Tramonto Falck, un romanzo murale: Tramonto Falck - date presentazioni in Gennaio : "14 gennaio h 20 - Bondeno (FE) - Osteria Scciancalegn - via Virgiliana 21 gennaio h 18 - Milano - Libreria Odradek, via pricinpe eugenio 28..."
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Business New Year Greeting Sample
Sunset Falck, a novel Mural: Sunset Falck - given presentations in January
Tramonto Falck, un romanzo murale: Tramonto Falck - date presentazioni in Gennaio : "14 gennaio h 20 - Bondeno (FE) - Osteria Scciancalegn - via Virgiliana 21 gennaio h 18 - Milano - Libreria Odradek, via pricinpe eugenio 28..."
Tramonto Falck, un romanzo murale: Tramonto Falck - date presentazioni in Gennaio : "14 gennaio h 20 - Bondeno (FE) - Osteria Scciancalegn - via Virgiliana 21 gennaio h 18 - Milano - Libreria Odradek, via pricinpe eugenio 28..."
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
West Coast Choppers Truck Parts
Palio precious painted in 1992 by Ernesto Treccani. Popular
I drappi del Palio sono opera di Maestri del colore. Uno di questi, quello dell'edizione 1992, viene dalla mano di Ernesto Treccani, figlio del noto Giovanni Treccani degli Alfieri, che diede vita all'omonima enciclopedia. Milanese (1920-2009), dirige la rivista "Corrente". Amico di Birolli, Guttuso, Sassu, Cassinari, con Raffaele De Grada, Elio Vittorini e altri è nella rivista "Il 45", fa parte del gruppo "Pittura" e scrive nella rivista "Realismo". Con Ernesto Treccani, all'inaugurazione della mostra "Opere 1940-1992" a Palazzo Guarnieri, c'era Raffaele De Grada nella veste, oltre che di amico, di critico d'arte. The drape Treccani is owned by the Cathedral Quarter, winner of the Palio of the Fifteen Ducati Gold '92.
Photo Taborgna exposure Lele 1992, the second image comes from the 2009 exhibition of the drapes of the Palio, held again at the Palazzo Guarnieri Piazza Maggiore. Treccani of the unique running horse on the left.
SEE www.ernestotreccani.net
SEE www.ernestotreccani.net
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
What Does A=2 Crossed Arrows On Porcelain Mean?
This is not a country
Parafrasando Cormac Mac Carthy, questo non è un paese per vecchi che vogliono andare in pensione, per giovani che vogliono studiare, per quelli che vogliono lavorare, per donne che vogliono contare senza fare le veline o le escort, per i ricercatori, per i professori, per gli operai della Fiat, for the honest, for men, for democracy.
E 'is now a country for thieves, pimps and whores.
This was the lesson (yet another) today.
Young, go! 
Parafrasando Cormac Mac Carthy, questo non è un paese per vecchi che vogliono andare in pensione, per giovani che vogliono studiare, per quelli che vogliono lavorare, per donne che vogliono contare senza fare le veline o le escort, per i ricercatori, per i professori, per gli operai della Fiat, for the honest, for men, for democracy.
E 'is now a country for thieves, pimps and whores.
This was the lesson (yet another) today.
Young, go!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Hk395 Harman Kardon Satellite Speakers
Traveling with artist Carlo Andreoli (ALO)
Traveling with artist Carlo Andreoli (ALO) : "The journey begins a long night on the Po, into those dark and murky waters which seem more generous than that waste of stories to rec ..." 
Traveling with artist Carlo Andreoli (ALO) : "The journey begins a long night on the Po, into those dark and murky waters which seem more generous than that waste of stories to rec ..."
Are Dongle Emulators Legal?
Twilight of heroes
The ninth hour of the Christian liturgy is the prayer of mid-afternoon, to 15 for accuracy.
In this time of passage of the day, Pope John Paul II was struck by a meteorite on the legs of medium size. Her body, dressed up as the Jubilee, is lying on the ground, his hands firmly holding the auction of a crucifix. The Pope keeps his eyes closed, a wrinkle frowns, but overall his face is peaceful, does not seem to someone who has suffered such a condemnation from the sky, it looks dead, but dreaming or concentrate in prayer. His clothes are not torn apart by big black rock and even bloody, as if the meteorite had been carefully placed on his body already stretched. Above, a drummer in an early age, sitting in a corner with his feet suspended above the stage, alternated at a rate stillness broken and inaccurate. All this creates a situation of suspended time, which is expected at any moment someone who narrates the scene or song, or that raise a hymn or a psalm, but nothing happens, only the infinite iteration of the irregular heartbeat of the tambourine that awakens the Pope, still lying on the ground. No one intervenes to free his poor body trapped under the meteorite, a man in uniform will not be approached by anyone.
not the last American film is a scene taken from the usual brick by Dan Brown which puts the focus of the Vatican and its mysteries, but the brief description of Cattelan's work on display at the Royal Palace Milan. The ninth hour, precisely, is the name of the installation created nell'inquietante Sala delle Cariatidi.
La cariatide è una scultura che rappresenta una figura femminile con funzione di elemento architettonico di sostegno utilizzato al posto di una colonna. L’aspetto affascinante della sala delle cariatidi è che l’intero palazzo subì gravi danni nella notte del 15 agosto 1943 quando la città venne colpita da un bombardamento inglese contro gli occupanti nazisti. In realtà non furono le bombe a colpire direttamente l'edificio, ma esso venne distrutto da un incendio scatenatosi nei vicini palazzi che intaccò il sottotetto della Sala delle Cariatidi, bruciandone l'orditura lignea e causando così il crollo delle grandi travi che nella loro caduta travolsero la volta, il ballatoio e spaccarono in più points of the floor.
So, to sum up in a room that was partially destroyed by war and where the caryatids no longer hold anything in the mutilated, the Polish Pope, who has certainly contributed to the fall of the communist regimes of Eastern Europe and the consequent end of ideology , is bombarded by a meteor black without being mutilated in turn.
at the noon hour of human history, the ninth hour, a man heroically resisting the forces of evil are unleashed on the world again, while a clumsy drummer announces something that does not happen. The Pope is desperately lonely, clinging to his faith, but does not change (more) the story is repeated violent and equal to itself. How, in fact, occur.
This is my personal interpretation of the work by Cattelan, a contemporary artist, provocateur par excellence. In front of the Milan stock exchange, in Piazza degli Affari, Cattelan has ever erected a marble pedestal on a giant hand with the fingers cut off, except the medium. A sneer at the city of business or cut off a salute, then ridiculed, shut down, emptied? I leave to others the answer to the question, since it is not so much interested in the challenge rather than calling in the twilight of the heroes that I read in these works.
These days I discovered a small book of great value. It's called The Tomba di Achille ed è stato scritto in modo elegante e raffinato dal filosofo e saggista francese Vincent Delecroix. L’autore mescola la memoria personale del suo eroe preferito da bambino con lo studio di tutte le incrostazioni che lo stesso ha subito nei secoli a seguito degli interventi di tutti gli scrittori che ne hanno fatto il centro di una narrazione: Ovidio, Orazio, Euripide, Racine, Goethe, Byron, Dante, Metastasio, Shakespear, Simone Weill... Senza essere distratto da tutto quell’affabulare di sé, Achille cammina imperterrito su una linea dritta, certo che non esista ritorno possibile.
Cito alla lettera un brano del libro, edito da excelsior 1881 e tradotto in un italiano ricco e poetico da Riccardo Bentsik. Identificando immortality of the heroes in the series of successive lives of those in memory or give the word in their writings, he writes: There are times that babble and stutter, seasons of oblivion, the dark, a time when the world has little Corrugated eyes that are clouded by a rapidly blinding glare too, times when the world is tired of grandeur and dreams of the infinitely small, which has other concerns and other loves, in which his toothless mouth can not chew more than just a word in greek, in which his greedy fingers are not able to grasp without ruining what they touch. Cataleptic, therefore, the heroes who seems to sink into a sleep of marble, are left to sink in a mare inerte, muiono per un certo tempo, il loro corpo che diventa preda dell’archeologia.
E’mia opinione che noi ci troviamo pienamente, soprattutto in Italia, in una di queste fasi di sonno e di oblio degli eroi. La sconfitta di ogni ideologia e la mediocrità dell’attuale economia capitalista, l’unico modello che ci è rimasto, sono fenomeni comuni a tutte le nazioni del mondo, che hanno portato alla mancanza del sogno e della speranza in un mondo migliore. Se non c’è speranza, non c’è eroe. Achille non corre più e si addormenta.
Nel nostro paese, c’è di più e di peggio. Qui persino russa e sputacchia mentre dorme.
Tralascio comments on the heroic models proposed in the country: the vain tronista, the bold and powerful scorers tissue. Overflight and about the huge military-Popular applied with a lot of horse shows held in the capital to greet the dictator's friend and hundreds of young women hired to watch the improbable image of Quran lessons of Gaddafi, all while denying the places of worship to those who really wants to profess the same religion, only to throw them out if they pray in the streets or squares.
There's more and worse.
Recent events show us the total lack of interest or even the sneer to the founding moments of our nation: the resurgence and resistance. The next year marks the 150th anniversary of the birth of Italy as a unified kingdom through the joint efforts of many Italians, but some politicians in the government can afford to mock the national flag and anthem, and feel useless to celebrate this important anniversary, while unlikely Celtic rituals celebrating the country's schools and decorate with symbols that have no relation with our history. The resistance in the mountains of our fathers and grandfathers who have contributed to the liberation of Italy from Nazi occupation is mocked by a revision of history to deny that comes as a basic element of the Italian Republic. We would like to 'reconcile' the story or rewrite it so in the same way to remember the victims on both sides. Victims should be respect for human, but the history of Italy and its republican constitution should not be relining with a plastic cover as if it were old books. Instead, in this new republic of the joke and the jokes we continue to laugh and laugh, and everything looks normal, only to reconcile the positions cooking polenta in the streets, as if the government had turned into a field kitchen and its representatives dishwashers were the only one cook. The first chef, proudly showing a new hat for every occasion, claiming to be the best prime minister the last centocinquantanni, better therefore Cavour, Giolitti, Parri De Gasperi and all the others. And 'he who said it, and dishwashers whistle mix the vegetables while the recipe of the day. Meanwhile, in our part of a mayor you can buy full pages of newspapers to show dressed as a Roman gladiator, and celebrate itself in posters announcing his hometown as a burqa-free. In Valsesia? The Burqa? And who have you ever seen? It would be like if you claim to have invented the recipe for polenta without the addition of cous-cous.
Anyway, it is also true that these gentlemen have publicly applauded and supported by popular consent, and are worthy representatives of decline in this country. Achilles is puffed women who gained thanks to his power and meanwhile scullions prepares polenta without couscous in his palace and all the guests of the court laughing like crazy. It 'a party.
Meanwhile in Pompeii collapses gladiator Domus, L'Aquila is still a pile of rubble and Naples is under a mountain of waste. Here we are far beyond the twilight of the heroes, we are a parody of the Iliad made by Franco and Ciccio. There is nothing that kills more than the heroes of a bully's laugh court. For the next
by Cattelan, artist to this issue: President Napolitano and lying on the ground under a large trash bag. Her eyes are closed, with one hand ing the nose, the other holds him the Italian constitution.
I leave you to decide who would look like the little drummer boy and clumsy. 
The ninth hour of the Christian liturgy is the prayer of mid-afternoon, to 15 for accuracy.
In this time of passage of the day, Pope John Paul II was struck by a meteorite on the legs of medium size. Her body, dressed up as the Jubilee, is lying on the ground, his hands firmly holding the auction of a crucifix. The Pope keeps his eyes closed, a wrinkle frowns, but overall his face is peaceful, does not seem to someone who has suffered such a condemnation from the sky, it looks dead, but dreaming or concentrate in prayer. His clothes are not torn apart by big black rock and even bloody, as if the meteorite had been carefully placed on his body already stretched. Above, a drummer in an early age, sitting in a corner with his feet suspended above the stage, alternated at a rate stillness broken and inaccurate. All this creates a situation of suspended time, which is expected at any moment someone who narrates the scene or song, or that raise a hymn or a psalm, but nothing happens, only the infinite iteration of the irregular heartbeat of the tambourine that awakens the Pope, still lying on the ground. No one intervenes to free his poor body trapped under the meteorite, a man in uniform will not be approached by anyone.
not the last American film is a scene taken from the usual brick by Dan Brown which puts the focus of the Vatican and its mysteries, but the brief description of Cattelan's work on display at the Royal Palace Milan. The ninth hour, precisely, is the name of the installation created nell'inquietante Sala delle Cariatidi.
La cariatide è una scultura che rappresenta una figura femminile con funzione di elemento architettonico di sostegno utilizzato al posto di una colonna. L’aspetto affascinante della sala delle cariatidi è che l’intero palazzo subì gravi danni nella notte del 15 agosto 1943 quando la città venne colpita da un bombardamento inglese contro gli occupanti nazisti. In realtà non furono le bombe a colpire direttamente l'edificio, ma esso venne distrutto da un incendio scatenatosi nei vicini palazzi che intaccò il sottotetto della Sala delle Cariatidi, bruciandone l'orditura lignea e causando così il crollo delle grandi travi che nella loro caduta travolsero la volta, il ballatoio e spaccarono in più points of the floor.
So, to sum up in a room that was partially destroyed by war and where the caryatids no longer hold anything in the mutilated, the Polish Pope, who has certainly contributed to the fall of the communist regimes of Eastern Europe and the consequent end of ideology , is bombarded by a meteor black without being mutilated in turn.
at the noon hour of human history, the ninth hour, a man heroically resisting the forces of evil are unleashed on the world again, while a clumsy drummer announces something that does not happen. The Pope is desperately lonely, clinging to his faith, but does not change (more) the story is repeated violent and equal to itself. How, in fact, occur.
This is my personal interpretation of the work by Cattelan, a contemporary artist, provocateur par excellence. In front of the Milan stock exchange, in Piazza degli Affari, Cattelan has ever erected a marble pedestal on a giant hand with the fingers cut off, except the medium. A sneer at the city of business or cut off a salute, then ridiculed, shut down, emptied? I leave to others the answer to the question, since it is not so much interested in the challenge rather than calling in the twilight of the heroes that I read in these works.
These days I discovered a small book of great value. It's called The Tomba di Achille ed è stato scritto in modo elegante e raffinato dal filosofo e saggista francese Vincent Delecroix. L’autore mescola la memoria personale del suo eroe preferito da bambino con lo studio di tutte le incrostazioni che lo stesso ha subito nei secoli a seguito degli interventi di tutti gli scrittori che ne hanno fatto il centro di una narrazione: Ovidio, Orazio, Euripide, Racine, Goethe, Byron, Dante, Metastasio, Shakespear, Simone Weill... Senza essere distratto da tutto quell’affabulare di sé, Achille cammina imperterrito su una linea dritta, certo che non esista ritorno possibile.
Cito alla lettera un brano del libro, edito da excelsior 1881 e tradotto in un italiano ricco e poetico da Riccardo Bentsik. Identificando immortality of the heroes in the series of successive lives of those in memory or give the word in their writings, he writes: There are times that babble and stutter, seasons of oblivion, the dark, a time when the world has little Corrugated eyes that are clouded by a rapidly blinding glare too, times when the world is tired of grandeur and dreams of the infinitely small, which has other concerns and other loves, in which his toothless mouth can not chew more than just a word in greek, in which his greedy fingers are not able to grasp without ruining what they touch. Cataleptic, therefore, the heroes who seems to sink into a sleep of marble, are left to sink in a mare inerte, muiono per un certo tempo, il loro corpo che diventa preda dell’archeologia.
E’mia opinione che noi ci troviamo pienamente, soprattutto in Italia, in una di queste fasi di sonno e di oblio degli eroi. La sconfitta di ogni ideologia e la mediocrità dell’attuale economia capitalista, l’unico modello che ci è rimasto, sono fenomeni comuni a tutte le nazioni del mondo, che hanno portato alla mancanza del sogno e della speranza in un mondo migliore. Se non c’è speranza, non c’è eroe. Achille non corre più e si addormenta.
Nel nostro paese, c’è di più e di peggio. Qui persino russa e sputacchia mentre dorme.
Tralascio comments on the heroic models proposed in the country: the vain tronista, the bold and powerful scorers tissue. Overflight and about the huge military-Popular applied with a lot of horse shows held in the capital to greet the dictator's friend and hundreds of young women hired to watch the improbable image of Quran lessons of Gaddafi, all while denying the places of worship to those who really wants to profess the same religion, only to throw them out if they pray in the streets or squares.
There's more and worse.
Recent events show us the total lack of interest or even the sneer to the founding moments of our nation: the resurgence and resistance. The next year marks the 150th anniversary of the birth of Italy as a unified kingdom through the joint efforts of many Italians, but some politicians in the government can afford to mock the national flag and anthem, and feel useless to celebrate this important anniversary, while unlikely Celtic rituals celebrating the country's schools and decorate with symbols that have no relation with our history. The resistance in the mountains of our fathers and grandfathers who have contributed to the liberation of Italy from Nazi occupation is mocked by a revision of history to deny that comes as a basic element of the Italian Republic. We would like to 'reconcile' the story or rewrite it so in the same way to remember the victims on both sides. Victims should be respect for human, but the history of Italy and its republican constitution should not be relining with a plastic cover as if it were old books. Instead, in this new republic of the joke and the jokes we continue to laugh and laugh, and everything looks normal, only to reconcile the positions cooking polenta in the streets, as if the government had turned into a field kitchen and its representatives dishwashers were the only one cook. The first chef, proudly showing a new hat for every occasion, claiming to be the best prime minister the last centocinquantanni, better therefore Cavour, Giolitti, Parri De Gasperi and all the others. And 'he who said it, and dishwashers whistle mix the vegetables while the recipe of the day. Meanwhile, in our part of a mayor you can buy full pages of newspapers to show dressed as a Roman gladiator, and celebrate itself in posters announcing his hometown as a burqa-free. In Valsesia? The Burqa? And who have you ever seen? It would be like if you claim to have invented the recipe for polenta without the addition of cous-cous.
Anyway, it is also true that these gentlemen have publicly applauded and supported by popular consent, and are worthy representatives of decline in this country. Achilles is puffed women who gained thanks to his power and meanwhile scullions prepares polenta without couscous in his palace and all the guests of the court laughing like crazy. It 'a party.
Meanwhile in Pompeii collapses gladiator Domus, L'Aquila is still a pile of rubble and Naples is under a mountain of waste. Here we are far beyond the twilight of the heroes, we are a parody of the Iliad made by Franco and Ciccio. There is nothing that kills more than the heroes of a bully's laugh court. For the next
by Cattelan, artist to this issue: President Napolitano and lying on the ground under a large trash bag. Her eyes are closed, with one hand ing the nose, the other holds him the Italian constitution.
I leave you to decide who would look like the little drummer boy and clumsy.
Friday, December 3, 2010
What Does High Sperm Count Mean
Featured Carlo Andreoli
The big cities in the mirror. The world watched through the transparent surface of a window, as if it were for sale. In a continuous game of reflections and reversals capture the objective reality of a composite of inside and outside. What's behind a window in London? A cab, a chandelier, small tables, an elegant building, a passer-by? What's in and what's out? The child who cries or below that reflects all’Empire State building di New York è stata dimenticata dentro a un negozio oppure è l’immagine riflessa di un manifesto pubblicitario? Il pane e il vino posti ai piedi di un grattacielo sono simbolo di comunione o di commercio? Lenin osserva pensieroso dalla finestra una San Peterburg che non riconosce più come la sua Leningrad oppure è solo un cimelio comunista per turisti?
Sono paesaggi urbani, dove la natura si manifesta solo per confondere e sporcare la nostra visione del mondo: gocce sull’obiettivo, raggi di luce come striature della realtà.
Il mondo ci rovescia continuamente le sue immagini che ci appaiono reali e incontrovertibili, solide testimonianze di un presente certo e promessa di un futuro obbligato a essere più grande, più bello, più veloce.
E’ sufficiente una lastra di vetro per insinuare in noi il dubbio che tutto quello che crediamo essere il nostro presente non è altro che una riflessione della nostra paura, una parete trasparente dietro la quale crediamo di nasconderci.
Ci sediamo come un piccolo Buddah nudo a meditarci su, ma forse siamo solo i soggetti di una nuova pubblicità di uno shampoo.
Foto di Carlo Andreoli
Testo di Fabio Musati
The big cities in the mirror. The world watched through the transparent surface of a window, as if it were for sale. In a continuous game of reflections and reversals capture the objective reality of a composite of inside and outside. What's behind a window in London? A cab, a chandelier, small tables, an elegant building, a passer-by? What's in and what's out? The child who cries or below that reflects all’Empire State building di New York è stata dimenticata dentro a un negozio oppure è l’immagine riflessa di un manifesto pubblicitario? Il pane e il vino posti ai piedi di un grattacielo sono simbolo di comunione o di commercio? Lenin osserva pensieroso dalla finestra una San Peterburg che non riconosce più come la sua Leningrad oppure è solo un cimelio comunista per turisti?
Sono paesaggi urbani, dove la natura si manifesta solo per confondere e sporcare la nostra visione del mondo: gocce sull’obiettivo, raggi di luce come striature della realtà.
Il mondo ci rovescia continuamente le sue immagini che ci appaiono reali e incontrovertibili, solide testimonianze di un presente certo e promessa di un futuro obbligato a essere più grande, più bello, più veloce.
E’ sufficiente una lastra di vetro per insinuare in noi il dubbio che tutto quello che crediamo essere il nostro presente non è altro che una riflessione della nostra paura, una parete trasparente dietro la quale crediamo di nasconderci.
Ci sediamo come un piccolo Buddah nudo a meditarci su, ma forse siamo solo i soggetti di una nuova pubblicità di uno shampoo.
Foto di Carlo Andreoli
Testo di Fabio Musati
Redsea Coral Pro Salt
Three photos of the presentation of the sixth
Sembra più una riunione di un consiglio di classe dei genitori di una materna che una presentazione!
Foto di Gianfranco Candida
Track And Field Scoring
A portrait art by Carlo Andreoli (ALO)
Così mi vede l'artista Carlo Andreoli. La I made pictures with their cell phone, that is what it's worth. Those wishing to admire the work makes a jump from me.
Così mi vede l'artista Carlo Andreoli. La I made pictures with their cell phone, that is what it's worth. Those wishing to admire the work makes a jump from me.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Parallel Import Washing Machine
Carlo Andreoli (ALO): Interview with Fabio Musati ALO before a pia ... Sunset
Carlo Andreoli (ALO): Interview with Fabio Musati ALO before a pia ... : "Interview with ALO, over a plate of rice and several bottles of red wine was 11 cans of melted plastic and metal c. .." 
Carlo Andreoli (ALO): Interview with Fabio Musati ALO before a pia ... : "Interview with ALO, over a plate of rice and several bottles of red wine was 11 cans of melted plastic and metal c. .."
Monthly Salary Review For Ccna
Falck, a novel Mural: Sunset Falck Rai Radio 2 - Rai Tunes - 29 Nov. ..
Sunset Falck, a novel Mural: Sunset Falck Rai Radio 2 - Rai Tunes - 29 Nov. .. : "Download from Uploading: Alessio Bertallot Rai Radio 2 reads a passage from the novel and asked me a question or hear directly from the site ..."
Sunset Falck, a novel Mural: Sunset Falck Rai Radio 2 - Rai Tunes - 29 Nov. .. : "Download from Uploading: Alessio Bertallot Rai Radio 2 reads a passage from the novel and asked me a question or hear directly from the site ..."
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Cherry Head Tortoise Canada
Falck Falck presentation of Sunset in Sesto San Giovanni on 1 December 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Starsky & Hutch Cardigan For Sale
Oh Black Sea - Article published in October 2010 Fenera
Quando, nei primi anni settanta, ascoltavo Lucio Battisti cantare il ritornello de La canzone del sole non capivo bene a quale nero alludesse. Iniziava con la declinazione dei colori dell’adoloscenza: le trecce bionde, gli occhi azzurri e poi... il problema era then everything in that, through no fault of red socks but because of pollution of the sea, to become his turn cloudy white oil as a metaphor for simple and immediate loss of innocence.
So sang Baptists, with the complicity of a Mughal inspired, and we kids, lazy Sundays in the austerity, the choir did accompany us with a guitar out of tune, without realizing the epiphany of that tragic summer tune:
Today, unfortunately, it is clear to all ports to which black excess greed and lack of prudence in our dig like moles underground, without thinking about the ultimate consequences . We have explained in the apocalyptic BP and the recent events in the Gulf of Mexico.
Personally, I began to understand something more of that oil has many meanings in our lives by attending the lectures of Professor Montanari, Professor of Organic Chemistry at the University of Milan. We were in the mid-seventies and the world had already experienced the first energy crisis and because of what everyone had understood how central the oil in our daily lives.
- In a century we're burning all the assets of the organic chemistry of the Earth! - Said the Montanari and was angry as he told of all the molecules of plant and animal history, accumulated over thousands of years and kept out of the earth, which were burned in the air and turned into gas and a vapor.
As he spoke, the Montanari filled the blackboard with formulas in the variety of organic flowers, and I imagined that fire which burnt the carbon chains to produce a dense black smoke.
- As if a nation of illiterate invaders burned the libraries of the world - continued, turning to his students - not being able to recognize the language and therefore to understand the value and richness of the written word from the story, and I only saw the usefulness of fuel to the flame.
Again in the early seventies there were those who just was not illiterate, in fact had already learned all with many years in advance. Pier Paolo Pasolini was and is a critical consciousness that does not look at anyone, power and opposition of power, so that even today, or perhaps especially today, its gigantic figure compared with dwarfism dominant cultural and political history is cluttered with so much that this 'the sad years Municipality of Milan has decided to cancel a play inspired in his text as it was considered non-educational for the young ...
thirty-five years after his death - the anniversary falls on November 2 - I remember writing here freely of his own work written in the early seventies, but published posthumously in 1992 by Einaudi, a tome of 522 pages collected in a white cover where only the characters that appear in the title and author's name: Pier Paolo Pasolini
This work unfinished Pasolini is a kind of scratchpad of handwritten notes and typescripts, letters, drawings, newspaper articles, excerpts from other books, intended, intention author, to complement and define itself in a monumental work that would occupy the rest of his life, which was stripped prematurely in November 1975. Started in the early seventies, in full oil crisis, oil is a text magma, black, to sedimentary layers, where coexist a plan traditional narrative, journalistic investigations on the power of the oil from Mattei, overshadowed by the name of Bonocore to Cefis in the literary fiction that is called Troya, Sid reports about the collusion of the Seven Sisters of oil with Italian political power, which remains only a chapter entitled "Lightning Eni, perhaps stolen after his death because it contained its investigations Mattei's death, the portrait of the early seventies, with Italy's street battles between fascists and communists, Feltrinelli's death, the mockery of the living culture of the left of the seventies, the reference to classical works such as the Argonauts of Apuleius , the Demons of Dostoesvkij, and more.
Paul Volponi, in 1976, referring to the last conversation he had with Pier Paolo Pasolini, his great friend, says: "Once I said I'm working on a novel. Must be a long novel, at least two thousand pages. S'intitolerà Oil. There are all these problems our twenty years of Italian political life, administration, the crisis of our republic: the oil in the background as star of the international division of labor, capital of the world that then is what determines this crisis, our sufferings, our immaturity, our weaknesses, and set the conditions for the subordination of our middle class, our arrogant neo-capitalism. There will in all, and there will be different players. But the main focus will be an industry leader in crisis. "
The story of Carlo Valletti, manager of ENI and the Catholic left, whose life is determined by a natural and innocent desire for power, begins with one of the 'topoi 'narrative through the twentieth century, from Stevenson and older: twice. In Oil, Pasolini puts his hero in the face of a wrenching conflict between good and evil that leads him to give birth to another self, then to single physically in a Carlo exterior, superficial, and social good and an internal Carlo, the son of the bowel and dark, dominated by his insatiable sexuality.
While Charles first attended the salons of the bourgeoisie to the left of Parioli, becomes a character of power within Eni, climbing up the hierarchy and makes frequent trips to the Middle East, his double in a short period which stays in the family home in Turin, "... sexual intercourse - and for the most repeated - with her mother, her four sisters, his grandmother, with a friend the latter, with the family maid, the daughter of fourteen, she, with two dozen girls the same age and even younger, with a dozen ladies of the entourage of his mother ... "The two
Carli meet every night exchanging information each other's experiences. In fact it was Charles who speaks second, seeing that Charles must first be made partaker of the joys to which he gave up. A second Charles enough two or three stories of a social nature that gives the other not to lose touch with society, but already the first syllables of his interlocutor, he begins to yawn. Then, suddenly disappears the second Charles, died, and Charles met in one body, changes sex several times, alternating-related events, even retracing some of the adventures on his body to the deceased happened to Charles the second. As the two halves of the character seem to have different lives, but in reality they often exchange roles and are the same person as a symbol of contradiction, the same way, in the novel, join a frantic performance structural and allegorical modes of passion play the bottom of a cosmic drama. In the novel there is the whole contemporary world, there is that Pasolini offers a crucial contribution to the understanding of what happened in our country between the Sixties and the Eighties. The Italian crisis and in particular the degradation of youth is presented in allegorical form: Fifteen Rounds five and a new pit of Hell, where they gradually meet the models to which the New Young of the seventies, and all inter-ugly in the same way (with ridiculous hairstyles hairpieces that look like wigs, false beards Carbonari, purse, jeans and highlighting the gender) are addressed through Worship Imitation: conformity, middle-class respectability, cowardice, narcissism, the living standards of bourgeois hedonism The New Family Welfare, Language expressionless.
Here's what bothers the pygmies of City of London: that someone thirty-five anni fa criticasse apertamente quelli che loro considerano i valori da insegnare ai giovani.
Questa testimonianza che Pasolini ci ha lasciato è la storia del nostro sottosuolo (della Terra, dell’uomo, della società) e di come diventa rilevante rispetto alla superficie. Di come questo rapporto sia radicalmente cambiato con la scoperta dei giacimenti di petrolio e il loro conseguente sfruttamento. Una metafora, forse, ma non solo, se pensiamo alle tante guerre avvenute dal dopoguerra a oggi proprio nelle zone nevralgiche dell’oro nero e alle più recenti catastrofi ambientali nel Golfo del Messico con le relative implicazioni economiche e politiche. Da allora ciò che sta sotto (ciò che non si vede) è più importante, richer and more decisive about what's on in individual behavior, social and political.
Like oil, this is a testimony of Pasolini sedimentation of organic composite materials that are layered in an apparently random disordered and substance to produce a black text, chaotic, smelly. You could, as you do with the black gold, extract it and refine it by breaking it down into its components to use (the novel, the essay, the complaint, the newspaper article), but it would betray the intention of the author who has wanted it that way and who knows how he would further supplemented and amended.
Also, continue to rob the Earth of its inner layers and finished is a blind and irresponsible exploitation in the hands of a few who have assumed the right to do it all, sitting in the sun by sitting on the edge of a platform to sing the explosion usual refrain: Oh
If anyone asks the leaders of BP if you remember the green water, here they sing in chorus :
Oh mare nero, oh mare nero, oh mare ne
tu eri chiaro e trasparente come me
Quando, nei primi anni settanta, ascoltavo Lucio Battisti cantare il ritornello de La canzone del sole non capivo bene a quale nero alludesse. Iniziava con la declinazione dei colori dell’adoloscenza: le trecce bionde, gli occhi azzurri e poi... il problema era then everything in that, through no fault of red socks but because of pollution of the sea, to become his turn cloudy white oil as a metaphor for simple and immediate loss of innocence.
But do you remember the green water and we
rocks, white and the bottom
what color are your eyes
if you ask me I do not answer
So sang Baptists, with the complicity of a Mughal inspired, and we kids, lazy Sundays in the austerity, the choir did accompany us with a guitar out of tune, without realizing the epiphany of that tragic summer tune:
black sea Oh, oh, black sea, sea \u200b\u200boh it
you were clear and transparent as I
Today, unfortunately, it is clear to all ports to which black excess greed and lack of prudence in our dig like moles underground, without thinking about the ultimate consequences . We have explained in the apocalyptic BP and the recent events in the Gulf of Mexico.
Personally, I began to understand something more of that oil has many meanings in our lives by attending the lectures of Professor Montanari, Professor of Organic Chemistry at the University of Milan. We were in the mid-seventies and the world had already experienced the first energy crisis and because of what everyone had understood how central the oil in our daily lives.
- In a century we're burning all the assets of the organic chemistry of the Earth! - Said the Montanari and was angry as he told of all the molecules of plant and animal history, accumulated over thousands of years and kept out of the earth, which were burned in the air and turned into gas and a vapor.
As he spoke, the Montanari filled the blackboard with formulas in the variety of organic flowers, and I imagined that fire which burnt the carbon chains to produce a dense black smoke.
- As if a nation of illiterate invaders burned the libraries of the world - continued, turning to his students - not being able to recognize the language and therefore to understand the value and richness of the written word from the story, and I only saw the usefulness of fuel to the flame.
Again in the early seventies there were those who just was not illiterate, in fact had already learned all with many years in advance. Pier Paolo Pasolini was and is a critical consciousness that does not look at anyone, power and opposition of power, so that even today, or perhaps especially today, its gigantic figure compared with dwarfism dominant cultural and political history is cluttered with so much that this 'the sad years Municipality of Milan has decided to cancel a play inspired in his text as it was considered non-educational for the young ...
thirty-five years after his death - the anniversary falls on November 2 - I remember writing here freely of his own work written in the early seventies, but published posthumously in 1992 by Einaudi, a tome of 522 pages collected in a white cover where only the characters that appear in the title and author's name: Pier Paolo Pasolini
Oil
This work unfinished Pasolini is a kind of scratchpad of handwritten notes and typescripts, letters, drawings, newspaper articles, excerpts from other books, intended, intention author, to complement and define itself in a monumental work that would occupy the rest of his life, which was stripped prematurely in November 1975. Started in the early seventies, in full oil crisis, oil is a text magma, black, to sedimentary layers, where coexist a plan traditional narrative, journalistic investigations on the power of the oil from Mattei, overshadowed by the name of Bonocore to Cefis in the literary fiction that is called Troya, Sid reports about the collusion of the Seven Sisters of oil with Italian political power, which remains only a chapter entitled "Lightning Eni, perhaps stolen after his death because it contained its investigations Mattei's death, the portrait of the early seventies, with Italy's street battles between fascists and communists, Feltrinelli's death, the mockery of the living culture of the left of the seventies, the reference to classical works such as the Argonauts of Apuleius , the Demons of Dostoesvkij, and more.
Paul Volponi, in 1976, referring to the last conversation he had with Pier Paolo Pasolini, his great friend, says: "Once I said I'm working on a novel. Must be a long novel, at least two thousand pages. S'intitolerà Oil. There are all these problems our twenty years of Italian political life, administration, the crisis of our republic: the oil in the background as star of the international division of labor, capital of the world that then is what determines this crisis, our sufferings, our immaturity, our weaknesses, and set the conditions for the subordination of our middle class, our arrogant neo-capitalism. There will in all, and there will be different players. But the main focus will be an industry leader in crisis. "
The story of Carlo Valletti, manager of ENI and the Catholic left, whose life is determined by a natural and innocent desire for power, begins with one of the 'topoi 'narrative through the twentieth century, from Stevenson and older: twice. In Oil, Pasolini puts his hero in the face of a wrenching conflict between good and evil that leads him to give birth to another self, then to single physically in a Carlo exterior, superficial, and social good and an internal Carlo, the son of the bowel and dark, dominated by his insatiable sexuality.
While Charles first attended the salons of the bourgeoisie to the left of Parioli, becomes a character of power within Eni, climbing up the hierarchy and makes frequent trips to the Middle East, his double in a short period which stays in the family home in Turin, "... sexual intercourse - and for the most repeated - with her mother, her four sisters, his grandmother, with a friend the latter, with the family maid, the daughter of fourteen, she, with two dozen girls the same age and even younger, with a dozen ladies of the entourage of his mother ... "The two
Carli meet every night exchanging information each other's experiences. In fact it was Charles who speaks second, seeing that Charles must first be made partaker of the joys to which he gave up. A second Charles enough two or three stories of a social nature that gives the other not to lose touch with society, but already the first syllables of his interlocutor, he begins to yawn. Then, suddenly disappears the second Charles, died, and Charles met in one body, changes sex several times, alternating-related events, even retracing some of the adventures on his body to the deceased happened to Charles the second. As the two halves of the character seem to have different lives, but in reality they often exchange roles and are the same person as a symbol of contradiction, the same way, in the novel, join a frantic performance structural and allegorical modes of passion play the bottom of a cosmic drama. In the novel there is the whole contemporary world, there is that Pasolini offers a crucial contribution to the understanding of what happened in our country between the Sixties and the Eighties. The Italian crisis and in particular the degradation of youth is presented in allegorical form: Fifteen Rounds five and a new pit of Hell, where they gradually meet the models to which the New Young of the seventies, and all inter-ugly in the same way (with ridiculous hairstyles hairpieces that look like wigs, false beards Carbonari, purse, jeans and highlighting the gender) are addressed through Worship Imitation: conformity, middle-class respectability, cowardice, narcissism, the living standards of bourgeois hedonism The New Family Welfare, Language expressionless.
Here's what bothers the pygmies of City of London: that someone thirty-five anni fa criticasse apertamente quelli che loro considerano i valori da insegnare ai giovani.
Questa testimonianza che Pasolini ci ha lasciato è la storia del nostro sottosuolo (della Terra, dell’uomo, della società) e di come diventa rilevante rispetto alla superficie. Di come questo rapporto sia radicalmente cambiato con la scoperta dei giacimenti di petrolio e il loro conseguente sfruttamento. Una metafora, forse, ma non solo, se pensiamo alle tante guerre avvenute dal dopoguerra a oggi proprio nelle zone nevralgiche dell’oro nero e alle più recenti catastrofi ambientali nel Golfo del Messico con le relative implicazioni economiche e politiche. Da allora ciò che sta sotto (ciò che non si vede) è più importante, richer and more decisive about what's on in individual behavior, social and political.
black sea Oh, oh, black sea, oh sea it
you were clear and transparent as I
Like oil, this is a testimony of Pasolini sedimentation of organic composite materials that are layered in an apparently random disordered and substance to produce a black text, chaotic, smelly. You could, as you do with the black gold, extract it and refine it by breaking it down into its components to use (the novel, the essay, the complaint, the newspaper article), but it would betray the intention of the author who has wanted it that way and who knows how he would further supplemented and amended.
Also, continue to rob the Earth of its inner layers and finished is a blind and irresponsible exploitation in the hands of a few who have assumed the right to do it all, sitting in the sun by sitting on the edge of a platform to sing the explosion usual refrain: Oh
black sea, black sea oh, oh sea it
you were clear and transparent as I
If anyone asks the leaders of BP if you remember the green water, here they sing in chorus :
If you ask me I do not answer!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Milka Wounder Cake Sales In Market
Chrysalis Rose - OkBook
Pink Chrysalis - Chrysalis OkBook
Rose Christian Pivari
Absolutely Free editions
Silvia is a young woman of 35 years, surprised by the author at a critical time of transition.
Locked inside the cocoon of a chrysalis that is built around to defend themselves from the dangers of life and a mother too oppressive, would finally emerge as the beautiful butterfly that he feels he is in power, but still wrapped inside with severe and repeated analysis on his behavior and that of others against him.
Search for love, the true one, but always ends up to ward off men who herself relegated to the cliché of insensitive male and only interested to take it to bed. Is lost in useless talk and evenings alcohol narcotize his fear of real life, the complaint inherently more simple and immediate ending to be and do what you do not want, as long as the porch of his house open a crack .. .
This is the thin plot of Chrysalis Rose, debut novel by Christian Pivari, thirty as its protagonist, the shape of which perhaps the author has traced part of his biography. A novel 'pink', but here his hand Pivari worked fine, with nice dialogues veiled irony and a continuous flow of consciousness that takes us inside the head of Silvia.
on this plant light, it attempts to emerge from the chrysalis of the main character becoming a writer of fables and a series of small, well-designed with many misunderstandings 'he' in history.
What is striking is the ability to relate positively with a light hand and intelligent daily life and smooth style that makes reading the book in one breath.
A good test that bodes well for future production of which Pivari recommend working in the direction of the log mix more pink, which is congenial, with a more solid plot and engaging how could it be that of a detective story.
Then, from Chrysalis Rose could leave an author of best-selling book, I'll hope my heart, to which Sylvia has so much fear, but also much needed.
Fabio Musati, 4/10/2010 
Rose Christian Pivari
Absolutely Free editions
Silvia is a young woman of 35 years, surprised by the author at a critical time of transition.
Locked inside the cocoon of a chrysalis that is built around to defend themselves from the dangers of life and a mother too oppressive, would finally emerge as the beautiful butterfly that he feels he is in power, but still wrapped inside with severe and repeated analysis on his behavior and that of others against him.
Search for love, the true one, but always ends up to ward off men who herself relegated to the cliché of insensitive male and only interested to take it to bed. Is lost in useless talk and evenings alcohol narcotize his fear of real life, the complaint inherently more simple and immediate ending to be and do what you do not want, as long as the porch of his house open a crack .. .
This is the thin plot of Chrysalis Rose, debut novel by Christian Pivari, thirty as its protagonist, the shape of which perhaps the author has traced part of his biography. A novel 'pink', but here his hand Pivari worked fine, with nice dialogues veiled irony and a continuous flow of consciousness that takes us inside the head of Silvia.
on this plant light, it attempts to emerge from the chrysalis of the main character becoming a writer of fables and a series of small, well-designed with many misunderstandings 'he' in history.
What is striking is the ability to relate positively with a light hand and intelligent daily life and smooth style that makes reading the book in one breath.
A good test that bodes well for future production of which Pivari recommend working in the direction of the log mix more pink, which is congenial, with a more solid plot and engaging how could it be that of a detective story.
Then, from Chrysalis Rose could leave an author of best-selling book, I'll hope my heart, to which Sylvia has so much fear, but also much needed.
Fabio Musati, 4/10/2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Can Lupus Patients Use Henna Hair Color
Ale Senso designs for my new novel
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The street artist Ale Senso ( http://www.crazysen.it/ ) has produced five wonderful drawings that accompany my new novel coming out in Sunset Falck days. Here's a taste. 
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Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Alternative For A Dresser
My monthly column on Fenera
Starting from this issue Fenera ospita una mia rubrica mensile dal titolo: Le opinioni di un clown.
In questo numero, Bestiario Americano, un taccuino di un mio viaggio in America Latina.
C'è un uomo che spacca teste di vacca. Le tira fuori dal cassone di un camion, scuoioate e sanguinanti, e già ce ne sono cinque o sei in strada, tutte con un taglio netto sulla fronte. Si serve di un'ascia picchiandola con forza e precisione, poi con le mani forza il taglio orizzontale e ne estrae il cervello tutto intero, il pezzo più prelibato, - mas rico - mi dice Antonio.
- Il resto lo butta via? - chiedo alla guida locale che ci ha accompagnati al mercato popolare di Toluca, one of his town, because you are not trusted to go to one of Mexico City, there has never been and do not want surprises. It 'been a few times in this and in fact had a couple of times to call his mother to be the way.
- My wife does not even know it exists - continue Antonio. - We go to Wal-Mart - says, revealing a certain pride.
To get from Wal-Mart, the largest American-style supermarket, you must present a valid passport as a club, and then walking between the rows of huge refrigerators where they keep all the products you buy there, closely packed in family packs. The refrigerator is a machine that dispenses ice and then check in large iceberg by big glass of coca-cola.
the market of Toluca there are refrigerators and there is not ice. Red meat is resting on white ceramic tile counter, the yellow lemon chicken hanging from above. Lower down there are neat rows of crow's feet, comb of a rooster, a mound of tripe camping on a counter that says specialized in cow's entrails with a beautiful hand-painted wooden sign. The two owners smiling at me, showing me their product and saying something I do not understand.
- No Inti - I can say and I'll go elsewhere, a bit 'embarrassed.
I do not inti entrails, brains, cow tails dangling like festoons, paws of pork, pig's snout tendons that are fused to prepare a gelatinous substance called "queso de Puerco, cheese pork.
A whole cow's head with his head split is placed on a counter where a man is preparing tacos. It seems only decorative, at least that's what I think.
- No - Antonio corrects me. - This is considered a delicacy.
I look at him in amazement, then I laugh, thinking that I want to tease. He continues: - order a taco and then rub it over your head where you want. We put a little 'is blood, a piece of tendon or we can put an eye, which is the most delicious.
We leave the market, the man who cracks heads is still there. Now I know why did not they throw away.
- You do not throw anything away - I said Antonio entering.
But he does the shopping at the supermarket where you can see the innards of the world and where they give you a nice colorful card.
From Toluca we head to Teotihuacan, which means the city of the Aztec gods, a famous archaeological site not far from Mexico city.
A stray dog \u200b\u200bsleeping blond hair just past the chain that bounds the area not accessible to visitors of the temple of the plumed serpent. There is a nice shaded area and he was lying right there, regardless of the ban. Here
native Mexicans around 400 BC have built two great pyramids: one dedicated to the sun, the other to the moon.
I got on both with no small effort, partly because of the over two thousand meters of altitude in the area. On top of the pyramid of the moon I have admired all over the surrounding countryside, as he could only make their saliva when the high priest to celebrate the rite: the long road that leads to the temple of the feathered serpent, the pyramid of the sun on the left lower platforms where human sacrifices were consumed to the gods.
Their gods are still carved portraits and those of two thousand years old stones: symbolic representations of the world that they fear and respect, e i due sentimenti trovavano un punto d'incontro nell'adorazione e nel sacrificio: il sole, la luna, l'acqua, gli animali come il serpente, gli uccelli, il cane, come quello biondo che oggi dorme all'ombra del tempio.
Quest'ultimo, o più probabilmente uno che gli somiglia molto, dorme appena fuori dal palazzo del congresso nella piazza principale di Mexico city. L'interno è tutto affrescato con enormi dipinti murali dell'epoca rivoluzionaria. Ritraggono i conquistatori spagnoli mentre uccidono e umiliano i nativi in nome del dio dei cattolici. Molti tra gli spagnoli hanno facce da scemo del villaggio, altri sono ritratti in espressioni cattive, mentre frustano e torturano oppure mentre contano con avidità money aside. Just behind a priest casts a dog from the courtyard of a church.
The symbols of the revolution triumphed on the conquerors and later release the murals in Mexico, where a bearded Marx, curiously similar to the canonical representations of the god of the Catholics, overlooks and dominates the scene.
When I left the palace, I look around in search of dog hair blond. He stands aside to watch two kids chasing a ball on the sidewalk. At first glance, nothing strange, just that the ball is contested by the two contained in a plastic bag, so you do not ruin. Imagine if you get caught by the dog.
Meet the mutt a few days later in Peru.
barking, he threw himself under our car in the desert area around Nazca. The driver does not do anything to dodge it with the people here compassatezza incomprehensible to us, and here he is committed to reappear from the back window at all afraid to follow us. After a few hundred meters desist from the enterprise and turns suddenly to the right in a field of crosses rickety, let we see the actual cemetery, like Mary, our local guide, defines this place far from any town visible where the bodies are buried those who do not have the money to pay for a grave in the cemetery officials. We're headed to the archaeological site of Chauchilla, a vast desert all covered with air-bone brandelli di tessuto e cocci rossi. Sono i resti delle migliaia di tombe del periodo pre-incaico e incaico, buttati lì a seccare al sole dai tombaroli che le hanno depredate degli ori e dei tessuti di valore mentre si sono sbarazzati di ciò che restava di quell'umanità che aveva creduto proprio nella sacralità del corpo e in una vita dopo la morte. Giriamo un po' spaesati tra la dozzina di tombe che sono state salvate, dove i corpi mummificati dell'antica popolazione di Nazca giacciono ancora nella posizione fetale che avrebbe dovuto prepararli alla rinascita. Alcuni di loro hanno lunghissimi capelli intrecciati in code che serpeggiano attorno ai loro corpi. Mi dicono che i capelli e le unghie continuano a crescere anche dopo la morte, forse l'unico modo umano always longed for the life after death. The Nazca were just believe with all their might to be the bearers of a message addressed to the high, to what we have all over your head, so they dug into the stone of the desert, the famous "lines" by sending their scores to the sky again unchanged today and precise. There were hills around there, they could not fly as no man at that time - we are among the one thousand and fourteen hundred years after Christ - and yet were able to make huge hieroglyphs only distinguishable from the sky: the spider, the whale the monkey, the dog, the condor, the hummingbird, a sort of astrological calendar of the time, says our guide features the deliciously Indians. What we know, I'm thinking, the message of their knowledge and values \u200b\u200bsent to heaven, a place where more and installed the base of each deity, or simply a possible landing zone for someone who was expected, as they imagine other signs, this time geometry - the trapeze, the triangle - which seem to give a direction, indicate where they fall.
America had not yet been "discovered" by our civilization, but in those parts of the Nazca meticulously organized travel in time, as Mary calls them, in their graves designed as vessels to transport their bodies to the future, and send signals to the sky and their inhabitants, whoever they were and still are today.
Meeting the dog with one leg raised on a cross in the cemetery today, where life and death are worth so little that you can piss above. He occupied a place in the cosmogony Nazca, now occupies one in a photograph that shot lying in the midst of the wilderness of wooden crosses and plastic flowers.
In Arequipa, Peru's second city, comedy to climb the Andean highlands: 2600 meters, and already the breath becomes short and heavy legs. Then up along the road that winds along the herds of vicuña, llama and alpaca, up to the pass at 4910 meters. When I get off the car seems to be an astronaut in alien atmosphere. I walk in small steps as if you were pulled back from a spring and hold their noses up at the sky in search of oxygen.
I had breakfast with mate coca, as suggested by the guides and I still chew the leaves in the illusion of being able to quickly get used even to this displacement, in addition to the change of hemisphere of the earth, and then in season, all ' Peruvian winter than during the day in his hot deserts to thirty degrees centigrade and the night freezing the streams which descend from the mountains, crossing six parallel east and then to six time zones and add to daylight saving time Italian.
Then down at breakneck speed and the gorge of the Colca, over a hundred miles of mountains carved by the Rio Colca to form quello che viene ritenuto il canyon più profondo al mondo. Sulle due sponde le popolazioni pre-inca e inca hanno disegnato con precisione i terrazzamenti in pietra che vengono tuttora coltivati a patata, mais e cereali andini. Gradatamente, le pareti si fanno più scoscese come per proteggere il Rio nella sua corsa all’oceano, e sono i cactus dalle molte braccia rivolte al cielo a schierarsi in un presentat-arm al suo passaggio. Poi anche loro, come un esercito in resa, devono lasciare il posto al vento che diventa il padrone di quelle gole, dove il condor allarga i suoi tre metri di apertura librandosi placidamente sugli invisibili sentieri dell’aria. Scendiamo al Mirador del condor e ci mischiamo alla folla di turisti che l’attendono, cercando di sfuggire all’assalto delle variopinte venditrici di pochos, sombreros e collanine. Qualcuno giura di averne visto l’ala spuntare dietro una guglia, altri hanno visto la sua testa bianca dentro il nero di un anfratto. Mentre li ascolto alzo la testa e lui, leggero come l’aria su cui scivola, è lì a osservare la folla che lo indica a braccia alzate, puntando i cannocchiali e i teleobiettivi, come un esercito di cactus aggrappati alla montagna. 
In questo numero, Bestiario Americano, un taccuino di un mio viaggio in America Latina.
Bestiario americano
C'è un uomo che spacca teste di vacca. Le tira fuori dal cassone di un camion, scuoioate e sanguinanti, e già ce ne sono cinque o sei in strada, tutte con un taglio netto sulla fronte. Si serve di un'ascia picchiandola con forza e precisione, poi con le mani forza il taglio orizzontale e ne estrae il cervello tutto intero, il pezzo più prelibato, - mas rico - mi dice Antonio.
- Il resto lo butta via? - chiedo alla guida locale che ci ha accompagnati al mercato popolare di Toluca, one of his town, because you are not trusted to go to one of Mexico City, there has never been and do not want surprises. It 'been a few times in this and in fact had a couple of times to call his mother to be the way.
- My wife does not even know it exists - continue Antonio. - We go to Wal-Mart - says, revealing a certain pride.
To get from Wal-Mart, the largest American-style supermarket, you must present a valid passport as a club, and then walking between the rows of huge refrigerators where they keep all the products you buy there, closely packed in family packs. The refrigerator is a machine that dispenses ice and then check in large iceberg by big glass of coca-cola.
the market of Toluca there are refrigerators and there is not ice. Red meat is resting on white ceramic tile counter, the yellow lemon chicken hanging from above. Lower down there are neat rows of crow's feet, comb of a rooster, a mound of tripe camping on a counter that says specialized in cow's entrails with a beautiful hand-painted wooden sign. The two owners smiling at me, showing me their product and saying something I do not understand.
- No Inti - I can say and I'll go elsewhere, a bit 'embarrassed.
I do not inti entrails, brains, cow tails dangling like festoons, paws of pork, pig's snout tendons that are fused to prepare a gelatinous substance called "queso de Puerco, cheese pork.
A whole cow's head with his head split is placed on a counter where a man is preparing tacos. It seems only decorative, at least that's what I think.
- No - Antonio corrects me. - This is considered a delicacy.
I look at him in amazement, then I laugh, thinking that I want to tease. He continues: - order a taco and then rub it over your head where you want. We put a little 'is blood, a piece of tendon or we can put an eye, which is the most delicious.
We leave the market, the man who cracks heads is still there. Now I know why did not they throw away.
- You do not throw anything away - I said Antonio entering.
But he does the shopping at the supermarket where you can see the innards of the world and where they give you a nice colorful card.
From Toluca we head to Teotihuacan, which means the city of the Aztec gods, a famous archaeological site not far from Mexico city.
A stray dog \u200b\u200bsleeping blond hair just past the chain that bounds the area not accessible to visitors of the temple of the plumed serpent. There is a nice shaded area and he was lying right there, regardless of the ban. Here
native Mexicans around 400 BC have built two great pyramids: one dedicated to the sun, the other to the moon.
I got on both with no small effort, partly because of the over two thousand meters of altitude in the area. On top of the pyramid of the moon I have admired all over the surrounding countryside, as he could only make their saliva when the high priest to celebrate the rite: the long road that leads to the temple of the feathered serpent, the pyramid of the sun on the left lower platforms where human sacrifices were consumed to the gods.
Their gods are still carved portraits and those of two thousand years old stones: symbolic representations of the world that they fear and respect, e i due sentimenti trovavano un punto d'incontro nell'adorazione e nel sacrificio: il sole, la luna, l'acqua, gli animali come il serpente, gli uccelli, il cane, come quello biondo che oggi dorme all'ombra del tempio.
Quest'ultimo, o più probabilmente uno che gli somiglia molto, dorme appena fuori dal palazzo del congresso nella piazza principale di Mexico city. L'interno è tutto affrescato con enormi dipinti murali dell'epoca rivoluzionaria. Ritraggono i conquistatori spagnoli mentre uccidono e umiliano i nativi in nome del dio dei cattolici. Molti tra gli spagnoli hanno facce da scemo del villaggio, altri sono ritratti in espressioni cattive, mentre frustano e torturano oppure mentre contano con avidità money aside. Just behind a priest casts a dog from the courtyard of a church.
The symbols of the revolution triumphed on the conquerors and later release the murals in Mexico, where a bearded Marx, curiously similar to the canonical representations of the god of the Catholics, overlooks and dominates the scene.
When I left the palace, I look around in search of dog hair blond. He stands aside to watch two kids chasing a ball on the sidewalk. At first glance, nothing strange, just that the ball is contested by the two contained in a plastic bag, so you do not ruin. Imagine if you get caught by the dog.
Meet the mutt a few days later in Peru.
barking, he threw himself under our car in the desert area around Nazca. The driver does not do anything to dodge it with the people here compassatezza incomprehensible to us, and here he is committed to reappear from the back window at all afraid to follow us. After a few hundred meters desist from the enterprise and turns suddenly to the right in a field of crosses rickety, let we see the actual cemetery, like Mary, our local guide, defines this place far from any town visible where the bodies are buried those who do not have the money to pay for a grave in the cemetery officials. We're headed to the archaeological site of Chauchilla, a vast desert all covered with air-bone brandelli di tessuto e cocci rossi. Sono i resti delle migliaia di tombe del periodo pre-incaico e incaico, buttati lì a seccare al sole dai tombaroli che le hanno depredate degli ori e dei tessuti di valore mentre si sono sbarazzati di ciò che restava di quell'umanità che aveva creduto proprio nella sacralità del corpo e in una vita dopo la morte. Giriamo un po' spaesati tra la dozzina di tombe che sono state salvate, dove i corpi mummificati dell'antica popolazione di Nazca giacciono ancora nella posizione fetale che avrebbe dovuto prepararli alla rinascita. Alcuni di loro hanno lunghissimi capelli intrecciati in code che serpeggiano attorno ai loro corpi. Mi dicono che i capelli e le unghie continuano a crescere anche dopo la morte, forse l'unico modo umano always longed for the life after death. The Nazca were just believe with all their might to be the bearers of a message addressed to the high, to what we have all over your head, so they dug into the stone of the desert, the famous "lines" by sending their scores to the sky again unchanged today and precise. There were hills around there, they could not fly as no man at that time - we are among the one thousand and fourteen hundred years after Christ - and yet were able to make huge hieroglyphs only distinguishable from the sky: the spider, the whale the monkey, the dog, the condor, the hummingbird, a sort of astrological calendar of the time, says our guide features the deliciously Indians. What we know, I'm thinking, the message of their knowledge and values \u200b\u200bsent to heaven, a place where more and installed the base of each deity, or simply a possible landing zone for someone who was expected, as they imagine other signs, this time geometry - the trapeze, the triangle - which seem to give a direction, indicate where they fall.
America had not yet been "discovered" by our civilization, but in those parts of the Nazca meticulously organized travel in time, as Mary calls them, in their graves designed as vessels to transport their bodies to the future, and send signals to the sky and their inhabitants, whoever they were and still are today.
Meeting the dog with one leg raised on a cross in the cemetery today, where life and death are worth so little that you can piss above. He occupied a place in the cosmogony Nazca, now occupies one in a photograph that shot lying in the midst of the wilderness of wooden crosses and plastic flowers.
In Arequipa, Peru's second city, comedy to climb the Andean highlands: 2600 meters, and already the breath becomes short and heavy legs. Then up along the road that winds along the herds of vicuña, llama and alpaca, up to the pass at 4910 meters. When I get off the car seems to be an astronaut in alien atmosphere. I walk in small steps as if you were pulled back from a spring and hold their noses up at the sky in search of oxygen.
I had breakfast with mate coca, as suggested by the guides and I still chew the leaves in the illusion of being able to quickly get used even to this displacement, in addition to the change of hemisphere of the earth, and then in season, all ' Peruvian winter than during the day in his hot deserts to thirty degrees centigrade and the night freezing the streams which descend from the mountains, crossing six parallel east and then to six time zones and add to daylight saving time Italian.
Then down at breakneck speed and the gorge of the Colca, over a hundred miles of mountains carved by the Rio Colca to form quello che viene ritenuto il canyon più profondo al mondo. Sulle due sponde le popolazioni pre-inca e inca hanno disegnato con precisione i terrazzamenti in pietra che vengono tuttora coltivati a patata, mais e cereali andini. Gradatamente, le pareti si fanno più scoscese come per proteggere il Rio nella sua corsa all’oceano, e sono i cactus dalle molte braccia rivolte al cielo a schierarsi in un presentat-arm al suo passaggio. Poi anche loro, come un esercito in resa, devono lasciare il posto al vento che diventa il padrone di quelle gole, dove il condor allarga i suoi tre metri di apertura librandosi placidamente sugli invisibili sentieri dell’aria. Scendiamo al Mirador del condor e ci mischiamo alla folla di turisti che l’attendono, cercando di sfuggire all’assalto delle variopinte venditrici di pochos, sombreros e collanine. Qualcuno giura di averne visto l’ala spuntare dietro una guglia, altri hanno visto la sua testa bianca dentro il nero di un anfratto. Mentre li ascolto alzo la testa e lui, leggero come l’aria su cui scivola, è lì a osservare la folla che lo indica a braccia alzate, puntando i cannocchiali e i teleobiettivi, come un esercito di cactus aggrappati alla montagna.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Disadvantages Of Strand Woven Bamboo Floor
This is not my town - These people do not represent myself
http://milano.repubblica.it/cronaca/2010/07/13/news/la_provincia_di_milano_censura_pasolini_via_quello_spettacolo_non_educativo-5570089/ 
http://milano.repubblica.it/cronaca/2010/07/13/news/la_provincia_di_milano_censura_pasolini_via_quello_spettacolo_non_educativo-5570089/
Monday, June 28, 2010
Cost Of Boat Charter Perth
My Brother dies better than Renzo Brollo
Di Renzo Brollo I read "If you lose your damage," his debut novel struck me because it seemed a beginner's book but a work of a mature author. I had liked the setting, characters, story and descriptions, but I found it weak at times in dialogue, a bit 'wordy and wood.
With "My brother died better, tragi-comic story set in a small town in north-east, Brolly is another step towards dominating the narrative technique and this time the dialogue is believable and beautiful without that stubborn desire to overdo it had partially affected the onset. Particularly successful and enjoyable in this test are the sketches of the narrow ambiente di provincia e la disincantata narrazione della follia degli umani a seguire qualsiasi possibile traccia del soprannaturale, fosse anche una traccia di sporco nel cesso di casa.
Un libro che si legge tutto di un fiato e che invita a riflettere sulla parte in ombra che c'è dentro ciascuno di noi (il proprio gemello) e con la quale bisogna fare i conti per crescere e assumere le proprie responsabilità. Se proprio devo fare un appunto, la lettura 'piscoanalitica' della vicenda è un po' troppo messa in evidenza e a tratti alcuni personaggi, specie la madre, parlano come se si fossero appena mangiati l'opera omnia di Freud.
Comunque, a parte qualche peccatuccio veniale, "Mio fratello muore meglio" testimonia another step forward in the narrative of this brave young author. I read with pleasure to the last row and recommend to readers, especially young people. We read the new Italian writers! 
With "My brother died better, tragi-comic story set in a small town in north-east, Brolly is another step towards dominating the narrative technique and this time the dialogue is believable and beautiful without that stubborn desire to overdo it had partially affected the onset. Particularly successful and enjoyable in this test are the sketches of the narrow ambiente di provincia e la disincantata narrazione della follia degli umani a seguire qualsiasi possibile traccia del soprannaturale, fosse anche una traccia di sporco nel cesso di casa.
Un libro che si legge tutto di un fiato e che invita a riflettere sulla parte in ombra che c'è dentro ciascuno di noi (il proprio gemello) e con la quale bisogna fare i conti per crescere e assumere le proprie responsabilità. Se proprio devo fare un appunto, la lettura 'piscoanalitica' della vicenda è un po' troppo messa in evidenza e a tratti alcuni personaggi, specie la madre, parlano come se si fossero appena mangiati l'opera omnia di Freud.
Comunque, a parte qualche peccatuccio veniale, "Mio fratello muore meglio" testimonia another step forward in the narrative of this brave young author. I read with pleasure to the last row and recommend to readers, especially young people. We read the new Italian writers!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Blog And Red Hat And Denise And Milani
a new story for my Fenera: Western story
When Sheriff Parson sees half cigar crushed to the ground, just under the bar in the room where he stopped to drink a drop, he understands that old mixed-race and go from there, and not very likely. The
collects it, smell it and if you rub between your thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It is slightly hot tip and still smells good, and the stench di quel fetido locale non si è ancora impregnata nel tabacco.
Il sigaro schiacciato riassume la volontà del meticcio di calpestare tutto ciò che incontra sotto il suo tacco che pesta con violenza.
Chi altri ha il vizio di schiacciarli sotto lo stivale, compiendo una semirotazione col piede così che i mucci diventino piatti e parzialmente sbriciolati? Quanti mezzi sigari calpestati ha visto Parson nella sua vita? A volte ancora fumanti a terra, sparsi nei posti più impensabili. Sempre indizi del passaggio del vecchio, forse volontarie tracce che lascia dietro di sé.
Lo sceriffo ha passato la prima metà dei suoi anni a sfuggirgli e la seconda a dargli la caccia. Has now become a dog cigars, which sniffs the track to see which way the mixed-race moves and what they are doing.
But this time it will take: it is close, feel the smell of his fugitive used to sleeping anywhere, not even undress, always ready to get shooting and remount a horse at the first sound suspicious.
Parson asks the bartender how much time does not pass the broom under the counter, and the vague answer that understands what it is afraid that it will fine for the hygiene of the premises. The laugh. Should fine himself, if he went around to give fines for poor hygiene. Himself Arizona and a half. Hygiene and cleanliness are not the guiding values \u200b\u200bof those places; There are many other disgusting things to think about before, and tells him: - Do not tell me shit, do not give a damn whether or not clean the room, but I need to understand something, tell me the truth or I'll knock in for perjury.
laughs to himself when he says that nonsense of perjury, but what if he drinks. The sheriff's star is messing with these people, and two Navajo Indians, who until then were seated in the pipe smoking weed with that stunned those who do not expect anything from life, jump to their feet and leave the room.
When a sheriff begins to ask questions and raise their voice is always prudent to be somewhere else, and the Indians carry with them a couple of generations of fear, in large part motivated, that the Yankees always bring trouble in one way or another.
so it is with Annette, despite living many years in their midst, or perhaps because of that. Do not ever trust the way down, not even him.
- No, no, wait, do not get mad - replies the bartender - Now that I think will not do that at least four hours down there, since I opened this morning.
is little more than four hours ahead, then, as the bartender is also remembered that the guy with the cigar came shortly after the opening, he bought a bottle of whiskey and was released immediately.
Four hours: now he is behind it, it smells, or rather the smell. Remounted his horse and leaves.
That was one of his camp, can not err. As always, it left in the middle of the night, leaving again on the small fire that has warmed as he closed his eyes for a few hours.
Sheriff rekindle his fire. Curious how it used to take his remains and to continue the old one that broke!
She lies on his back. The fire has started to throw fire, at first timidly, then more and higher towards the stars, who insist on tapping the black of night. Search
his star in the sky, that he had chosen together with Annette on a warm night ten years earlier, while the half-caste drunken snoring on the sofa in the kitchen and the dog continued to bark in the direction of some shade. They had a surplus of soup so that the animal would stop barking, or you might wake up the old and had had to stop what had not yet begun to do, but that was in the air that short air gap that still separates their bodies and their mouths, while the stars were looking at them from above. After
, Annette had welcomed him into her arms and receiving brought in at night and acrid smell of his little body, just as the sky above the stars greeted with silent wonder.
He had never experienced anything more natural and full in life that slip inside her body, as if returning to a place known always, to an intimacy that had been his before he had imagined when the little raven-haired Indian beads and two black eyes had entered the house, turning the anguish of the long cold winter afternoons the smell of her childhood discovery of manhood.
The landscape has changed suddenly, as one can do in the land of Arizona after a plateau has been opened in an infinite expanse of low bushes, clinging to the rocks and clods of dried yellow ground.
Parson ama quel senso di scoperta e di apertura della sua terra: galoppare verso la palla del sole in mezzo a una vallata senza confini certi gli da un gran senso di potenza, lo rassicura.
Da quelle parti pare non succeda mai nulla, ma è solo la calma apparente di una natura che invece è sempre in movimento, frullata dal vento che fischia tra i cespugli, e popolata da mille animali invisibili che strisciano silenziosi, come i suoi pensieri.
A un occhio distratto il paesaggio è piatto e monotono, invece continua a degradare con discrezione nei colori della terra, e nell’altezza e densità dei cespugli. Parson cavalca dentro la larga sinfonia della natura che quel mattino lo vuole protagonista sul suo cavallo nero, mentre runs on the horizon with his eyes examining every possible trace of the other. Suddenly he is on the Irish song and a feeling of cold in the belly: the old has to be around, that's one of its manifestations, along with cigar crushed.
With a tug on the reins Dry stops his colt, who stands up on its forelegs and moves backward to examine the nose with the eye fluid and along the intentions of the master.
The sheriff does not pay attention to the animal and its hints of nitrite, except to calm him down with a light pat on the neck sweat, just gets up in the stirrups and slowly turns his head first right, then sinistra, infine completa l’osservazione girandosi indietro con il busto.
Quando riprende a muoversi al passo, ha un sorriso amaro dipinto sul viso. La vallata è immersa nel silenzio più completo, rotto solo dallo strusciare di un serpente a pochi passi e dalla corsa affannosa di una lepre che salta da un cespuglio all’altro per cercare un riparo.
Ha dentro quella canzone fin da quando era bambino e ogni tanto gli viene su, come un’angoscia che si riproponga improvvisa nel cuore della notte e tenga svegli. È giorno, eppure Parson ha sentito ancora quella maledetta canzone irlandese, dentro il buio e il silenzio della sua pancia.
Tecnicamente si era trattato di incesto, and that he ran away ten years ago when the old one had found them inside the other, stuck in a world that had nothing to do with her.
The old man suddenly appeared outside and had started to scream: - You little bastard, you want to take me away! Annette is my stuff! - Then he ran into the house, and Parsons did not wait to see him go out with a gun in hand. It was already a few hundred yards away riding his horse when he heard two shots in the air whistle.
had run headlong into the wilderness, crossed the mountains of Utah and had stopped his horse when he fell to the ground. When he was pulled over his head, a sign said it was arrived in Wyoming and young people who tried to enlist in the army. He had queued with the other in front of a door, feeling right at home: there were those who gave orders and executing them, nothing to understand and fear.
The sadness of having left in the hands Annette was however a pain that kept him awake at night, but the law was against them - technically it was a case of incest - although Annette was a little older than him and had entered into the home near the Colorado as a second wife and then her stepmother.
Annette or the Moon, his name when he was still at the Navajo village, a group of huts scattered among the dust of the desert, two drunken-skinned brunette and long hair that hung around, dried up a mule with a rope attached to a pole.
It was there that the old man bought it from his family for a few cases of whiskey poor quality and damaged a lot of cigars.
"I am married to one," said Annette, and he said he swallowed, as if every time were hard to swallow the piece of paper and attached it to the Parson's father.
The old man had brought into an office and someone had made her sign a document, and after he had told her that they were husband and wife.
But now that star sewn on his coat worn saying that he was the law, and that it was the other had to escape, cower in the dark of night like a hunted animal, which looks up to the sky and howl at the stars, perhaps to plead with the direction, but more probably cursing the light that dazzles and shoot in the reflections of the belt and guns, as well as a little further back you cut a small space, star-shaped chest Sheriff Parson.
The case had brought them first meet him in a black night in the mountains of Utah. Parson, in his blue uniform of the army sergeant northerner, was patrolling the streets of a town just released and had heard muffled cries coming from the floor of a wooden house pink.
- Let it be, that is only the brothel! - Had told the soldier patrolling with him.
- can be recognized at a distance have every aspect of doll house - had continued the soldier, but Parson did not convince the thing: something was going on in there.
- Of course something happens, Parson, are having fun while we're out in the cold - and because the officer was heading home, he continued: - You're not going to groove, too?
Parson had ice cream with her eyes, as he opened the door. It was not locked.
ground floor there was none. A wooden staircase leads upstairs and from there came the muffled screams and the long whistle of a whip. He knew that sound and the excruciating pain that followed.
The soldier looked at him, her face becoming serious. A nod of the head, the two had gone up slowly, being careful not to creak of the wooden steps, broken in several places.
When they opened the door with guns shooting episodes, Parson had immediately recognized the face of his father, the term was devastated when he was drunk and was taken from his violent obsession.
The whip, who had heard whistling from the bottom, was in his hands and left her long embroidered blood on the back of the two black girls, gagged and tied up half naked at the bureau.
- Sono solo due puttane! - aveva urlato, ancora prima di aver riconosciuto il figlio nel sottufficiale in divisa nemica, che gli intimava di gettare la frusta e di seguirlo con le mani alzate dietro la testa.
Quando Parson, senza dire una parola, gli aveva puntato la pistola contro la schiena, solo allora il meticcio lo aveva riconosciuto, e gli aveva gridato: - Sei sempre stato un cretino!
E’ destino che siano sempre i versi e i lamenti delle sue vittime a tradirne la presenza. Altrimenti non sarebbe facile trovare quell’uomo che si nasconde bene in qualsiasi ambiente, un’arte che ha ereditato dal padre indiano che non ha mai conosciuto.
Per lui i confini non esistono: conosce trails, cliffs, caves and underground tunnels exist for others. At night, when he was a boy, climbed the hills and looked down into the rocky gorges, looking over the expanse as far as the eye shadow, a light, something that would capture his attention, it was an invitation to his need to go.
was the mixture of calmness and dissatisfaction that can hear only a half-breed. He was not afraid of anything, except himself.
His mother, just arrived from Ireland with her parents, she was raped by a warrior Chejenne when he was only sixteen years: born of the father's anger and fear of the mother, had merged the two states of mind in one, dense and bad, and what had become a shield to defend himself from life.
He had learned to kill animals and not to trust anyone. Taught him that the Indians who had attended the Navajo village since he was a kid. And he continued to attend as an adult for his trades he had made a trade, if you can call it the art of deceiving the people of desperate have-nots, sell high genres that they would be even more slaves of the Yankees , stunned by their whiskey and their tobacco.
The horse of the old half-breed, closely tied to a bush, you are rubbing against the thorny leaves, and in trying to rid made a loop of the reins that emissions under the throat and nose plugs the wound. The colt
Parson or hear the moans and stops suddenly in the middle of the clearing. The sheriff then leaves him free rein and is guided: the senses know that the purpose of the animal can lead to where it could not his intelligence. In fact, near the bush that is scratching the animal's muzzle, is one of his cigars, as always crushed on the ground in half again.
First, the sheriff's horse mestizo free and lets you start at a gallop. The chase would have been concluded between those mountains, in each case. Then, armed with a gun, begins to rise, moving cautiously. It can not be far away.
When is the peak, he sees it. Indeed, even before you see the gray stain that stands out among the red rocks of iron a hundred feet below, to get that song. His father is sleeping, and singing, this time, he is on the belly.
was in the closet under the stairs, in the midst of the scope and the garbage pail, was always there when those who came to see him locked up. His sick mother slept upstairs, and to make sure that the child should not have to wake her, he closes in on that black hole under the stairs, where he had to be folded in half to not beat la testa.
- Tu stai qui, fatti un riposino - gli diceva, stendendogli una delle coperte da cavallo ammonticchiate in un angolo e chiudendo velocemente la porticina con due mandate.
Finiva sempre con lui che grugniva come un orso, smozzicando insulti nella lingua dei nativi, e con quelle che piangevano, mentre lui le prendeva a schiaffi, sì quelli erano proprio schiaffi, conosceva bene il suono di quelle mani sulla pelle.
Dopo averle sbattute fuori di casa, cominciava a intonare quella vecchia canzone irlandese che aveva anche cercato di insegnargli: un canto lento e scuro che raccontava di navi e di tempeste, di morti e di assassini. Il bambino sentiva la voce ubriaca del padre immergersi in quel suo mondo lontano and opaque, and then sought it even more black in the bottom of the closet. To not even see that thread of light from the small opening of the casing, the blanket was thrown on him: he knew of horses and mold and so stunning that the end could not fall asleep.
Now is the other to sleep. The bit according to the sheriff with the eye of the wire barrel of the gun until the circle of the viewfinder: inside that circle is his father, a single hit and there would be no more, and that song with him.
- Pam! - Does with his mouth, and puts away the gun.
When he found his father in the brothel of Utah, had been arrested. He had served several years, since he had used the occasion of war to kill many of the ghosts that have always had populated his mind. His many victims had brought the image over the life of the man in gray uniform who laughed while he killed them.
In the living body of Annette, however, the old man had carved the dense tormented by his own desires: her little brown back, covered by the twirls of the scars, it was his favorite painting, and there his hand had been able to work in silence House on the bank of the Colorado, while she was biting the pillow and wiped the tears in the sheets.
It was the smile to welcome Annette Parson and his embrace to suffer at home when it crossed that threshold, he had left in a mad flight ten years ago.
He was in prison, at last, locked in his torment, and the two of them instead to find out the paths that were lost for so long, but again that seemed neat and clean. The articulated design on the back of Annette, tattoos love harassing the man, who approached him more than her gorgeous clothes and lingerie lace would never have done, and made them feel together even in the pain that both had tried to guilty of the same man.
When the war ended he became the sheriff of the county, and the star that shone on his breast testified that he had no doubt from the della ragione, sempre e comunque.
Ma il tormento sottile di Parson e Annette, che si sapevano amanti innocenti, ma incestuosi, aveva continuato ad agitare le notti di entrambi, e si insinuava sotto la consapevolezza della luce del giorno e al di là della ragione a cinque punte della legge cucita sul cappotto.
Quando Parson aveva saputo che suo padre era evaso e che qualcuno gli aveva sentito dire che voleva riprendersi ciò che era suo, non attese di vederlo comparire sulla soglia, così come non aveva aspettato che lui rientrasse a prendere il fucile quella notte.
Portò Annette a casa di amici, montò a cavallo e iniziò la caccia.
“Anche i peggiori delinquenti appear to be children while they sleep "thinks, watching crouching on the ground, with a serene face, maybe just the hangover.
The old man with a hand held by the neck and an empty bottle of whiskey in the other holds the gun. Parson pressed his foot on his right arm and immediately takes possession of the gun, and kicked him to jump off the bottle on the other hand. He knows that a bottle can become a deadly weapon and does not want to take risks.
Even before opening his eyes, his half-breed to try to catch the foot, but a kick in the face to stun him briefly.
Parson takes hours to a couple of feet away with the two guns aimed, without saying anything and waves him up again.
Just standing, having no other weapons to hurt him, the old man starts to shoot his mouth - Have you always been a fool, only good to get my scrap, Sheriff! - Say, by saying that last word as if it were the worst of insults. Then he spits on the ground, right in the middle of the foot Parson, who listened impassively.
- Did you get that bitch of an Indian blood you always did, is not it, sheriff! - Ride rudely, but Parsons does not react, and then continues: - You can take the. Just ask and I would have passed me, it's my property, I paid regularly with such contract.
Parson can not hide the discomfort created by those words and the other continues, alternating between laughter at the words - you do not really believe the story of the wedding, right? Come on, sheriff, has not been so naive as to believe that I had married her? I called his wife just to make her feel good, at least that you shall have it now?
index Parson press on the trigger that controls the firing: that little hammer has almost finished its run, a few millimeters and a shot to seal the mouth of his father forever.
Instead of the words that continue to flow along with the stench of whiskey: - Yes, you have found, two bastards who give vent to one's arms.
Parson decreases the pressure on the trigger and the old man continued: - Well, I never knew who you are son, Sheriff! Certainly not mine. When I met your mother, she was already pregnant, but her father had promised me that beautiful house on the banks of the Colorado. We make mistakes in life, I was to accept you, and see what I have in return!
The man continues to overflow its rotting, but Parsons has never heard words like, and while the old man insists on complaining that he's taking all his stuff, and his Indian home, the sheriff has already far from there, the accounts closed definitively with the past.
The rest is done as routine, not listen to him. He would not shed more blood because of a Parson, and that mongrel would end his life locked in a cell, to sing his own damn Irish song.
Western story
When Sheriff Parson sees half cigar crushed to the ground, just under the bar in the room where he stopped to drink a drop, he understands that old mixed-race and go from there, and not very likely. The
collects it, smell it and if you rub between your thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It is slightly hot tip and still smells good, and the stench di quel fetido locale non si è ancora impregnata nel tabacco.
Il sigaro schiacciato riassume la volontà del meticcio di calpestare tutto ciò che incontra sotto il suo tacco che pesta con violenza.
Chi altri ha il vizio di schiacciarli sotto lo stivale, compiendo una semirotazione col piede così che i mucci diventino piatti e parzialmente sbriciolati? Quanti mezzi sigari calpestati ha visto Parson nella sua vita? A volte ancora fumanti a terra, sparsi nei posti più impensabili. Sempre indizi del passaggio del vecchio, forse volontarie tracce che lascia dietro di sé.
Lo sceriffo ha passato la prima metà dei suoi anni a sfuggirgli e la seconda a dargli la caccia. Has now become a dog cigars, which sniffs the track to see which way the mixed-race moves and what they are doing.
But this time it will take: it is close, feel the smell of his fugitive used to sleeping anywhere, not even undress, always ready to get shooting and remount a horse at the first sound suspicious.
Parson asks the bartender how much time does not pass the broom under the counter, and the vague answer that understands what it is afraid that it will fine for the hygiene of the premises. The laugh. Should fine himself, if he went around to give fines for poor hygiene. Himself Arizona and a half. Hygiene and cleanliness are not the guiding values \u200b\u200bof those places; There are many other disgusting things to think about before, and tells him: - Do not tell me shit, do not give a damn whether or not clean the room, but I need to understand something, tell me the truth or I'll knock in for perjury.
laughs to himself when he says that nonsense of perjury, but what if he drinks. The sheriff's star is messing with these people, and two Navajo Indians, who until then were seated in the pipe smoking weed with that stunned those who do not expect anything from life, jump to their feet and leave the room.
When a sheriff begins to ask questions and raise their voice is always prudent to be somewhere else, and the Indians carry with them a couple of generations of fear, in large part motivated, that the Yankees always bring trouble in one way or another.
so it is with Annette, despite living many years in their midst, or perhaps because of that. Do not ever trust the way down, not even him.
- No, no, wait, do not get mad - replies the bartender - Now that I think will not do that at least four hours down there, since I opened this morning.
is little more than four hours ahead, then, as the bartender is also remembered that the guy with the cigar came shortly after the opening, he bought a bottle of whiskey and was released immediately.
Four hours: now he is behind it, it smells, or rather the smell. Remounted his horse and leaves.
That was one of his camp, can not err. As always, it left in the middle of the night, leaving again on the small fire that has warmed as he closed his eyes for a few hours.
Sheriff rekindle his fire. Curious how it used to take his remains and to continue the old one that broke!
She lies on his back. The fire has started to throw fire, at first timidly, then more and higher towards the stars, who insist on tapping the black of night. Search
his star in the sky, that he had chosen together with Annette on a warm night ten years earlier, while the half-caste drunken snoring on the sofa in the kitchen and the dog continued to bark in the direction of some shade. They had a surplus of soup so that the animal would stop barking, or you might wake up the old and had had to stop what had not yet begun to do, but that was in the air that short air gap that still separates their bodies and their mouths, while the stars were looking at them from above. After
, Annette had welcomed him into her arms and receiving brought in at night and acrid smell of his little body, just as the sky above the stars greeted with silent wonder.
He had never experienced anything more natural and full in life that slip inside her body, as if returning to a place known always, to an intimacy that had been his before he had imagined when the little raven-haired Indian beads and two black eyes had entered the house, turning the anguish of the long cold winter afternoons the smell of her childhood discovery of manhood.
The landscape has changed suddenly, as one can do in the land of Arizona after a plateau has been opened in an infinite expanse of low bushes, clinging to the rocks and clods of dried yellow ground.
Parson ama quel senso di scoperta e di apertura della sua terra: galoppare verso la palla del sole in mezzo a una vallata senza confini certi gli da un gran senso di potenza, lo rassicura.
Da quelle parti pare non succeda mai nulla, ma è solo la calma apparente di una natura che invece è sempre in movimento, frullata dal vento che fischia tra i cespugli, e popolata da mille animali invisibili che strisciano silenziosi, come i suoi pensieri.
A un occhio distratto il paesaggio è piatto e monotono, invece continua a degradare con discrezione nei colori della terra, e nell’altezza e densità dei cespugli. Parson cavalca dentro la larga sinfonia della natura che quel mattino lo vuole protagonista sul suo cavallo nero, mentre runs on the horizon with his eyes examining every possible trace of the other. Suddenly he is on the Irish song and a feeling of cold in the belly: the old has to be around, that's one of its manifestations, along with cigar crushed.
With a tug on the reins Dry stops his colt, who stands up on its forelegs and moves backward to examine the nose with the eye fluid and along the intentions of the master.
The sheriff does not pay attention to the animal and its hints of nitrite, except to calm him down with a light pat on the neck sweat, just gets up in the stirrups and slowly turns his head first right, then sinistra, infine completa l’osservazione girandosi indietro con il busto.
Quando riprende a muoversi al passo, ha un sorriso amaro dipinto sul viso. La vallata è immersa nel silenzio più completo, rotto solo dallo strusciare di un serpente a pochi passi e dalla corsa affannosa di una lepre che salta da un cespuglio all’altro per cercare un riparo.
Ha dentro quella canzone fin da quando era bambino e ogni tanto gli viene su, come un’angoscia che si riproponga improvvisa nel cuore della notte e tenga svegli. È giorno, eppure Parson ha sentito ancora quella maledetta canzone irlandese, dentro il buio e il silenzio della sua pancia.
Tecnicamente si era trattato di incesto, and that he ran away ten years ago when the old one had found them inside the other, stuck in a world that had nothing to do with her.
The old man suddenly appeared outside and had started to scream: - You little bastard, you want to take me away! Annette is my stuff! - Then he ran into the house, and Parsons did not wait to see him go out with a gun in hand. It was already a few hundred yards away riding his horse when he heard two shots in the air whistle.
had run headlong into the wilderness, crossed the mountains of Utah and had stopped his horse when he fell to the ground. When he was pulled over his head, a sign said it was arrived in Wyoming and young people who tried to enlist in the army. He had queued with the other in front of a door, feeling right at home: there were those who gave orders and executing them, nothing to understand and fear.
The sadness of having left in the hands Annette was however a pain that kept him awake at night, but the law was against them - technically it was a case of incest - although Annette was a little older than him and had entered into the home near the Colorado as a second wife and then her stepmother.
Annette or the Moon, his name when he was still at the Navajo village, a group of huts scattered among the dust of the desert, two drunken-skinned brunette and long hair that hung around, dried up a mule with a rope attached to a pole.
It was there that the old man bought it from his family for a few cases of whiskey poor quality and damaged a lot of cigars.
"I am married to one," said Annette, and he said he swallowed, as if every time were hard to swallow the piece of paper and attached it to the Parson's father.
The old man had brought into an office and someone had made her sign a document, and after he had told her that they were husband and wife.
But now that star sewn on his coat worn saying that he was the law, and that it was the other had to escape, cower in the dark of night like a hunted animal, which looks up to the sky and howl at the stars, perhaps to plead with the direction, but more probably cursing the light that dazzles and shoot in the reflections of the belt and guns, as well as a little further back you cut a small space, star-shaped chest Sheriff Parson.
The case had brought them first meet him in a black night in the mountains of Utah. Parson, in his blue uniform of the army sergeant northerner, was patrolling the streets of a town just released and had heard muffled cries coming from the floor of a wooden house pink.
- Let it be, that is only the brothel! - Had told the soldier patrolling with him.
- can be recognized at a distance have every aspect of doll house - had continued the soldier, but Parson did not convince the thing: something was going on in there.
- Of course something happens, Parson, are having fun while we're out in the cold - and because the officer was heading home, he continued: - You're not going to groove, too?
Parson had ice cream with her eyes, as he opened the door. It was not locked.
ground floor there was none. A wooden staircase leads upstairs and from there came the muffled screams and the long whistle of a whip. He knew that sound and the excruciating pain that followed.
The soldier looked at him, her face becoming serious. A nod of the head, the two had gone up slowly, being careful not to creak of the wooden steps, broken in several places.
When they opened the door with guns shooting episodes, Parson had immediately recognized the face of his father, the term was devastated when he was drunk and was taken from his violent obsession.
The whip, who had heard whistling from the bottom, was in his hands and left her long embroidered blood on the back of the two black girls, gagged and tied up half naked at the bureau.
- Sono solo due puttane! - aveva urlato, ancora prima di aver riconosciuto il figlio nel sottufficiale in divisa nemica, che gli intimava di gettare la frusta e di seguirlo con le mani alzate dietro la testa.
Quando Parson, senza dire una parola, gli aveva puntato la pistola contro la schiena, solo allora il meticcio lo aveva riconosciuto, e gli aveva gridato: - Sei sempre stato un cretino!
E’ destino che siano sempre i versi e i lamenti delle sue vittime a tradirne la presenza. Altrimenti non sarebbe facile trovare quell’uomo che si nasconde bene in qualsiasi ambiente, un’arte che ha ereditato dal padre indiano che non ha mai conosciuto.
Per lui i confini non esistono: conosce trails, cliffs, caves and underground tunnels exist for others. At night, when he was a boy, climbed the hills and looked down into the rocky gorges, looking over the expanse as far as the eye shadow, a light, something that would capture his attention, it was an invitation to his need to go.
was the mixture of calmness and dissatisfaction that can hear only a half-breed. He was not afraid of anything, except himself.
His mother, just arrived from Ireland with her parents, she was raped by a warrior Chejenne when he was only sixteen years: born of the father's anger and fear of the mother, had merged the two states of mind in one, dense and bad, and what had become a shield to defend himself from life.
He had learned to kill animals and not to trust anyone. Taught him that the Indians who had attended the Navajo village since he was a kid. And he continued to attend as an adult for his trades he had made a trade, if you can call it the art of deceiving the people of desperate have-nots, sell high genres that they would be even more slaves of the Yankees , stunned by their whiskey and their tobacco.
The horse of the old half-breed, closely tied to a bush, you are rubbing against the thorny leaves, and in trying to rid made a loop of the reins that emissions under the throat and nose plugs the wound. The colt
Parson or hear the moans and stops suddenly in the middle of the clearing. The sheriff then leaves him free rein and is guided: the senses know that the purpose of the animal can lead to where it could not his intelligence. In fact, near the bush that is scratching the animal's muzzle, is one of his cigars, as always crushed on the ground in half again.
First, the sheriff's horse mestizo free and lets you start at a gallop. The chase would have been concluded between those mountains, in each case. Then, armed with a gun, begins to rise, moving cautiously. It can not be far away.
When is the peak, he sees it. Indeed, even before you see the gray stain that stands out among the red rocks of iron a hundred feet below, to get that song. His father is sleeping, and singing, this time, he is on the belly.
was in the closet under the stairs, in the midst of the scope and the garbage pail, was always there when those who came to see him locked up. His sick mother slept upstairs, and to make sure that the child should not have to wake her, he closes in on that black hole under the stairs, where he had to be folded in half to not beat la testa.
- Tu stai qui, fatti un riposino - gli diceva, stendendogli una delle coperte da cavallo ammonticchiate in un angolo e chiudendo velocemente la porticina con due mandate.
Finiva sempre con lui che grugniva come un orso, smozzicando insulti nella lingua dei nativi, e con quelle che piangevano, mentre lui le prendeva a schiaffi, sì quelli erano proprio schiaffi, conosceva bene il suono di quelle mani sulla pelle.
Dopo averle sbattute fuori di casa, cominciava a intonare quella vecchia canzone irlandese che aveva anche cercato di insegnargli: un canto lento e scuro che raccontava di navi e di tempeste, di morti e di assassini. Il bambino sentiva la voce ubriaca del padre immergersi in quel suo mondo lontano and opaque, and then sought it even more black in the bottom of the closet. To not even see that thread of light from the small opening of the casing, the blanket was thrown on him: he knew of horses and mold and so stunning that the end could not fall asleep.
Now is the other to sleep. The bit according to the sheriff with the eye of the wire barrel of the gun until the circle of the viewfinder: inside that circle is his father, a single hit and there would be no more, and that song with him.
- Pam! - Does with his mouth, and puts away the gun.
When he found his father in the brothel of Utah, had been arrested. He had served several years, since he had used the occasion of war to kill many of the ghosts that have always had populated his mind. His many victims had brought the image over the life of the man in gray uniform who laughed while he killed them.
In the living body of Annette, however, the old man had carved the dense tormented by his own desires: her little brown back, covered by the twirls of the scars, it was his favorite painting, and there his hand had been able to work in silence House on the bank of the Colorado, while she was biting the pillow and wiped the tears in the sheets.
It was the smile to welcome Annette Parson and his embrace to suffer at home when it crossed that threshold, he had left in a mad flight ten years ago.
He was in prison, at last, locked in his torment, and the two of them instead to find out the paths that were lost for so long, but again that seemed neat and clean. The articulated design on the back of Annette, tattoos love harassing the man, who approached him more than her gorgeous clothes and lingerie lace would never have done, and made them feel together even in the pain that both had tried to guilty of the same man.
When the war ended he became the sheriff of the county, and the star that shone on his breast testified that he had no doubt from the della ragione, sempre e comunque.
Ma il tormento sottile di Parson e Annette, che si sapevano amanti innocenti, ma incestuosi, aveva continuato ad agitare le notti di entrambi, e si insinuava sotto la consapevolezza della luce del giorno e al di là della ragione a cinque punte della legge cucita sul cappotto.
Quando Parson aveva saputo che suo padre era evaso e che qualcuno gli aveva sentito dire che voleva riprendersi ciò che era suo, non attese di vederlo comparire sulla soglia, così come non aveva aspettato che lui rientrasse a prendere il fucile quella notte.
Portò Annette a casa di amici, montò a cavallo e iniziò la caccia.
“Anche i peggiori delinquenti appear to be children while they sleep "thinks, watching crouching on the ground, with a serene face, maybe just the hangover.
The old man with a hand held by the neck and an empty bottle of whiskey in the other holds the gun. Parson pressed his foot on his right arm and immediately takes possession of the gun, and kicked him to jump off the bottle on the other hand. He knows that a bottle can become a deadly weapon and does not want to take risks.
Even before opening his eyes, his half-breed to try to catch the foot, but a kick in the face to stun him briefly.
Parson takes hours to a couple of feet away with the two guns aimed, without saying anything and waves him up again.
Just standing, having no other weapons to hurt him, the old man starts to shoot his mouth - Have you always been a fool, only good to get my scrap, Sheriff! - Say, by saying that last word as if it were the worst of insults. Then he spits on the ground, right in the middle of the foot Parson, who listened impassively.
- Did you get that bitch of an Indian blood you always did, is not it, sheriff! - Ride rudely, but Parsons does not react, and then continues: - You can take the. Just ask and I would have passed me, it's my property, I paid regularly with such contract.
Parson can not hide the discomfort created by those words and the other continues, alternating between laughter at the words - you do not really believe the story of the wedding, right? Come on, sheriff, has not been so naive as to believe that I had married her? I called his wife just to make her feel good, at least that you shall have it now?
index Parson press on the trigger that controls the firing: that little hammer has almost finished its run, a few millimeters and a shot to seal the mouth of his father forever.
Instead of the words that continue to flow along with the stench of whiskey: - Yes, you have found, two bastards who give vent to one's arms.
Parson decreases the pressure on the trigger and the old man continued: - Well, I never knew who you are son, Sheriff! Certainly not mine. When I met your mother, she was already pregnant, but her father had promised me that beautiful house on the banks of the Colorado. We make mistakes in life, I was to accept you, and see what I have in return!
The man continues to overflow its rotting, but Parsons has never heard words like, and while the old man insists on complaining that he's taking all his stuff, and his Indian home, the sheriff has already far from there, the accounts closed definitively with the past.
The rest is done as routine, not listen to him. He would not shed more blood because of a Parson, and that mongrel would end his life locked in a cell, to sing his own damn Irish song.
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