Texas Dnr, Game Wardens

In the heart of hypnosis

Stuck on the seat between the sale of scratch cards and that of cigarettes that do not light up in three different fragrances, no more no, I look with nothing more from him a light perfume, a curiosity with no expectations, a desire that is moving and opening, nothing more than that. And I wonder when was the last time I did something completely alone, without a move that had the duty, rationality, expectations of others, the conventions. Move like that, without a valid explanation to offer to those who would ask on behalf of the gesture, if not pleasure and interest in 'being with people I love, without any project unless the time for sharing. And this is a lie almost indistinguishable from getting lost. But I do not lose at all. I'll be back as light as I left in the hands smell of the breeze, in the eyes of the white house. In the heart, Vol

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Sheets

Once again the New Year confuses our eyes.

tall grasses are awake that love does not have

If not by fire and the grip, and remorse prison.

After the ashes of the winner will be

And the account of evil;

The ashes will love;

The spinalba surviving the stroke of death;

's ashes will be you,

imaginary life of your property

its shadow.

René Char
Sheets Hypnosis, 1943-1944

Milena At Work With Nadine

Prime

Ford Mustang Birthday Decorations

Back

still do not speak of the journey. There are many things I still have feelings and do not want to confine them in a finite thinking. The items will be. For now I enjoy the back, cuddling with pastry loved by Joyce and a special gift. It 's a cast iron teapot with a stunning green matte glaze. Well, you see it. It is not only a teapot and the teapot, the teapot of a lifetime, one I always dreamed of and that, as many things I have always wanted, I am never given, always good for some reason. There she was, all dressed up, with those flowers to soften the iron, the low profile, perfect proportions and, together, a mighty soft, a relaxed awareness, a resolute calmness. The smell of 'Oolong spreads at home, full, elegant, rich in nuances. A wonder to enjoy all this elegance, this deep, this combination of taste, time sensitivity. Not to mention the sweetness of perfume and other things. Good to be back, promising to start again.

Denise Milani Nipple Show

La Nuit

Please spring, hot, time for me. In the last days of winter and bad breath I wake up before dawn, holding their breath, throat like sandpaper, an air hunger that fills me with anxiety. I fight for me filled with aerosol, vitamin C, propolis, also waiting to pass this spring and meditating all'otorino visits to determine the intervention that I replace the nasal septum, deviated years ago as a result of a funny race in the pool . Monday's visit to the Botanical Garden has collected the toll, I think, but that's okay. I prepare a hot tub, I think of what to do tonight and prepare a bit 'in suitcase for Sunday.

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The poverty of abundance

And 'since I started writing here that sometimes it comes out this idea of \u200b\u200bhow the world has changed since the days of my childhood, and I wonder if the change that I feel like it really is pejorative, or if it is just nostalgia for the good old days, a sign of age that progresses inexorably, as indeed I do well to note in other places. I do not know, but certainly the difference between ' today and first is so deep and branched into every aspect of life that is to draw a conclusion to try to understand a little 'better to do this derives sensation. One of the things that have changed my opinion, is the meaning of poverty. Once, the misery was the absence of tangible: a business was a miserable little shop with the goods, old furniture, things that show a lack of resources, resources. That is the first time I went I was so upset the United States: in a city like New York there were shops, mainly large chains, but not only, that certainly cashed a lot and yet they were scruffy, dirty, approximate, with all the available space reserved for the goods and only that. Shops were equally poor, more than that, the shops of the country of my childhood spent in the summer months in the countryside Pistoia haberdashery or abandoned during the long afternoons spent a stroll through the streets of Novoli, which in the early seventies was very peripheral, to put it Cattafi, but a different misery, unredeemable because it contains no more in themselves, hope for a change possible. The seller in the suburbs of my childhood aspired to shop the best, clean, spacious, and if one day's business had shot some good would have realized it, and taking in the great majority of cases, even better than the living room. The work in fact was not only a means to earn money, but also a way to create, a place to publicly display, a way to have hope in tomorrow. Today Blockbuster are charmed as every time, from the same misery, by that sense of doom hanging over more and more, in Italy as in the world, non-places in the supermarkets. Behind the facade of false glitter and sequins, filthy warehouses, terminals, prehistoric, dirt, broken furniture that no one ever will adjust because no one can hear her there, that it belongs to an abstract entity, unknowable, alien. A world of sottolavorazioni underpaid, interchangeable, with a very low level of specialization, with alienating routine, start-up courses, corporate training, assessment and statistics, however precarious, in time, a contract to call. Undesirable places in which even who should have the quality to stay and the desire to do so, is passing through, in turn unwanted, as tolerated. Works such as places of transit, which belong to everyone, or anyone, and consequently squalid, prematurely aged, vandalized every day by neglect. Places full of merchandise and empty of joy, culture, love what you do, whatever it is. Obviously, it's not just the fault of those who work there, reduced to a number within a structure the size incalculable. When you work in a company of ten people and you are the last, are the ten: time to get to the third position is calculated, measured, comparable to the ambitions and hopes of everyone, relationship with those sitting in first place and decide what do you do the next day is a human relationship, even if working, and he himself is part of that company, decide your future but also his own. If you are a multinational ventimilaequalcosesimo, you're a worker ant and nothing else, the climb is inaccessible, the hope died out, your life is decided by people who will never see and which do not exist except as a statistic, as a percentage in the costs and revenues, and in turn often equally poor attitude if not in economic conditions, linked to the results, ready to change company at the earliest opportunity, sometimes with reckless key money, others with their belongings in a cardboard box. Worldwide upside down, plenty hides the moral poverty, irresponsibility shared.

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Luxury

The only human wealth, is the time , reflected last week. Everything else can accumulate, the time no, it spends only until it runs out. From this cheerful condition, what is more luxurious than a day suddenly free to devote to themselves? Looking through the guides of the city in search of a museum I run into an unexplored area for me that I try again with the time unusually Long hours and a vague promise of solitude. I, in my ignorance that I find every day deeper into this jewel in the center of Florence and I had never been so who knows, maybe in the spring will be an impassable chasm overrun with tourists and school groups, but to see it this way, the beginning of this spring with daisies that shy face in the middle of that spagliolìo of plants of all kinds, to me it seemed an oasis of peace and silence, beyond time and space of the city, as if nature had imposed on the plant rhythms to the environment that accommodates up to influence the unsuspecting visitor, between a walk and another, is to unravel the thread of the day among the bushes, forgetful of everything but himself and what he sees, smells and touches. Wandering among the trees I thought of engaging in slow and mundane, looking at some exotic plants such as me think that really seem to be designed with a Japanese trait, Eastern European plants and instead will immediately recognize the familiar design. That is nonsense, because I realize after a while, it appears the opposite is the art which is inspired by nature and therefore treatment of Japanese design is derived from plant forms and nature of those places. Back n el garden the first thing I notice are the yellow flowers of the dogwood that stand out against the blue sky, and I promise to sample fruit wherever they can find them somewhere.

Yes, because in wandering among the flower beds, I realize all of a sudden happened to be in an area where we grow the variety of edible herbs in Tuscany. A hundred, maybe more. Almost all you can eat salad, and the shocking thing is that I know of no more than five, I usually use a couple. So tempted to get a nibble, a bowl full of food and down, a pinch of one, one of the other, a little oil bono and so, to taste, a taste unjustly forgotten, disappeared from the kitchen, from memory, the culture of a world brutalized, tame the taste of the five varieties of salad serving major retailers. I find even in the greenhouse of citrus lemon citron of Florence, beautiful, proud and lumpy, which I totally ignored the existence and now I have to get me in one way or another, at least to know its flavor. Battens in thousands of plants from warmer regions of the planet, not to mention them all, but with the iPhone I can take a plant with beautiful leaves and a tiny seedling leaves covered with thick hair purple, here they are.

Before returning to the world with the solemn promise to carve out time to go back to spring, I stop to watch the beautiful bark of a tree that reminds me of the paintings of my friend Luke , so I curse myself for not having yet resigned to buy a camera and Ilford to be a failure with the whole idea of \u200b\u200bphotography that does not longer exists. Shoot out the new iPhone and I try the same.

Im Peeing All The Time And Lower Back Hurts

Women

Nothing to add.


(Marco Paolini, "Sergeant", from "The Sergeant in the Snow" by Mario Rigoni Stern)

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If not now, when?

And if not us, who?
On a beautiful poster said: The degree of civilization of a country is measured by the ratio between men and women.

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Valentine

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Guru Meditation

Everyone has their own posts, maginot invisible mark a limit beyond which we do not allow access to anyone . Who crosses meets rejection, even when that is violent, like a sneeze, it's always a defensive reaction. The limit defines us, and those without is undefined, hazy, absent himself. A deeply ingrained thought and religion to women wishing obedient and to have children that do not make a bad impression, which is necessary to "be good". Namely that we should accept and tolerate what others impose on us as long as the social norms of appearance are not satisfied and thus become a legitimate reaction. Unfortunately, the company deals with material reality: of goods, property, bodily integrity. E 'therefore socially unacceptable theft, fist, scratching the car, but because the company does not theorize the existence of a human reality is not material, do not know and therefore do not address. In the face of those who rebel violence that claims the priest's non-material amounts of its truth and reacts fuck you angry with the mother sees only a rudeness to root out, alas, often succeeding. In this false idea of \u200b\u200bgoodness, self-assertion, the ability to erect fences to protect the identity is often forgotten. For me, one of the few posts that will surely have planted the relationship teacher / student. The basis of this spike is that no Guru, there is no authority except the ones that everyone recognizes from moment to moment, all individuals are born equal and die. Of course there are the world's millions if not billions of people who know more about us on any topic, and learning just comes from a comparison with something else, which is why they stay the world. But that does not move the post: if I decide to go diving, for example, I will turn to who has more experience than me, because I explain how, only that time and that specific question. Each application opens a pupil teacher ratio, every single answer him out. At the end of applications, reports back to be the same as before, and you are going to dive together, each enriching their experience together to the other. Often, in fact, that's not how it works: to be invested with an authority is extremely gratifying to the ego, and most continue to look for this gratification, trying to keep up that particular relationship beyond its natural end. If we're two friends who are diving, the relationship is, you go to sea, is experienced, he is facing. Faced with the skill of the other's admiration, in front of a demand there is collaboration. If we are three, the report already changing, it is no longer balanced. If we are five, there is a plan that makes the dive and the other collaborators. If we are twenty or more there is a teacher, a deputy, an elite and a base, there are lectures and dinners, and who teaches diving retains his authority on land and even when we speak of the olive harvest. And finally, at sea, no one goes anymore. Insane stuff, easy to recognize and easy to avoid. But there are more subtle violence. A response to an unspoken question, a suggestion not required, are in themselves an abuse of power, a desire to establish hierarchies. Worse approval, the condescension of those who do not compare with the other, nor admires, but bestows benevolent smiles down from his position. The exhortation in the face of those who makes a success with a "see ahead" and thus puts himself at the center, points out the advantage and diminish the moves the other. The encouragement of those who tells you that you are well on the road, the paternalism of those who claim to explain the world begins, demand a fuck who can not remain unspoken. Derived from master taught, but it taught the beasts of the circus with his whip and sugar. I'd rather be an ass and kick those who dare to introduce the reins.

Mountains Piano Notes

Genius!

P90x Week By Week Phase Charts

I look at the phone and I do not. "Hey, hello Ange!" Said the voice. No one calls me more angel, for almost fifteen years. Just the tone, a family joke and suddenly there I was Passatoland, which is not a place where no one has invented the word "smooth", thus elevating the legions of vegetables and legumes, but a parallel dimension, where things are exactly as remembered. Niceties: an answer exchange where idle glissando on the details, suspicious. Then the question: mica I remember the exact day he died my father? No, not the atmosphere (a nice sunny day), nor what I was doing (I read a comic book in my room, Master of Kung Fu Shang Ki), or what I felt at that moment (nothing), but its date exact. There may be a reason for a request like that, I wonder? Can. He wants to make the horoscope at the time when my father died. Check where the light playing millions of years before by groups of stars, which have meanwhile continued to move and perhaps even today there are more, it points in that day than that of the constellations, due to the precession of the equinoxes, not at all where we think they are, and what effect all this can possibly have had on the suicide of a man who, in fact, has never known. For this reason, calls me, and if there is a better definition of madness, I do not know. This should be the first surprise, but the first surprise is that no, actually I do not remember. I remember the month and year, of course, and until recently I could not tell the day. Today I am confused, I think, extrapolate. It 's normal now I am twenty years, he says. No, it has been nearly thirty, I say, and behind the breath, in the glare of the same voice I guess routine ever, the same room, pulled out two cigarettes pack of Camels and every day put in the round tin cans, the ritual useless, needlessly perpetuated. And under the jar the same table, sofa, furniture ever. A Passatoland does not move a leaf, and for a moment think that time flows differently for us. But is not the time. E 'movement. There are those who live like a hummingbird, who as a quartz. Total absence of movement, deep fear that prevents any change, any transformation. How long, he says. Yeah. A Passatoland is business as usual. In the meantime I'm in love, outta love, in love again, I had children, changed jobs, houses, cars, indulged passions, as unlikely places, cherished dreams, unexpected bits and just took an unexpected touch, hurt, buried friends, I am cut holiday sudden, remnants of joy and nights of anguish, shelters soft, beautiful eyes met and tried to keep open the mine. How much time has passed, since I saved your life? Ten years, he says. No regrets. Not one.

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no regrets The things that pass

not talking about something else, think more, do not want more. Money money money money power sex buy sell money interest investment money money money real estate shares wealth and then, again, money. So caught up in their race to wins the nonexistent even realize they are alive, unaware as algae. They talk talk talk and say nothing, they are already dead, the worms eat them, one and the others similarly indifferent, devoured in a calm, inexorable.

Back Of Ankle Rubs Shoe

Words and pictures

this happens: a publishing house that publishes a Very Famous Writer decide after thirty ' years, the translator of historical change, through translation of the new book by the Great Writer Famous to a Young Translator on top. Nothing to say, the work of the new translator is good (despite a questionable choice to speak face a farmer in the American midwest as a character of vigils Blacks), but the network are raised several criticisms. The most common criticism is that the style of a very famous writer now looks more like dry, cold, antiseptic. It seems that it lacks the poetry. The Translator Young spoke on the crest of saying, more or less, that his style is more faithful to the original, and the warmth and poetry that readers were in the Italian Very Famous Writer perhaps were the work of the previous translator that implicitly, had a worst job, less accurate, as they say putting his own. In this case, a hat should be done in the previous translator, urging him to direct a literary effort, it certainly has in the ropes. What I think, though, is that in translation there is a more or less accurate, because there is no absolute truth in the words. If you are in the country, and observe that building where you store the grain after the harvest, I use the word barn, and who reads the word creates an image in your mind, that of a barn. But what color is yours? E 'day or night? And what color are the fixtures? As the door is open or closed? There the grain that comes from the door? And if there are trees around, as I am? Maybe your barn is red with white window frames, or blue, and maybe a weathervane on the roof. Or maybe one of those wind-wheel? My certainly has one, and there are blueberry bushes at the back. All these things are not written in words, are things that come out, generated by the speech and made from memory, the experience and the unconscious of each one. Some time ago I suggested to a person Calvino. Palomar, which I felt and feel so alive and full of haunting beauty, he found it cold and repetitive, repetitive and cold that she is not certain. But somehow the words of Calvin as the read, Lei O how I've read, maybe. So I'm thinking, maybe the old translator in a warm, and when reading the writer so popular that generate images her words are warm and poetic, it translates in Italian as best he can, trying to maintain what he tried. And maybe the young translator on the wave crests in hand, has a cold and antiseptic, and the images it generates when reading the Very Famous Writer lack of human warmth, and that's making them. Then I also explained that when one reads a blog, for example, can read a sentence that tells you something, and give it a completely different meaning. We are strange things, we see when we look inside out, often. But seriously: what color is your barn?

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Portrait of a Woman Making

should be your choice.
Change, provided nothing changes.
It's easy, impossible, difficult, it's worth it.
His eyes, if needed, now blue, now gray,
blacks, cheerful, full of tears for no reason.
sleeps with him as the first coming, the only one in the world.

will give him four children, none, one.
naive, but very good counselor.
Weak, but will support.
He has his head on his shoulders, but the will.
Law Jaspers and women's magazines.
not know what use is this life, and build a bridge.
Young, as usual young, forever young.

holds in hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
his money for a long journey away,
a crescent, and a compress a shot of vodka.

Where is that running will not be tired?
But no, just a little, a lot, does not matter.
Either you love or is headed toward.
For better, for worse, and for heaven's sake!


(Wislawa Szymborska)

Samsung Straight Talk Phone Blue Tooth

There are things you learn. Over the years, by dint of experience, I learned to do, to move his hands and feet, to react with the innate tendency to action (in me) to turn away and let die, preferably immediately. Perhaps because Another thing I've learned over time is that girandoti the other hand, strangely, do not die all at once but in return, you make life much worse. So wings, blind fury to oppose the motion, the tantrums, depression and so on. That sounds simple but it is not at all and, moreover, is not one of those things that become easier with time. One thing that I have not yet learned, however, is the refusal, which would be one thing so if someone you love does something you do not like, you're not there to pay, do not close your eyes waiting to speak to the perfectly right incazzatura and even send her to fuck off if the measure of endurance was already full, but instead plant a pole, say "no, not that." Metaphorical two soft lips *. The fact is that I know why I did not come easy. It 'the first time I dropped the two lips of the above, when I was just more than one child, the person subject of the refusal made a violent gesture, and went away forever. Had nothing to do that first "no", rationally I know, but despite my rational consciousness, the fact is that this ability to me are a bit 'lost indeed, looking good, I was not even able to recognize it. Tonight I found myself the front and, for the first time, I realized that the two lips are not good only to those who give, but especially those who receive it. If you protect a person goes out they told me once and it's true, though opposed to his shortcomings as waste, but the revitalization. Oimmena, now I have to disassemble all the mechanisms that I had done forty years!

* Lips: backhand spring on the mouth (hence the etymology), physical punishment is likely to become the subject of proverbial painful threat, hence the warning "Give yourself a lip."