Przebudowane Motocykle

Look

Pencil on paper, A3 size

Sitting Stomach Feet Face

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.

Bluntville Blunt Wraps

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.

How To Full Version Easyshare

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.

Why Do My Daughter's Eyelids Look Pink

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.