Mucus Coming Out Of My Ba

Paesologia De ... The city and the memory

(From Safe Community Blog - Franco Arminio)

The paesologia is at war with words, is at war with abstractions. This is what I turn to for countries, not the interview is not the comment that I write a blog, not the email in which I complain, not the little phrase that I put on face book every now and then too. The paesologia comes when I think of death in the middle of an empty street, when I'm with the wind in your face, when I give a piece of my sandwich to a dog.

The paesologia is the illusion of finding mute souls, souls shattered by the clamor of the moment and not any talent shows by the cathode ray tube or google earth.

I know that the word now is like inflamed, it is no longer the distillate minutes of the flesh, is not the wonder with which we can tell the world, but a condition, a kind of tuberculosis in the mail that makes us cough ' unnecessary air verbs and adjectives that do not explain anything. It is a wasting disease that is growing more and more talk about a place our mind becomes intoxicated. With paesologia I try to offer to offer a remedy. It is the pharmacy of going outside, away from the screen, is the passing on the sidewalk where nobody goes, it's not sit where no one sits. The dialogue is well paesologo when the doors are closed, with cats, with those who do not keep up with the times.

Find countries that are shrunken or those that grow have been lost. I always try anyway and forms of existence in which someone able to give a bit of happiness to its failure.

Hydrangea Strigosa Root

departed from there and going three days to the east, the man is Diomira, a city with sixty silver domes, bronze statues of the gods, streets paved with tin, a Crystal Theatre, a golden cock that sings every morning on a tower. All this beauty for travelers already know have seen them in other cities. But the properties of this is that whoever comes one evening in September, when days and shortens the multicolored lamps light up together on the doors of fried food, and a terrace a woman's voice cries out: uh! He is to envy those who now think that they have already experienced an evening at the same time that this ed'essere been happy.

(Invisible Cities - Italo Calvino)

Hot Seen Of Mera Nam Jocker

Fire

The land is the land and the land of these places crumble, does not burn and does not smile, but limps and wears a wire dissolves as soon as the sun fades. The pallor of the evening was reflected on the windows steamed up that obscure the outside, the air pregnant with a rain swollen and waiting, and is sprinkled smoke sunsets terse, dispersed in a salt horizon , flat and exhausted, that late, late without warning. Chimneys knead fire, pounding wood, chop, and finally spit embers smoke from dirty coal pinnacles at the top, pushing the mist and white benches arranged in order. The fire rises and flies like a wet cloth and tears at times as the wind, silent and stern, tight and hard as you pull the sheets on a bed of spring arrived much too early. The glimmer of rotten mold is the voice that blinds the heart and radiates the houses, the glow that illuminates the shadows and silence of one who is gone, the cracks in the faces of those sad smiles that exude chases the night one day el 'Another well, the prayers blaspheme in rapt silence.

In Fortunato's house is an intense aroma of chicken soup that mixes with that of boiled broccoli, let alone to boil on the stove. E 'thick atmosphere thickened and opaque that shines in the air sated, full of moisture and steam, covering everything from utensils to chairs, like a gray patina. The sound of gurgling of boiling split from the kitchen is a lullaby that knows no permanent acute, but it is sufficient to alter the deafening silence of early morning. Fortunato is a man of middle age and lives with his wife Crown, a woman transplanted Galician here. Fortunato is no longer working lives of his pension that has accrued in Switzerland, where he has been working for many years, first as a painter and then as a worker in a paint factory, then as a carpenter. Today is the same yesterday and Fortunato always sits on a wooden bench skinned, and devours the time thinking of his country that no longer recognizes, looking at the water fountain pissing with the same spray, think of Switzerland, which has betrayed him because took away her children and looks at his hands to see in the streets and in the veins in the palms etched memories of the time when he had the power, when he got up early in the morning with more clothes on the day before. Look at the moss that comes from underground that can climb walls and tuff and tufts of grass that pass over the stone pavement, drooling out in clumps and are silent forever and do not move more.