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Alsatian cake


swear, really, until a few days ago did not know what a cake Alsatian. never had the pleasure, no one has ever presented. she lived her life and I mine, unaware of each other.
then suddenly I saw her eying the shelves of the super low, sheathed in a complete nude look e. .. I let myself go. This happens in relations status nascendi , without exception. I carefully placed in the cart with other products and sad not to give the eye, but happy in his heart, since I beat the cashier in the ticket.
dell'alsaziana face was that of one who knows is bound to take a dip in the hot milk, or pain that goes into a tea.
almost almost, I said to myself, a chance tea hot. in these early days of rain is a little joy ritual that asks to be renewed.
I cut, and perhaps at that moment I should not imagine that we were meant to share cable oropharyngeal and gastric juices. was spongy, not at all crispy, but the apples were not such small marsh mallows indigestible.
cup of tea in the Alsatian has ballooned, the exact opposite of what happens to the slices of veal stuffed with estrogen. I have seen press against the walls of ceramic thin, as if to find a vanishing point, a crack.
I swallowed with difficulty and the imagined grasping hands with sugar spiraling along the ridges of my trachea.
then, more nothing, no noise. in the pool over the stomach, next to the dear remains of apricot brioche in the morning, in company of trofie swallowed with pesto for lunch. I led a burp hoping REACHED meanders intestinal and soon was transformed into Caccone by peristaltic movement.
I sat on the sofa, legs crossed with the pillow on my stomach and I heard a knock.
not the door, but his navel. was the Alsatian who came introflex where my life is tied to nine months to that of my August parent, was looking for a glimmer of light.
I inhaled and exhaled, I tried to maintain control, although he felt that the Alsatian had meanwhile threatened in viscera.
I guzzle a glass of Braulio and then one of Averna, I pulled out the effervescent Brioschi make sure it was not timed in the twentieth century.
I hear a belch so powerful that Mr. Anthony, guardian of our illibatissimo old apartment building, intercom and asked if he had posted the sign to begin renovations.
put down his opposition anxious or if you prefer, his anxiety upset, I went back on the couch and everything turned white, milky, I lost the time-space coordinates and I felt transported to an alternate dimension to our own.
a world of soft plastic, in which all are well, even those who are sick. a world like a very long spot, without further interruptions, in which everything is so fake it seems real because there are no alternatives. on a throne of illegitimate children of King silvio I granbiscotto Ravagnati, and, at his side, behind a veil of organza, a slice of cake anabolizzata Alsatian instead of two candy eyes, two breasts instead of the Val di Non Meline and instead of a huge bus gnao gnao bus.

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keep family


remember years ago that he had read a novel by Andrea De Carlo, "utopian", in which the mechanisms that regulate family relationships are compared to the gears of a refrigerator, or hot to cold.
day trip in the car to find my alassio.
a premise must be made: perhaps they are too sensitive to the dynamic feel like the nib of a seismograph, the earthquakes, but it is also true that forcing all'omertà the brain in some cases impossible.
intolerance fart in the air, opposing views of the world turn a remake of the iceberg and the Titanic, idiosyncrasies celebrate their festivals with polenta and sausage, processions of neurosis and wave candles imploring St. Sigmund.
result: I imagined in "who has seen it?".
conjectures, suppositions that overlap, testimonies from friends who say they recited in a voice broken by emotion: "we expected, in recent times it seemed so strange ..."
and then the mother: "My child, come back, the mother prepares you for the lasagna." already, the problem is that my mom does not remember how to do the dough in the oven.
and sister: "Come back, come on, you've done parsing, logical, now that you have to finish the season".
last but not least, the father: "Come back, my son back. You have to go on sale to retire the football DVD I ordered."
and his wife, pleading: "Come back, please, love, again: I miss the goat."
and then the Guardian: "I had always assumed it was half peasant, now I know: it disappeared without even saying hello."
and colleagues: "wherever you remember: the first quarter provides max two oral and two written tests. the pentamestre, three and three. send them to Address e-mail of our institution: info@istitutocaccapupù.it.
and then my dear master, "returns, doshu, you have to take the exam the first kyu. At least you're trying menuchah katadori? "
and the voice of my close friend:" Come back, we end up laughing about the world. "
and then the voice of my mentor," comes back, come on, we must understand where the hell are 'footsteps ste leading to eternal nothingness. "
but yes I'll be back! fact, in hindsight, I have yet to disappear ...

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sorry


sorry, I have nothing to say and I do not even feel an obligation to myself chichessia or to say something intelligent or sympathetic. Indeed I do not feel even smarter and much less sympathetic.
maybe I'm quiet, yes indeed, I'm quiet and I enjoy the silence that emanates from the smoking rubble, or imperceptible little noise of beating wings of a butterfly.
I claim the right not to have anything to say.
also want to add that sometimes it's even nice to have nothing to say because when you're feeling better shut up the voices that come from the world.
only the world is never quiet, but I can be quiet and I like that.
in fact, I am not writing in silence but the silence, which is almost a speech, but quietly, in a faint voice.
space / time mental granted to those who have nothing to say not even grow the the most common flowers, weeds grow, those medicines. the sky to those who have nothing to say is cloudless and the wind does not pull. the sky is still, sedated by the silence that the wadding and shine.
the land of those who have nothing to say is bleak, but do not expect the miracle of rain. is happy with her "brullitudine" to ward off boredom and giggles.
sometimes have nothing to say it's beautiful. is like taking home a library but do not have books.
have nothing to say the word means not even pay for our pain, it means slamming the door in the face of joy.
stand still for a moment, measured in a matter of seconds, inhale and exhale and then go back path to tread some new or used, in the middle of the leaves sprayed from the romantic light of this early fall.

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What is study history?



this question I was asked by my third class in a vocational school.
history teaches us not only to "avoid repeating the mistakes of the past," rumor, however, contradicted by history itself over several millennia, but also allows us to understand that past, present and future are inextricably linked.
benefits from the present to which the study of events and cultures returns volumes and curves, shadows, whose perception is lacking to those who live life on the here and now flattened.

our present is this thing here, no thicker than a sheet of white paper.
to live this kind of this is the only viable solution annihilate, lost in the white of the paper, to be guided solely by the pleasure principle, from bulimia consumerism that devours us.
instead the story, or rather the study of history, but ... reading a good book, indeed .. listening to good music remind us that our life to be aware of itself needs to return to this depth, to feed him.

when you're tired you crash on the couch, this is permissible, but nothing and no one forbids you to read a good book, going to the theater, to invite a few friends at home truth with which not only reject the trite talk with boredom, but with speeches that let you do caving's existence.
instead, which is struggling ... the other is basically like the instruction manual of your mobile: quick guide to the best and play, for immediate use, fast, not postponed.

why should I read? reading is tiring, it's a big break, the books sometimes seem like the sea of \u200b\u200bthe Strait of Messina, agitated by opposing currents, sometimes unfathomable, scary as the deep water illuminated by the moon.
cesaroni better, better don matteo, leaving a background that in addition to being flat is also awkward, vulgar, indigestible.
therefore, In short, do not need to study history. Undock not the couch, does not break chains, does not teach the servant and the slave power that the fight against them drugged, that they crashed on the sofas of shopping centers, with the glassy eye and the carriage filled with every good things exhibitor catalog .

I said that studying history is not used to anything, but basically do not even need to make love and a thousand other things knowing that we do not make us happy no more, nor even better.
need food, cover the pubenda, drink in moderation but yes, sleep. do not think that we will face much more.

not a day goes by, does not pass even commercials! Remember that there how nice it is to be free, but freedom, true to my knowledge goes only through awareness, through the study of reality, through the "you esti" of the Greeks.
'what', "" how to "add ... how the reality in which I live?
short, from, the world is divided into the reader more or less correct hour on the dial and in those not satisfied and do everything possible to open the case and carefully monitor, discipline, passion, the wheels that fit the ' one another.

some even have that clock also removed and placed with a certain method to better understand the rollers. These gentlemen came on with nothing enriching sense and the scope of their thinking. they have the right to declare oneself a nihilist, if they are won on the field. I'm sorry for those who do nothing lives in it as the only starting point and should not be over, not moving, because it is too tiring.

en passant remember that most probably in the house of Mr. Vanzina not find the film of Mr. Vanzina panettone, but Wim Wenders, Antonioni and Fellini.
Vanzina not read Mr. Moccia, but Proust Dostoevskji. does not listen to absolute zero, but the jupiter symphony by Mozart or Miles Davis' Kind of Blue.

the absolute zero them listen to "absolute zero".

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too kind a news


feel that the heart did full. The skin as smooth as a peach. Fishing smooth skin. A large strawberry. A smile on a subway car. Keep your body when you're adhering to your uke tenkan. A white sheet. Vowels. The clean sheets. A hot shower when it's cold outside. The hands of a woman. The hollow of the kidneys. The fuzz on tennis balls. A vase Barovier Toso. The white apple. The first apple. A cannon cream. The foam of a cappuccino. The down-filled pillows. The galaxies seen with Hubble. Galaxies seen by Hubble. A toothless smile. The cotton balls. The red Bordeaux. Deconstructing Harry by Woody Allen. The triplets chained Dante. Jackson Pollock. The look of the great Raphael's Sistine Madonna. Writing pastel Marai. The life that she writes to you, but you have changed address. The Ray Ban drop. A drop down my spine. The taste of love. The windows fogged by train. The only patient in November. The geometric flights of swallows. Sex springs. The first thirty seconds of Where the Streets have no name. The bowed head of Bill Evans on piano. The plumes of smoke. The days of salary. The high fever that loosens the limbs. The deep voice of Van. The shrill voice of Pan. Hermes stealing Apollo's cows. The statues of the prophets on the door of the church of Moissac. The colors come out when the tubes. The lips. The light in her eyes. Goemon and Fujiko. The filing of Uncle Scrooge. The loneliness of the Silver Surfer. The Ducati Monster, Red. Cherries in Vignola. Borsalino hats. The Moleskine. 0.5 The pencil tip. A few real friends. The dough in the oven. Hands in his pockets. The sand under my feet when it stops raining. The telephone tokens. Sms. The parable of Sky. The blackboards and chalk. The breast. Cosine. The tatami. The snow on your tongue. The village festivals. The surfinia on the balconies of the houses in the mountains. Not being able to keep pace. The dryness of the mouth. Smoking is harmful to the skin. Cool water. Wiligelmo in Modena. The French cheeses. The primer and pallottolieri. Villemot. The dark glaze. The smell of Venetian street. Crumbs and sparrows. I Baci pocket and coffee. The confetti. I like and why. The velvet sofas. The cars of the firefighters. The fire in the fireplace. Soul fireplace. Continue
you.

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fatal



this morning I read in the gazette of milanolandia a story that has gripped my heart.
our beloved Mr. Scrinzerfuler was the victim of an accident.
the reporter, that Hugh Padulo (pag32, Milanolandia News) describes what happened.

"this morning, around 06:00 am on staff at the disposal of waste has found the body of middle-aged man buried under a pile of Gorm.
the accident was due to an outbreak occurred in the adjacent factory Toys and games 'Cemin &' Cemetti . gormiti landed on the body of the unaware have opened flaneur and have eaten making it almost unrecognizable. An autopsy will tell investigators that have opened investigation at that hour of death. Mr. Scrinzerfuler leaves:
1. a pair of turtles
2. orchid Phalenopsis
3. Collection 1982-1983
4 sandwiches. a movable bridge> premolar and molar internal coated with gold "

I refrain from crying because Scrinzerfuler would not have liked, and instead, I laugh, because Scrinzerfuler would have preferred that.

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raining and I guess Signor Scrinzerfuler with his elbows resting on the baluster cold some anonymous building on the outskirts of Milan.
will be up while counting the needles of water fall from above, while being swept by the first cold wind. Behind him feel that he left the television on low volume, as if to deny the loneliness, as if to contradict his silence.
Then imagine a closeup on the face of Scrinzerfuler, the bushy eyebrows, slightly hooked nose, upper lip narrow, on the lower fleshy and pointed chin. And then zooming in on the eye to frame the gold flakes confused between the green and soft brown of her eyes.
And once zoomed over those straws, within which I seem to see filaments, contrails, dust and darkness.
With the last I find myself contemplating the universe and then from there, as if by magic, a vague solar system.
I know him! It 's our.
And then the Earth, our city, a building of its periphery and a little man leaning against the marble balustrade: Mr. Scrinzerfuler, in all its poetical stralunatezza.
If you have never read "The Book of" by F. Pessoa and I liked this little operation, then do it.
I smile because I know that now you're looking out the window.