Thank Yous To Send To Church People

fleeing the Ethics

Many people wonder what's going on in the rich West, Europe and many depths in the belly take shape, mysterious, behind the neat facade of our lives and order distracted aseptic abdication of the flower beds cared for stray dogs, intolerant to disturbance perceptible.

Amstetten's story is horrifying that it aims for a daring bridge between the ambiguous modernity of our times el'ancestralità ferina size, even in the depths of human well-nested. Yet the apparent logical inconsistency, as a distorting mirror, shows the relentless direction we've taken: the implosion in a dimension that breaks the individualistic moral order is established.

The prison in Amstetten, with its brutal simplicity functionally impervious to perception of external reality, this excludes the world. The incest provides the last refuge, the bunker that resists imminent defeat of the fundamental values \u200b\u200bthat, paradoxically, wanting to preserve them is destroyed in extreme cathartic rush.

The madness seems to rise to the practice of salvation, the extreme point of (not) return.

And there is, in this story, mocking the extremes of the concept of natural family, so dear to the moral guardians of the West. Not far-fetched, that definition if it is true that the family will consume the largest percentage of the most cruel crimes against the person, adult or minor to be.

This requires that Mr. Josef Fritzl is not regulated as an exception but solemn warning of a possible evolution of the rule.

Images
Josef Fritzl (taken from Repubblica.it)
Intercom Fritzl house (taken from Repubblica.it)

Diaper Punishment Tips

April 25

And how could we sing
with foreign foot above the heart,
abandoned among the dead in the streets
hard ice on the grass , the lament
lamb of children, shouting black
mother who went to meet his son
crucified on a telegraph pole?
the branches of willows, by vote,
also hung our harps,
swayed slightly in the sad wind

April 25.

of fascism that always comes back stronger, masked in his white collar. Memory that falters, gone now shared experience (which is too old and tired of talking to those who do not have time to listen).

resistance. I remember the Greek population of Dominikon . In 150, February 16, 1943, were slain by the cruel retaliation to Italian Greek struggle for liberation.

It was also resistance to Reggio Emilia , July 1960, resistance to fascism was looking for, even back then, customs clearance.

The road to freedom is paved with martyrs. Palestinians are well aware and their endless resistance to the annihilation.

few words here. It will run a lot further. But I want to publish two poems: Quasimodo, in the matter, the branches of willows and Giulio Stocchi the Palestinian tragedy, the mother .

The poem is resistance. The decline of the world. Opposes any wall, each of the possible divisions, with the power of the word. The oppressors are never poets.

Ah

son son son

I'll take you in his arms
and that your son

years, I weigh like three swords of absence

son to hurt my heart broken

You got that because I no longer see your smile
spring

son and gently take shape
the fabric of the promised day
son son

that You got to let me

torn between the nodes of the night without sleeping suit and


that child for nine months we spoke

you trust
your secrets and I

water the earth's future son

that everything around is

fire and rubble and smoke and screams


son for thee
arms

ahi son son


son and three swords in my heart no


Why the silence that settles on your lips like a butterfly
frost?
And your eyes looking so far


tell me which eternal minutes
are they pursuing?
Dead!
Dead!
Dead! My baby

my joy

my hope that he was born as a baby but

tree to grow to the sky to see and to know


and according to his destiny to go through the streets of the world

my baby look

look at my baby and his life


scattered in the dust with all its treasures
Dead!
Dead!
Dead!
Give me hunger and claws and wings

give me give me the wind storm and the cry
give me thorns and brambles
gimme gimme gimme
glass and metal knives and nails
give me give me everything that rips
give me everything Give me everything that bites
tearing and ripping teeth and give me give me

nails that wherever he may pursue
and tear and bleed


and devouring beasts

that from the bottom of the night they took my baby forever

Dead!
Dead!
Dead! With the split

front of my child go down

Palestine
come down and his hands like two doves off
ash

come down with his eyes fixed

get off my baby's clothing throughout Palestine

the shadow of his death

and injuries which forced him to come down to die

go down the endless steps, Palestine

come down to the place where the pain


is a single river with two knives and flames
E those on shore leave

piety and standing in the midst of the earth

back back back
Palestine with the fire that burns and destroys


back and without mercy
back standing in the middle of the back ground

Palestine and all the roots of fire

fire fire fire

and I cry because the child I had my baby

my joy
my hope now is dead

look
me that they killed and died


dead dead!
But where?
Where?
Where?
population of stars and
rifle and my son where?
people return and
steps and my son where is he?
my people that never dies
and my son where is he? Walking



walking walking shadow regions

to the infinite light
ahead

walking from exile to horizon

walking and fate reason

walking with the living and walking all

walking with the dead left behind because nobody

walking walking

Yes

my son who no longer feel

you go walking with amazing

still in the eye of the world

You got that and I left


not get tired carrying your weight on the arms


to go walking the ends of the earth that always belongs to us

Only then
the foot of the olive trees overlooking the river

only then

my son who no longer see you lay


kissing in front of and beside all your questions

because the grass

the tree flowers and birds
you ever meet with the alphabet

their innumerable wind

Listen
Gaetano Liguori. Cantata Rossa Tall El Zaatar , Radio Popolare

Images
Muro dividing Israel and Palestine

How Long Does Viral Labyrinthitis Last

Ramblings Theme semi free

I've been spending your free time between music and readings.

I just finished reading Heritage. A true story of Philip Roth. What is there to say about this novel is told very well on True Fakes . I agree with the idea of \u200b\u200bwriting-knife capable of cutting with surgical cleanliness and implacable relationships that unfold between father and son in the occurrence of death. In this sense the novel is a cruel curtain opens the sudden darkness that separates men.

And I'm reading White space of Valeria Parrella story that unfolds between memory and indescribable anguish of a present marked by a birth that seems to refuse to take place. Again, the flutter of death casts the protagonists, mother and daughter in a white space, as the title suggests, and, in some way (but it was random), is linked to the powerful novel by Roth .

Then the music sound boring exercises for clarinet, listening to new things past and present as Out To Lunch , The great Eric Dolphy album which was found next to the bullet-riddled corpse of Fred Hampton , the militant Black Panther killed by the counter. Caused a sensation at the time that this symbolic link is created between the ideals of liberation interpreted by the Black Panther and the music of a great black musician who was Eric Dolphy.

And I'm strange questions such as, for example, although Coltrane, the last compositions before his death was influenced by Albert Ayler and what fate has meant that these great Coltrane , Ayler and Dolphy , are due to die at the height of their creative rushing river. It also happens to whites, with the same frequency, mean?

the end, I talked a lot about America and a bit of Naples. I started this great transatlantic bridge that was once traveled by the desperate and now the flood of life, death and music.

A paqdre eighty-six years I had lost almost all of the right eye view, but everything else seemed to enjoy a phenomenal health for his age when he was struck by what the doctor Florida diagnosed mistakenly as Bell's palsy, a viral infection that causes paralysis, usually temporary, one side of the face.

I tried. Waiting for the subway to the hospital every day, I tried to read nonfiction. The first time I did, because I had nothing but my head. And it was a very head carried on the books.

Music
Eric Dolphy , Out To Lunch, Blue Note 1964
John Coltrane, Interstellar Space, Impulse 1967
Albert Ayler New Grass , Impulse 1968

reading Philip Roth , Heritage. A true story , Einaudi
Valeria Parrella, White space , Einaudi

Images
Henri Cartier Bresson , Scanno, Italy 1951
Henri Cartier Bresson , London, Dance Queen Charlotte's 1959
Vartier Henri Bresson , Switzerland 1991

Cup Noodle Stomach Flu

Rated useless

bad time to vote, complained the president of the polling station after polling station fourteen slammed the rain soaked and taking off a raincoat that very little had served nell'affannato trot fifty yards from where he had left the car up to the door, heart pounding, had just entered. I hope not to be the last, he told the secretary who was waiting a few steps back, away the volleys that, pushed by wind, flooding the floor. His deputy is still missing, but we are on time, reassured the secretary, if it continues to rain so it will be quite a feat if we get everyone, "said the president while being moved in the room where the vote would take place. He greeted his colleagues on the bench for the first they would do the tellers, then the list of representatives and their respective alternates. He used to use the attention to all the same words, leaving no shine in his face or tone of voice to capture any evidence that would allow his personal political views and ideological. A president, albeit of a polling station as normal as this, you will be in all situations according to the most rigorous sense of independence, or, in other words, keeping up appearances.

[ José Saramago , Essay on lucidity , trans. Rita Desti ]

Saramago's style of writing is my absolute favorite. The engineer is working in an impeccable use of syntax and a proper restraint of periodize but here we must inevitably recall the work of the translator.

The lucidity Essay on Blindness restarts. In the same place, with the same protagonists. An election where, unexpectedly, the population did not desert the ballot box, not look for alternatives. He goes to vote compact card ... White triggering thus a process that can cripple the democratic mechanisms, highlights two characteristics of power: the arrogance of his actions and systematic use of lies inextricably functional.

Tomorrow I am going to vote early in the morning. A cross in pencil, my vote "useless".

Readings
José Saramago, Blindness , Einaudi
José Saramago , Essay on the lucidity , Einaudi

Images
1-2-David
Seller of earthenware
3-tobacconists

Play Wild Thornberrys Wildlife Rescue Game Online

Shhhhh ...... listen baby, do you hear the train?

Ani Di Franco is finibusterrae. His stand on the border is the element that arouses my unbounded admiration for the little folk singer of Buffalo.

Many, indeed, are its boundaries. For example, Ani communicates over a line that is no longer acting, but is still singing. It 'an old storyteller of modern America. I wonder if the abused term "folk singer" can be translated with our "storytellers"? I think so because Ani Di Franco is really a storyteller. It acts on the border between the market and nothing has recorded music for a long time with personal selling household appliances after concert. He then founded his own record company that made independent of the majors forcing her to a career niche (but his loyal followers have always been particularly fascinated determined and proud, myself among them).

Well, after a period of sound experiments that recently added to its expressive power (back to urlarci your thousands of words against the powers, Ani!) seems to have returned to a more acoustic and singles, how he had come full circle. Ani Di Franco is amazing how incredible is that few people know, guilt of his words that hurt, open wounds, indignant. And that guitar really cuts through the air with syncope and convulsions that seem to follow a period of no music but the stomach, the vibration of a punch in the stomach.

Jewish mother and Italian father, on the edge of the city wasp, a bit 'black and a little' white and said to be bisexual, but it does not matter is a boundary, as this is felt by many, and perhaps even from themselves.

My technique has developed largely due to the fact that years ago I began experimenting with fake nails. This allows me to sound more energetic, because the nails that the Lord has given me fall apart. Use the action nailene length, which are large, thick, ugly and repulsive, but perfect for playing the guitar. the attack with an extra-strong glue, which helps prevent fungal [...]
beam my fingers with tape just below the middle knuckle. often tear and pull the strings, and the tape keeps my knuckles bleed and helps also to ensure that the strings get stuck under the fingernails, something brutal. I feel like a football player when they are stuffed and ready to slam against each other, but I'd feel naked if mounted up a box without wrapping my fingers. "

Yes , we are all just poetry
90% metaphors
with a sense of poverty
approaching all'iperdistillazione
yet there was a time we were moonbeams
and slid down the neck of a giraffe
yes, a slip for that long corridor
despite what it says the voice system
yes, slide for those long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity fermented and distilled to eighteen minutes
that burned his throat
down the hall
downstairs
of a building so tall that remain there forever
so ago part of a couple
there on the bow of Noah's Ark
most prestigious that the couple see the ball
against a perfectly blue sky
that morning sublime
with its beauty from Indian summer
the day that America fell to his knees
after walking upright for a century
never say thanks or please

and the shock was subsonic
deafening and the smoke
because we were all at work on time that day
and we were all aboard that flight
and then while the fires raged
us We all climbed on the sill
and then we took her hand,
and we all launched into the sky
and each district has looked up
when he heard the first outbreak
and every stupid action movie suddenly appeared exceeded
and exodus of people and cars
resembled the war
more than anything else I've seen so far
so far, for now

so fierce and ingenious
a poetic ghost reappeared after two centuries
that every commentator found herself babbling idiot
"oh my god" and "is incredible,"
nothing for hours and hours
and I want to tell you one thing, while we're at:
you can keep the Pentagon

keep the propaganda keep each and every television
who tried to convince
to join the plan, some high school fanatic
for orchestrating retaliation
just as the blue smoke and toxic
of our example of retaliation
is still infect the air
and we have ashes on shoes
and ash in their hair
a mantle of fine silt
from Hell's Kitchen in Brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories
of turns unforeseen delays and providential
and every bar
is filled to the rafters with tales of disaster narrowly avoided
and whiskey flowing like never
while throughout the country, people shake their heads and pouring a drink.

So let's make a toast
to all those who live in Palestine
Afghanistan Iraq El Salvador
a toast to all those who live in the Pine Ridge Reservation
under the cold stare and petrified
Mount Rushmore
a toast to all those doctors
and those nurses
that every day allow women to choose
facing a threat as big as Oklahoma City
only to hear the voice of a girl
a toast to all those sentenced to death
that right now waiting for their guillotine
Smothering terror
and can escape only in themselves
to find peace in the form of a dream

Take us away because our playstation
and we are a third world nation
dominated by a kind of noble heir
that has usurped the Oval Office
and those fake elections
I mean,
sure that it does not take a weatherman
to look out weather
Jeb said he would deliver Florida, folks,
all right and if he succeeded
and these are our self-evident truths
1. George Bush is not president
2. America is not a true democracy
3. the media do not tease me
because I am a poem
careful all'iperdistillazione
I have no room for a lie so verbose
embrace with a look
my whole family of humans
and lifted his glass in a toast
it's our last sip
of fossil fuels
vow to end it with this poison
to disperse swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket
we lost
because there was a time when the railroad ran along the river
and curiosity in all the courtyards
and there was laundry hung
ammicavano and graffiti from brick walls and bridges
shooting between mountains and valleys
under the stars
I dream of traveling such as Duke Ellington
in my private carriage
dream of waiting
on the high blond wood benches
in a central station flooded with grace
and then standing on the platform
feel the wind on your face
return to the night its distant whistle
return to the darkness the soul
send fuck off once and for all the big oil companies
and learn again the rock'n'roll

yes, the examples around us
and we expect a change
and therefore it is time to examine the debris
the streets clean and freshen the air
cosringere the Government
to pull out his big bird from the desert sand of someone else
rinfilarselo pants
and be done with the hypocritical slogan of lasting freedom
because when that one phone called
in 2001 at nine and ten the 911
which is the number that we all called when that one phone rang
behind the wall by the desk
up the corridor
along the endless stairs
of a building so tall
that the world has turned
only to see it fall.

And while we remember the first time?
the bomb? the truck?
underground parking?
the princess, who had not even noticed the pea?
you remember how we joke about it?
can you imagine how many paper cups are expected to change decoration
chasing the incredible change the skyline of New York?
was just a joke, of course
just a joke
and it happened only a few years ago
and then this investigation demonstrates
that the FBI was involved in the case
that the plot was obvious and visible to all
and to examine the area religiously
the CIA - or the KGB ?
who has committed countless crimes against humanity
always with this event as an excuse
for all abuses committed
one after the other
without a clue
look there is another window above,
the 104th floor
another key another door


literal 10%
90% metaphor
three thousand poems disguised as people
in a nearly perfect day
should be something more
than pawns in some asshole's passion play
so now it's up to you and it's my turn
do so they do not die in vain.
Shhhhh ...... listen baby, do you hear the train?

Readings
Ani DiFranco , Self evident. Poems and drawings . Minimum Fax

Music
Ani DiFranco, Canon , Righteous Babe Records

Images
Ani DiFranco taken up by various photographers

Ani Di Franco on Youtube 1 and 2

Motorcycle Swingarm Blueprint

Finibusterrae

Two months half missing from Salento . The last return coincided, among other things, with the purchase of a book, Journey to Finibusterrae. The passions and boundaries between Salento of Antonio Errico .

Reading it, I find captivating views on old issues like the border, which some ways, my country profoundly embodies. That border of civilization often referred to in myth and history Akmet Pasha and the capture of Otranto . Thus, the limes Finibus Terrae becomes par excellence, the place where the land ends and begins the unknown. But just as there is a plurality of geographic finibus terrae, and mentioned in the book are two of the wild coast of Brittany lit, immortalized by the poetry of Sylvia Plath , and those languishing in Salento, known by the verses of Vittorio Bodini , so the border becomes finibus terrae metaphorical edge of thought, the arts of language in which they reside, the seduction of the permeability, where the unknown becomes the meeting will, desire to explore. And so we come to the idea of \u200b\u200bwriting as a borderland between the known el'incognito, writing that says what you do not know why it tries, the longs.

Here ended the land: the extreme fingers, knuckles and rheumatic
cramped on anything. Cautionary
Blacks cliffs and the sea exploding
bottomless, or anything else beyond,
White faces drowned.
Now only gloomy, a pile of rocks
stragglers of the old, confusing war. The sea's shelling
ears, but they do not give up.
Other rocks hide their grudges underwater.
The cliff has a rim of stars, clovers and bluebells
embroidery seems to be fingers, close to death,
small, so that they escape the mist.
The mists are part of the ancient paraphernalia
Souls, rolled in dark lament of the sea.
Erase the rocks, then refer to the light. Gainers
hopeless, like sighs. There
step in half, fill my mouth with cotton.
And when I have free beaded with tears.
Our Lady of the Shipwrecked goes towards the horizon,
His clothes marble waving back like wings. Absorbed
her kneels a sailor marble
To which the woman in black kneels
praying at the monument of the sailor who prays.
Our Lady of the Shipwrecked is three times the natural
And sweet her lips heavenly.
not hear what they say the sailor or the woman
It 's all taken from the beautiful formlessness of the sea.
Tapes color seagull flapping in the breeze next to the kiosks
postcards.
Farmers anchor them with shells. 'Buy'

say the beautiful jewelry that hides the sea, little shell
making dolls and necklaces.
are not from the Bay of the Dead over there '
But from another place, blue and tropical
Where we have never been.
buy our pancakes, eat them while still hot.

[ Finisterre, Sylvia Plath ]

One and all are non-existent places. They are figures that turn of thought without the presence and absence in the field, in the body that revives in the phenomenon of vision. They are places from all parts of the word confused with other words. Their substance is made only of their name: Finibusterrae. It 's the name that determines the charm and emotion, that attracts the energy of the word, which results in the gesture of writing.

Why she loves writing frananti movement along the banks or between the stones of those have already collapsed; prefers to wander through the remains of lost towns, places to ghostly, finds its natural condition at the place of border at the edge of things, at the borders of reality and meaning, research and invent, or simulate, a travel between the territories of existence and those of narrative. Writing lives in Finibusterrae. Finibusterrae is the residence of writing . [ Travel Finibusterrae , Antonio Errico ]

hay I want to be the end of the day
adrift
between tobacco fields and olive trees, a wagon that
arrives in a country after sunset
In an air of black rubber.
Angels flying pterodactyls
the narrow tunnel in which the day
falters: it is an hour
is worse to die alone, and only light
is on a square in dining beard.
The headlight of a truck,
broom of apocalypse, he discovers
collapses of women fleeing
in the doorway and will return
white for a moment to shine
lime, concrete and burned Queen
of these humble places where words,
meanly, Italy, in a little brawl
of water at the foot of a lighthouse.
E 'where the Salento
dead after returning
with his hat on.

[ Finibus Terrae, Vittorio Bodini ]

Readings
Antonio Errico, Travel Finibusterrae. The passions and boundaries between Salento , Manni