My Bestfriend Had A Baby Card

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I adore, simply adore Allen.
But it is undeniable that 75% of his films could be summed up thus: ugly neurotic meets beautiful woman who could change his life but in the end wins the neurosis. However
"Whatever Works" is remarkable. But I do not text. I love Allen.

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Solitude, you know ...


I strongly believe that loneliness is one of the most undervalued by the society in which we live. I would say that it is even despised.
I think instead of what he said Sant 'Agostino: "Blessed solitude, alone beatitude."
Now, perhaps the holy of North Africa was exaggerating a bit, 'but certainly we exaggerate in the opposite direction.
There are a lot of things in everyday life that basically have the primary function of us not to be alone.
One of these I am reminded of the phone, but in reality we all know what I'm talking about.
But loneliness is a real bendizione divine.
We have been here my friends, we laughed, we joked, we drank beer. But now, only I seem to be truly free. My character and my mood at the time both a bit 'mutangheri can finally take their revenge, my desire to silence is satisfied.
If I could even come to terms with my thoughts would be great, but qupsto ... well, maybe it would be chidere too.

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I love you all!

Did you know that I love you all, no!?
But ... but ... but ...
I would love to write: the conference (how nice!) 'S examination of doctoral approaching (that bad!), The story is going very well (how sweet!)' S experiment is finally starting (which fifa !), coexistence with the brother (what a show!).
But I'm lazy and tired. And I'm ashamed, because I know that you probably are (tired, I say, not lazy), yet find the same strength!
What to say to my detriment I see that kr c I do at the end of the day ...

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The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie satanic

A few nights ago, in the grip of a delirious film and oppressed by dark yet pleasant solitude, I was fired in rapid succession, "The Discreet Charm of the bourgeoisie" and "Rosemary's Baby."



To the first I could not even know what to say. Film immense in its elegant simplicity. Film that deserves and needs definitely more of a vision. Certainly at first glance, you are amazed by the individual scenes, rather than by 'together. And by the visionary and visual Bunuel. It certainly has the ironic contrast between the ever-present pedantic manners of these gentlemen right-thinking people, and their trafficking cocaine, their betrayals, their sexuality ill. Sure
Bunuel speaks of a middle class that now has almost disappeared. In a world where almost everyone is middle class, almost no one is more in that direction. Let's say we also lost the good manners and veiled hypocrisy of that class, often remains unchanged vices. As if to say, no one would say more "Well, you just should not be seen as drinking a Dry Martini" ... but maybe we are all a bit 'more peasants. It 's strange that my reading is exactly the' opposite of that of Bunuel, but he has not had time to see the bourgeoisie to come.



strange juxtaposition, after "The charm ..." that of "Rosemary's baby", but maybe not so much. The film may have two interpretations. In fact, we do three. The first is that of 'great horror-thriller, almost investigation, I think. In addition to that of 'very good film as a cinematic technique and acting (Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes, mica Boldi & De Sica!). The second is certainly that of 'investigation into motherhood. Rosemary desperately wants her baby (who is uncertain about sex com, call "Sarah-or-Andy"), is ready to run away even from her husband who believes in cahoots with the congregation to rescue him. But in fact her child did not want to hurt the contrary, they want to worship with his son is the devil. And when she discovers the 'bitter truth will be her maternal instinct to prevail, rather than his Catholic upbringing ("I'm not asking to share our faith, but to be the mother of your child," says the head of the congregation).
C 'is then the third interpretation. The film of '68. And I asked myself: but with everything that happened in '68, Polanski, had no history of racconatare this? Perhaps a kind of refuge from the great social reality so tense at that time? Then I noticed that in the film, the congregation is composed of elderly gentlemen, distinguished, middle-class. Who do nothing but make the sock, the table as they should, offer sweets and tea. No freaks, no youths: a band of elderly respectable with the 'devil's hobby. So, I think, here it is the most hidden message of the film: Roman Polanski wanted to indicate how it was really bad, then, and who he really was.



Certainly it is ironic to note that he then had to find, especially at the expense of its poor Sharon Tate, sometimes the evil has also 'look like a freak with long hair and wild eyes. But that's another story ...

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FUN! The wolf



And now for how long it will tear their balls?

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I have a wolf. Once I took him around, you know. With a certain nonchalance. I thought it was an animal like any other. I knew that could be dangerous, Christ, was a wolf! But I thought that because my wolf is not so bad. And then, of course, I take him back. Sometimes with a leash, sometimes even let him free without a leash muzzle it. The people do not find it so strange, some even liked my wolf. It 'an old story: danger and allure. In one way or 'another know it all. Danger and allure.
Then things got a little 'complicated. Because the wolf got into trouble. Biting, growling. And pulling on the leash. Uh, if pulled. And believe me, it was not a to be left to put the choke collar. Did not like anything to be pulled.
So, I said, the wolf got into trouble. And above all, scared some people. Sometimes people who were very close to me. People who wanted and want very well.
I tried to explain to them that in the end, even if with claws and sharp teeth, by God, it was my luck! It was not so bad after all. They said I was I do not understand, and that 's my affection for the cute little animal would not let me see what kind of a bitch bastard he really was. And they went.
Finally came the time that gray-haired bastard bit me. Jesus, me! His master, the one that gave him the choice morsels, and led him around the world.
E 'was then that I began to think to discard. But you also understand that it is not so easy to get rid of a wolf. L 'mica ENPA not take a wolf. Especially a spoiled like mine. Leave the highway did not seem like a good idea, both for moral reasons and for practical reasons. Furthermore it has always suffered from a sore 's car, the damn yellow eyes. I got to the point of thinking, well, get it over with. A shot and go. Then bury it somewhere and goodnight to the bucket. There are
come very close. We were there, I on one side and all his' other end of the gun. My eyes ran down the barrel, came to the viewfinder and ended up straight in his yellow eyes. It simply did not make 'I did it. Why for that canidate by the treacherous had pointed ears, 's just evil and treacherous, had always given the right for a couple of sghigni of the good ones. This short, we spent good times together. I could not pull the trigger.
Then the 'I put in the cellar. E 'locked. I give him to eat a little. Partly because I want deboluccio remains. Yes, because the cellar door is not so strong. And he's strong, very strong. So a little 'meat every now and then, just because they do not crack. But not enough to have had any ambition to escape.
Because, you see, I'm sure he would not have my own qualms. I am convinced that to give him the ' at the beast I would sink its jaws into the neck with great pleasure. And I, I want my neck. Even as is, without additional vents.
I must confess one thing. Every time I go down to the cellar to give it that little 'meat, I'm afraid. Why from time to time I want to bring a bit 'to walk my wolf. Then go find out why.

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No news, good news!

Spurred by a blogger whom I will not name (for convenience we will call Valeriasprona)'m here to give you details.
That is, the return to a deserted Rome burning and it was tough, but enjoyable.
I found waiting for an empty house that initially appeared to reject me (that's why I spent most of the day out, not to mention the nights), but it slowly improves, and I try to put everything in perspective. Moving objects, Modifying it is a lack of respect: the house will be for a while, 'my house, el' only way to convince good (and also live with the memory of JJ) is not making a mausoleum. This does not mean I'm a lot more behind the plants on the balcony now that she is not there when he was here to "remember" to do so lovingly. Then my care that they do not have much success is a different kettle of fish (I think with the climate of 'last week, the only plants with a certain life expectancy are the cactus on the balcony).
's other big news is that I weighed, and I finally learned how fat I carry him. Now, I will not tell the exact number, but we say that weight less than T-Bone Galeazzi, but more than Kate Moss, in fact, put it this way, weighing more than Kate and not much less than Giampiero. For this is the shot 'operation diet. In one week I lost three pounds, but also a lot to put in a good mood at the table, given the constant presence of the same social and ricotta bresaole! The 'other diet-related problem is that I'm passing out to buy a kilo of vegetables I use to fill my poor stomach. But I became an expert in the selection and cleaning of the vegetables themselves ... and I understand why the beans already cost clean much more than others!
At work things are going, I expect a Black September, including state exams, presentations at conferences, study for 'examination PhD and subjects to be tested. But as rightly pointed out to me a friend, there is really to complain when one has nothing to do, because it means that the prospects are less rosy.
Meanwhile I saw a girl I had started dating before the summer break. Things are going well, and I would say that the story is now declassified by the "intrigues" to enter the magical world of stories series. " This thing scares me a bit ', because I was used to avoid bad feelings. But it is also true that nothing ventured nothing gained, and she I do have thoughts that I had for a long time. One of them came to my mind the 'other night in the car, back from Ostia. We were on the back seat, and at one point she was ranicchiata on me and fell asleep. I came to think that for a man "big" like me it's nice to have a girlfriend "baby" (she is) because it is as if this could make sense of our size, we are large to accommodate her, comfort. And on that note
kiss from Perugia greet you and embrace you. I just hope not to pass another twenty days!

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L 'Argentario, the controversies and the summer Ficamaschia

I have to admit. This year I did a fifty-year holiday. And I already went Luxury making them. My meager finances and September waiting for me (very busy, almost billionaire commitments) I have not a little limited. Fortunately, there are friends, even those who speak little but then they do a lot, and realize that maybe take a week at sea to their house to make you forget a little 'sadness and fear of the future is the best thing you can do for you . But holidays were fifty! We've been home three nights out of six, and the outputs have been very moderate, consisting mainly of long walks on the seafront of Porto Santo Stefano and Porto Ercole, with a stake in Capalbio half crazy, and a day in Montalcino, Brunello in search of . Almost gourmet holiday I would say, given the amount of festivals visit. But the
'Argentario is a wonderful place, a place where the mountains, also quite rough, marry beautifully with the sea, Mr. Sea, offering views like these.




and coves like this one.


Or this.


Then I come back, and I find bread for my teeth, with the controversy on the teachers of religion and the abortion pill.
The first topic I do not even pronounce. I would say that the 'anomaly in the fact that people were selected by the curia entered on the merits with regard to the opinion that a board of public school teachers expressed on a student.
In the second case I think the 'intervention is more precious than the beautiful Minister Gasparri, always ready to give us new pearls. The minister maintains that the Italian Drug Agency has no authority to rule on 'effectiveness and on the' use of a drug because it has no "democratic legitimacy". This paper is valuable because it brings to light the results perfectly democracy that we are experiencing right now. This result is called "populism" and designates 's such a system in which the popular legitimacy' s all that matters in giving opinions not only moral but also scientific, ethical or aesthetic or on any topic. What we forget is that even if the 'whole world's population claimed that the' water is composed of a single molecule of hydrogen and one oxygen, the 'water is always composed of two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen, there are cocks. Then the Minister Gasparri has every right to criticize the rules for 'use of RU-486, but, though democratically elected parliament, has no title, being a journalist [sic] to make scientific judgments about a drug .
And here I close.
Ficamaschia And, you say!
Here, I say!

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Places' s soul and roads

These days, accomplice 'mood a bit' sad and long summer afternoons by fill, I have given to my personal Proustian Recherche. After having thrown
shit for years over Spoleto and the places where I spent the 'last childhood and preadolescence, I came to the conclusion that, despite all the limitations that this country is my home. Or rather it is the place where, above all else, I feel at home.
E 'is not just a matter of "family". Of course, we are still here, my parents and my brothers and the people I most frequented in the past. But not only that. It 'just the geography of these places that makes me feel at home.
The gentle slopes covered with olive trees, the highest peaks covered with green, the dirt roads that lead nowhere.
Here, especially the roads near my house makes me realize that I'm finally back.
The same roads that between nine and thirteen years I have traveled far and wide, exploring the way down, following all the streams to the tops of the hills, the valleys, abandoned houses, clearings. Proust had
Magdalens, I have the roads. But the 'effect is the same. All it took was to follow in those little dirt roads, to immediately return the child, with the ability to imagine that at the end of that road, who knows what there was.

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State and process

These days I realize I reckon for the first time in a strong way with death.
When my grandfather died, her husband JJ, I was only five years, and the death was an abstract concept. A leave without possibility of return is very different from the reality of death. This is
can say that I was lucky, in twenty-five years I have never had occasion to think of death in detail. Or rather, I've often thought, I'm scared (the 'idea that my self, my precious ego, disappears one day I will cause panic to this day), but I've never had to confront.
And what I think is that death is only a state for one who goes, for those who remain is a process. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, Freud 's put on paper a little less than a century ago. And the popular culture has always known. What are in fact the rites of mourning but a way to externalize and objectify this process in some way inside?
The period of mourning is something that modern society has forgotten, or rather taken with it from denying any role in his death our lives, decided to disappear. Yet I think it was immensely helpful. Because we all know that the pain of the death of a loved one does not end after the funeral, ol 'burial. Lasts very long, but on and off.
I mean, not that I have spent the past six days to cry. I would be untrue to say that. I laughed, joked with friends and family. Bed, watching movies. Computer games. In short, I lead a normal life. But at times I stopped, and I thought that given what I could not tell it to JJ, who at six o'clock I could not make the customary call evening. In short, the thought of his loss was not constant with flashes, I realized that my life must, must be, do without his presence.
For this to many friends (and thank you for this) that in these days I kimonos to ask "how are you?" I do not know what to say. Well? Evil? It depends.
depends on your point of view, depends on the monent, depends on the 'party. It depends.

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loss, suffering and the rules of performance and reflection

It 'just happened Tuesday night, but I think a month has passed. Perhaps because these days I've done a lot of things.
's funny how a loss like this changes the sense of time. The thoughts go round and round like a motot about to seize. Do you expect that the whole world, even the flow of the day and night to compartecipino thing.
But you leave the house, waiting for the bus and you realize that the world, quite obvious, is not nothing cambiagto. Trams run, people go to work.
And everybody goes on in its activities. You know that there is someone, someone very dear to you, you will not do more, but all they do. Including you.
See the girl who often before you start, because you know that for a while will not have occasion. Maybe I'll even do the 'love. Everything goes, everything goes on. Although sansazione you have is that everyone should stop, and cry a little 'with you.
's strange to see how each deals with the suffering in differently. Who cries every three to two and those who can not help but make jokes macabre (the latter being me).
People think that maybe you do not care, that the loss will pass over, that basically you were not so sad, so sad. Just because the tears stubbornly refuse to get a ride from eyes to chin. But it is not. Every laugh, every joke is a tear. And I'm sorry for those who can not understand it. It 's so I face the pain, do not know any other way than this.
And that annoyance, in truth, give me too many tears. L 'impression I have is that often have a way to piss away the pain from his eyes.
The same difference that there is one who pisses after any media and who expects to be home after a couple of liters of blond, to piss off all together, quietly, in his bathroom, and doing things her going.
also because there are two roles in this case: either cry or consoles. Who weeps not any consolation. So better to let those who weep and cry to try to do well the role of those consoles, so even if you do not comfort anyone.
are just different rules for display of emotions.

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Letter ... Giovanni Lindo Ferretti

Warning: The following letter is dedicated to my dear friend. Most guessing who it is without too much trouble, if you're easy to type scandal, please move on.

Dear Friend,
is all we know, you and me. A lifetime, really. And we were always together you and me. We know all the 'a' s more, every moment we shared. Together we spent the dark years of 'adolescence, where c' was just me and you, as always for joining together the splendor of maturity that has seen, with mixed success, participate in some cool games to our friends.
You know, do everything, so I have already done for you. For you I go out, go dancing, I entertain for you at times I get drunk, not too much because of you the 'alcohol once in the head.
yet, dear friend, sometimes I have the 'impression that they understand you completely. Sometimes I have the 'impression not only that you're not exactly a top, but I even rowing against.
We both know that a number of shit (and when ever been more appropriate word) that I did in life were for the most part your responsibility.
Because you're done that, you have a limited ability to reason, little desire to look to the future, little interest in the consequences of your desires.
But you see, dear friend, I continue to always give you straight, and finally, I admit, your advice has been valuable. But not always.
See, you knew that last night I was tired, I was not of the 'right mood (such as the analysis will be gone? Be able to start with the' experiment? Beppe Grillo really become secretary of the PD?), I was not in the mood, say, for a party. And you too, dear friend, was hesitant, you'll have noticed. Home
c 'was not only the carer but also her brother, and she was not enthusiastic about the' idea. Despite this, my friend, I felt that you produced [sic] in a certain direction, and I've gone along. I insisted. And she rose. And everything seemed to go just fine.
So tell me, dear friend, I ask, without rancor, because at some point you have lost interest in it? Why did you miss, lost in your thoughts, and without any desire to socialize, something that you love to do more generally?
But above all, my dear friend, but you could not have thought of that before? Get this: you and I would have been spared fatigue 's insistence to make it go up, a figure of shit, and we would have won at least one hour of extra sleep! This
you wanted to say: Next time, before you ask me something, think better.
With affection I embrace (that is to say, that would be an exaggeration) and I remain your faithful friend
Belphagor






REFLECTION WITH BROTHER HOME:

envy (in a good way, mind you) 's current story 'My brother is living love. And not because she is a beautiful girl (it is) or because they are very much in love (they are), but what brought them together. That is, the iron and adamantine loyalty my brother his dream to conquer it. A year of pain and suffering, borne with stoic determination to achieve what he has now, and it deserves at all. My brother, who has never read Kundera, who does not listen to the Cure, who does not know what a poem 'love is a hundred million times more romantic than me, with my bells and whistles to be romantic, my books Kundera My Cure (sorry Robert) and my poems' love. I realize looking at it, and looking at him with a little film of 'teenage love (which in fact is very well done and I recommend the heart, "Adventureland") which of the two is what he believes in' love, that though a blonde a lot nicer (I can think of a American expression not so fine that says "a fucking A") would like to eat it, remains faithful to his girlfriend and her dream, one that pines for the distance, what he loves, maybe with a capital L (however, it is obvious , his age is). If I were him, the blonde would have been transferred to the slightest hint.
do not know why, I think partly it is because of my deep sense of inadequacy, that makes me crazy about any woman showing interest in me, because sometimes it seems a miracle that a woman try to interest me.
"Or maybe this is not the problem, and everyone lives within its self-interest, dressed in sophistry," sang the Gucci "Song of Night # 2", and what I try to do is hide a simple and also quite prosaic weakness of the flesh behind a veil of excuses from naive psychology.
Or maybe it's the heat, or maybe it's the wrong evening.
Vallo know.

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The evening is not the best. I'm tired, tired. It rained until six in the morning, makes a warm and humid el 'air is sticky, it seems to swim rather than walk. Forte Antenne A, Villa Ada, I have to get there on foot, with the means I lose. The ticket costs 13 €, not much, but not a foolish thing, for me at the moment are slaughtered. Arrive at 21:30, the concert will begin an hour, I have to well wait.
I sit in the third row, looking around the stage. I get bored a bit, 'I came alone.
four chairs on stage. I bet on an accordion and a violin, perhaps a guitar.
I'm bored.
Then everything changes. John Lindo takes the stage, and everything changes. E 'tall and skinny, awkward, lanky. Funny, I would say almost more now than when he was the leader of the CCCP, is not a man 's age has made it more fascinating.



Averei almost won my bet. Joining him an accordionist and a violinist, plus a second voice, a good content you would see at a festival, singing traditional songs.
The music starts, and for two hours I forget everything. As always the 'impression, to hear him sing, is that someone has replaced the trachea with a cane' s body. Reads, sings, recites chants, screams, gets up, gets back his seat. And you can not take my eyes off her. The music is along the sacred and profane, sensual and cerebral. It 's like an electrified village festival, a sacred song become electronic music. It 'a Mass, a celebration, a spectacle, a statement of faith. The audience is rapt, at the end of some songs explodes into applause liberating, other times it can only remain silent to think, to reflect on what he just heard. In his spare
celebrates the life and death, the continuous flow of the seasons and the nature of the times, a song that grows quietly, his Apennines, his faith with simple and complicated, and highly popular. And you expect a
is on its way, to retire. But it gives the audience smiling and ironic, apologizing for his forgetfulness, because it is the 'only concert that will do this summer and is "just come down from the mountain." He smiles, leans over, always seems to find someone in the audience.
After the concert, someone gives him a rose on stage. The collection with a smile, tightens, it seems really happy. Then he gives us an encore, almost better than the concert itself, and sings "Loving" as if it was the coolest thing I've ever written (and maybe it is).
The concert closed with the litany / hook "for them polverizzaerà last not least, last not least polverizzerà them", his voice slowly fades away, so the instruments, the stage remains empty. But it remains full
the feeling of having seen one of the few artists in the fullest sense of the term, of Italian music, one of the few truly charismatic, in a landscape so flat. One that is now as much as punk in '82, but with other forms, other content. One that, to hear him speak, it seems a Nietzsche who met the faith. Restless and peaceful.