground in a storm of shit will always be too late. thanks to succeed every time to remind me why I hate you .

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Lui. Lei.

The only thing that unites us is this plastic box rattling.
If there's more, it is likely that we'll never know.

The old lady with shopping bags, she widens the seat as tiramisu.
The guy with the headphones, he says. And on the other hand, the one with the knife to close my pants at the ankles, next to his friend, he screams.
He goes to the yard, quiet prima di una giornata senza silenzio; lei va in ufficio, e già parla nell'auricolare quasi fosse un robot collegato al mondo da un filo nell'orecchio.

Fuori, il resto del mondo è unito dal fatto che non si trova in questa scatola in questo momento.
Quel bambino, lui, non è contento di andare a scuola, nonostante lo zaino nuovo e le figurine da scambiare.
Seduta alla finestra, là, una puttana in mutande e reggiseno guarda il mondo dall'alto; come una gatta pigra, lei.

E tu? Dove scendi tu?
Io? A Buenos Aires.

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Ten years from now.

Going mad late to make real an idea is good. Sleeping on the couch is fine. But after 11 is no longer possible, are piranha in the head and the Virgin of Nuremberg in the neck. The sofa also become a bed, but I did not have the strength to open it.

there is a railing on the balcony where the clothes hung take air. They must not have the clothes smell.

red pants and black vest, black sweater and red pants.

That beautiful black pen color hypnosis is over, picked up the coins and go buy it. Pens and milk. Two coffees. While I drink I see my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Eyes painted black hair, that create arabesques around the face, and the splash of purple ink on his cheek. Me enough money for a croissant, I'm going to wait for the bus. I only eat the croissants with jam that bar, one, two, five. Maybe a few days ago, someone offered me a plate of pasta, do not remember who. Twenty minutes on the beast of iron and plastic bouncing, watching people, seeing as no one returns your gaze for a long time, as we all retire because they have something to hide, so uncomfortable. A shameful secret, or a phobia of buttons.

At the bar there is someone I have not seen so much, we embrace a long time to exchange a bit of heat. A croissant, two latte cold un altro cornetto. La domanda più insidiosa è quel come stai che pretende una bugia. Come sto? Non ne ho idea. Questo mi fa stare bene, quello mi fa stare male, ma è tutto così labile, così confuso, così inafferrabile.

Un'ora, due, tre, ma in fondo cos'è il tempo? beviamo la vita altrui per riscaldarci il cuore, la mente, il corpo. Voglio bene a questa persona, le ho voluto bene, le vorrò bene.

Deve andare da degli amici, ma non la accompagnerò. Ho avuto abbastanza per oggi, non posso sopportare una folla.

Torno a casa e decido di fare una doccia. Eliminiamo la macchia di inchiostro dal viso, i colori che dalle mani si arrampicano su for the forearms. I mounted a mirror in the shower, is the only place where you can not hide. Sophira Van Ness was convinced that only become impure and bad fats. I do not know whether to believe, the fictional characters often do not tell the truth even if retail information and more a reality of their creators. I go out and have a new porcelain doll, with no scars.

I go back to the drawing board. After a while I'm uncomfortable and I move on the ground. I came back the desire to score was gone for several days. Mozart and Yuksek, Smiths and Uffie.

Towards evening, I realize that I did not eat, I did not drink, and the temperature dropped suddenly. My memory is not what I remembered. I call people, We meet two hours later. Start walking. In my mind still whirling images, shapes, Mad Meg, Antonin Arnaud, Angela Strassheim, rain, the sea. I miss the sea.

eat at a friend's house. I know it is not always nice to fall in the kitchen, but there is one month to the exhibition and the new wave of money. And then like, I bring a little something more. The others arrive, I try to convince them to go to the beach, do not know how I can. Two hours in the car with the music that poured from the speakers, we lose, we find ourselves, we lose again and we laugh, we arrive at the beach.

leaves me breathless, it takes me a while to remember to breathe while the cold block my fingers. Elle est retrouvée. Quoi? - Eternity. C'est la mer allée Avec le soleil. let us take off their clothes, Throw in the belly of the sea. Good feeling. Dark colors, swirling, and the sun rises

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Provare.

The world is absurd, life is absurd. Or maybe just our perception is.
It 's normal to always feel out of place, inappropriate?

We base so much on communication, when ironically it is one of the options that we have developed worse. Sometimes funny, sometimes it is boring, when two monologues fit. But it is rare to be able to understand each other.
Basically we are all equal. You can feel different, alone, unable to understand and be understood. But feeling and being are different. We feel the same emotions, we have the same ideas. Expressed differently, triggered by different reasons, but always the same.
My every thought is already belonged to someone. Time is relative, but in the long period in which humanity has created its own history has ever even tried the same emotions. My thoughts have been thought of, my deeds, the feelings experienced.
Knowing this makes you less sad? It makes you feel less displaced, less alone? Tell me you.
We cling to history, the past, to others, to dream, to heat human ideals. All so astratto. Si parla di felicità, amore, ci sbattiamo per idee pure, senza dare dignità al concreto. Però, in fondo, è questa malformazione psichica ( psìchico = lat. PSYCHICUS dal gr. PSICHIKòS che tiene a PSYCHE anima - relativo all'anima, allo spirito, alla mente.) che ha permesso all'uomo di ribaltare la legge del più forte e di trascendere il suo mondo senza possedere la trascendenza (come diceva Sartre).
Ci perdiamo solo in serenità, ma in fondo meglio provare qualcosa e soffrirne che lasciarsi scivolare tutto addosso. Live fast, die young, oppure no, però la mediocrità non la vuole e non la sente nessuno.

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Fairytales of yesterday.

I had thought about writing a story. Of those beginning with "once upon a time in a far country." The protagonist was a beautiful princess like the others. Beloved daughter and miracle of a very good queen, would have to put up until the age of the injustices of a stepfather envious. Or maybe it was a king with his stepmother. The animals would have loved, had a wonderful voice and the help of one, two, ten do godmothers. A rainbow prince would fall in love with her, and she would have reciprocated. It would be redeemed, and karma would have defeated his stepfather. You should get a kiss, I know. Only this beautiful princess, very good, Levissima was a little more intelligent than others. He knew what was going on: the prince, the princess, the villain dies, the two heroes are given the kiss of true love, end of story. He was also a little proud, the princess, a real prima donna: she had no intention to end his story by way of a simple kiss. So the prince was left with an inch of his nose, she moved to the palace and entertained people for years that was granted to all but the kiss on the lips. Andersen and the Grimm brothers would have pulled down the saints in heaven against her, but in the end could not have nothing against a princess who was not their property.

passed a lot of years, the princess would not love you looked in the mirror. You would find herself off, old and tired. A decaying body that was beginning to rot even before death. What was that? Never happens to princesses of old. And then he thought that if the fairy tales end after the kiss at the bottom there is a reason.

To remedy its excessive intelligence, he would have started looking for his prince, his love. And finally he found, stuck in a marriage without good feelings, with a young wife soured from pregnancies that had ruined the body. It was not the fault of the prince, poverino. In fondo il suo unico errore era stato nel dare retta ai ragionamenti di un essere che non è mai stato creato per pensare.

La principessa si sarebbe considerata un errore. Avrebbe implorato Andersen di riscrivere la sua storia, di mettere il punto dove andava messo. Avrebbe pregato i Grimm di farla ritornare indietro. Ma dopo una dormita tormentata ed una nuova alba sarebbe stata fiera dei suoi errori, e urlando al vento ne avrebbe rivendicato il possesso, l'originalità. Dopodichè si sarebbe buttata giù da un dirupo.

Il principe, passando, l'avrebbe vista lì distesa e l'avrebbe seguita, perchè in fondo è questo che fanno i principi. E cadendo sarebbe finito su di lei, labbra on his lips. Point. And they lived happily forever. Or died, which is even more "forever."

After all could have been worse. They could marry, proloficare, betray, hate, divorce, and ruin the story for the next generation of princes and princesses.

I wanted to write a fairy tale, the kind that begin with "once upon a time".

But then I thought no one reads more fairy tales.

picture of the beautiful Victoria Frances .

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Imparando a respirare.

"screw, bolt, on lance son coeur." [Cyrano de Bergerac]

In a passion, a dream, in interpersonal relationships. To gather in the evening with a wound more, and he stretched before him, waiting for the healing.

I can not write in South Africa, I can not. It 's a parallel universe, a world of contrasts, color, light, nature care, but not controlled. A land that has to recover from the blows inflicted by the past, the present, and probably the future, and that even this does not lose his smile. This is all that I can put in writing. I will read Ebony of Kapuscinski and between the words of others will try the right ones to describe all that is Africa, because mie non bastano.

E così si torna tra i palazzi grigi. Che poi è solo un modo di dire, perchè la maggiorparte dei palazzi romani, almeno quelli costruiti dal '60 in poi, sono in genere di quel giallo-arancione-rosa indeciso, forse un pesca pastellato? Il cielo però è più grigio che mai, ed anche finendo nei meandri della campagna alla ricerca del centro commerciale i suoi confini sono vicini, stretti, opachi. Le persone sono grigie, chiuse nei loro mondi a misura d'uomo costruiti sui pregiudizi; ma in fondo le corazze servono a difendersi dagli oggetti contundenti scagliati dal tornado quotidiano. E tutti noi che non abbiamo mai patito, sofferto, sentito la mancanza di bisogni primari come cibo, acqua, mura, medicine we have the opportunity to be torn apart by the unexpected, by melancholy, boredom. We belong to the caste of the lucky ones, really.

begins again the deadlines that were close between lunch and forget the need for companionship. I know I'm on a train, and then will approach faster as I get closer, and once passed there will be nothing left to do.

Mah, uncontrollable mood swings between melancholy, a passion that does not find a satisfactory outlet and a sense of futility.