THE MURATA ,
of patrician white
with an afterword by maximum Sannella
(Rome, 2009)
§
the book can be ordered editor, John Andrew
Semerano:
tel.
340 5263877 e-mail: lacameraverde@tiscali.it
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Dry Wall Roofracks For Suv
The day my grandfather died of a heart attack
A tale digested a long time and finally spent in words ... I hope not too long for your passage, traveler.
Here, you're a child of seven years, you have hair falling in curls on her face brown, plump hands you, you're still not as thin as you one day, that day will be long and your hands strong, and you will count the ribs under her shirt. E 'autumn, it must be raining in recent days because the soil gives off a pungent odor, moisture moves low to the ground wire in the fog of silence.
There are trees without leaves, trees with dark and damp, trees are still green, there are thorny bushes that close the path, and you make your way bangs, a shower of droplets falling apart around you, cheeks, neck, needles that catch your sweater, you scratch the hands. Often wear that sweater, which fell an inch after the other under the knife of your grandmother, and a funny overalls, blue embroidered with a cat in front and big red buttons that secure the straps.
you've left behind the fence of the pigs, which are now quiet and indolent; remain on the bottom, towards the hut, lying in a muddy gray and deep. You've gone several times and see them eat, the trough is a channel, and the pigs eat all a mush in which each compound surplus, they will eat drowning face, hugging each other to be all head in the channel, sending slow grunts from time to time, you never know if the satisfaction, or pain. You know that pigs, if they are very hungry, did not hesitate to solicit their prey, and would not hesitate to eat as a child climb over the fence, surrounding him and biting his legs to make it fall in the mud, maybe that's why the path crosses always staying away from the fence, without touching them.
Yet you can not really to be afraid of pigs, perhaps because they have fur, and are always so lazy seem not to care about your step, look at you with blank eyes, as if you were another leaf that falls, or a robin who jumps from branch to branch. Maybe it's because you heard the rap of the gun, when it's time to kill the pig, you've never seen it, but you heard the shot and you know that for sure will have placed the barrel of a gun especially on the forehead of the animal, discharge a nail which pierces the center of the brain, only a moment, the pig does not suffer, do not feel anything, you have said. Did you participate with joy in the manufacture of sausages, mixing the dough with both hands and grasselli meat with salt and spices, you seemed the best of your buildings, that game of mixing and sink your hands into the soft ground meat, you've even tried to erect a wall, you started to model a small tower, with holes for doors and windows before you get yelled at and demolish everything you did, to return to knead into a mountain without form.
Have you seen the guts of the pig, get out of large pots steaming bags and become special sausages. The machine for sausages that finally gave him a nice shape to the mountain of useless flesh, a nice snake cylindrical, perfect, who then closed the bag of guts, and was knotted at regular intervals, many beautiful pieces just measured. Have you seen other parts of the pig to enter into other bags, other networks, many tables, each with its own dough in the center, which then entered into bags. Have you seen the legs of the pig after a few months, hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse, you seemed huge pears, or large pieces of cheese coated with pepper. Never, ever would have said that they were the legs of the pig. Have you even seen the big white bowls, where for one day and one night had gathered around the animal's blood, you saw the body hanging to drain, perfectly divided in half, as she came out from the pages of your book's most vivid sciences. You've seen it all, yet you fail to think of the pork while you eat your bread with the sausage spread, just are not able to connect the taste of salt and spices to the animal it comes from. In a sense, you feel like you eat a fruit, collected in a special garden, where the sausages are born like that, hanging from the rafters, maturing slowly in the darkness of the warehouse.
There is also a white horse over the fence of the pigs, you always seemed a bit 'crazy, and we also stay away from that fence. See the property among the small oaks that fill his space, his chest tight and ears raised. Move only the ears, like two small radar, which is running in all directions. Remains motionless for a while, and then suddenly takes a leap, a gap nervous, jumping on all fours, and then rears up, he began to gallop through the trees, no direction, rears back, and stays of the new building. Now you see it near the fence, is biting the horizontal bar, eating the last remains of bark, with those ears always running in every direction. Gray pony that you dozed off in the shadows, squinting and grinding stones toughest clogs, white horse where you have dirt in a jar of ash dust, the hair you have grown cold and your nose, you stupid horse in monto back, a new head to watch you burn, a broken head to ride horses. You're definitely waiting for something, while you walk on the carpet of leaves of the path, and smelled the smell of rotten soil that rises to fill the nostrils.
You are a terrible revulsion of those dewy cobwebs, rain, stretched between a bush and one in the middle of the path, you get caught you feel the spider's web that spreads to your head and you touches the cheek, you cover the eyes, think of the spider that has manufactured, you see huge, hidden in a darker hole in the bushes while you tear the web and try to wriggle. Lanci also some urletto of disgust, and the horse suddenly turns to look, while the pigs raised her head, without much interest. You're certainly waiting for the father, you're out of the house in silence, avoiding puddles until the beginning of the forest, you know that my father will be looking for you right there, between the pigsty and the horse, while kicking the leaves and you walk among the juniper bushes. Do not have the right age to chase too many thoughts, you have only seven years, and at the bottom of your mind is free from worries.
anxiety hits you like an insect bite, so you feel that you will die, but then deflates and stops hurting, something else grabs your attention, you're already elsewhere, I remain a red mark where you've had one bite, you look at it from time to time, do you remember the insect, but you seem to have point someone else. Of course you get out of the house in an agony, have you seen my mother since running last night, you heard your grandfather, who is ill, you heard your grandmother who was crying on the other side of the phone, even if the receiver ce 'was the mother, but her sobs were so loud that you hear them so to speak from a distance. Now the anguish you have already left, sometimes you forget everything, then you find yourself thinking about your grandfather, do not you know why you have come to mind, and a bit of anxiety begins again prodded her belly.
There is a cowhide rug in the house of your grandfather, a corner of the rug is balding, a stain and gray uniform. Sitting on that carpet, or on their knees, often you have watched your grandfather from the bottom up, a true giant, and you scold strong, the vest costoline from which protruded tufts of white hair, or as you explained how to assemble the pieces your meccano. You've watched countless times to smoke a pipe near the window, and as many times you went to open his box of hidden tobacco to suck the smell so good and sharp, you'd say that to be your favorite smell, if it had not happened to the flushing of petrol sniffing, in a few trips when you stop to refuel.
One day, the sea, your grandfather took without saying anything your yellow bucket, took it away to the rocks, saw over and broke it in a crack between the rocks. Every now and then check again saw his white head with an opening, and at last you have seen resurgence with the bucket hanging from a hand, apparently full and heavy. E 'come in front of you and has placed the bucket on the ground, you have you looked inside, and it was a swarm of crabs dark clashed against each other, constantly trying to climb over the smooth walls of the bucket. Your grandfather then put her hand into the bucket to get a bigger crab, was rummaging in a while and then you saw him withdraw his hand shooting pool of blood, had a long cut on his thumb, and the blood dripped on the wrist and arm mixed with sand.
suddenly comes to mind a scene you've seen recently. They killed a lamb at home, just up the road in front of the door where you went to go kick the ball. Have you seen the animal pour a side in a plot of grass. Her belly swelled and deflated in an unnatural way, did you get to his head, he cut off a red throat, and blood flowed slowly there, spreading around the head, that darkened in a puddle in the grass and were careful to stay away. The lamb was trying to bleat, but the that came out was just an indefinable sound, as if the throat of the beast, there was another animal, smaller, a little monster with a voice hoarse croak, away from the bottom of the gorge. Her eyes were open, and the warmth of her body you invested. Slowly the earth has begun to absorb the puddle, and lamb's eyes narrow into slits fine, without making any more noise.
You heard a terrible burden on you recline fully, crushed to the ground, allowing us to look away, to move a step, and even to breathe. And 'only lasted a few seconds, but remember that feeling now that you invest in new, even if they know how to make memories, only laterally.
Are you there, on the edge of the path with the tip of your shoes soggy dampness of the forest, his eyes fixed on the leaves, please review where the lamb and cut his throat, like a huge opening, which could out enough blood to getting your feet wet, you feel that your throat starts to open, as you move your hands to bring you, can you imagine a blade penetrates. You have waited so long, and finally feel that my father calls you, the sound of his feet near the pigsty. Runs towards him, feeling that your throat is still intact, with all that weight she shut you in the stomach. He takes you in his arms, and you can finally bury the nose in the fluff shirt, feeling her tight, you need to sniff sniff.
How's Grandpa? Inquire when you call on the ground. He takes you back in my arms. My grandfather is dead. He says without a particular tone, all in one breath, but you feel that tightens its grip, or maybe you are that you have become a dead weight. Now that something in your belly grows inside you, filling your lungs, arms, head, carries the blood on the tip of the ears, out of the mouth is not true. It 's all you have to say, is everything, put the shirt in the nose and repeat to her. It is not true.
A tale digested a long time and finally spent in words ... I hope not too long for your passage, traveler.
Here, you're a child of seven years, you have hair falling in curls on her face brown, plump hands you, you're still not as thin as you one day, that day will be long and your hands strong, and you will count the ribs under her shirt. E 'autumn, it must be raining in recent days because the soil gives off a pungent odor, moisture moves low to the ground wire in the fog of silence.
There are trees without leaves, trees with dark and damp, trees are still green, there are thorny bushes that close the path, and you make your way bangs, a shower of droplets falling apart around you, cheeks, neck, needles that catch your sweater, you scratch the hands. Often wear that sweater, which fell an inch after the other under the knife of your grandmother, and a funny overalls, blue embroidered with a cat in front and big red buttons that secure the straps.
you've left behind the fence of the pigs, which are now quiet and indolent; remain on the bottom, towards the hut, lying in a muddy gray and deep. You've gone several times and see them eat, the trough is a channel, and the pigs eat all a mush in which each compound surplus, they will eat drowning face, hugging each other to be all head in the channel, sending slow grunts from time to time, you never know if the satisfaction, or pain. You know that pigs, if they are very hungry, did not hesitate to solicit their prey, and would not hesitate to eat as a child climb over the fence, surrounding him and biting his legs to make it fall in the mud, maybe that's why the path crosses always staying away from the fence, without touching them.
Yet you can not really to be afraid of pigs, perhaps because they have fur, and are always so lazy seem not to care about your step, look at you with blank eyes, as if you were another leaf that falls, or a robin who jumps from branch to branch. Maybe it's because you heard the rap of the gun, when it's time to kill the pig, you've never seen it, but you heard the shot and you know that for sure will have placed the barrel of a gun especially on the forehead of the animal, discharge a nail which pierces the center of the brain, only a moment, the pig does not suffer, do not feel anything, you have said. Did you participate with joy in the manufacture of sausages, mixing the dough with both hands and grasselli meat with salt and spices, you seemed the best of your buildings, that game of mixing and sink your hands into the soft ground meat, you've even tried to erect a wall, you started to model a small tower, with holes for doors and windows before you get yelled at and demolish everything you did, to return to knead into a mountain without form.
Have you seen the guts of the pig, get out of large pots steaming bags and become special sausages. The machine for sausages that finally gave him a nice shape to the mountain of useless flesh, a nice snake cylindrical, perfect, who then closed the bag of guts, and was knotted at regular intervals, many beautiful pieces just measured. Have you seen other parts of the pig to enter into other bags, other networks, many tables, each with its own dough in the center, which then entered into bags. Have you seen the legs of the pig after a few months, hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse, you seemed huge pears, or large pieces of cheese coated with pepper. Never, ever would have said that they were the legs of the pig. Have you even seen the big white bowls, where for one day and one night had gathered around the animal's blood, you saw the body hanging to drain, perfectly divided in half, as she came out from the pages of your book's most vivid sciences. You've seen it all, yet you fail to think of the pork while you eat your bread with the sausage spread, just are not able to connect the taste of salt and spices to the animal it comes from. In a sense, you feel like you eat a fruit, collected in a special garden, where the sausages are born like that, hanging from the rafters, maturing slowly in the darkness of the warehouse.
There is also a white horse over the fence of the pigs, you always seemed a bit 'crazy, and we also stay away from that fence. See the property among the small oaks that fill his space, his chest tight and ears raised. Move only the ears, like two small radar, which is running in all directions. Remains motionless for a while, and then suddenly takes a leap, a gap nervous, jumping on all fours, and then rears up, he began to gallop through the trees, no direction, rears back, and stays of the new building. Now you see it near the fence, is biting the horizontal bar, eating the last remains of bark, with those ears always running in every direction. Gray pony that you dozed off in the shadows, squinting and grinding stones toughest clogs, white horse where you have dirt in a jar of ash dust, the hair you have grown cold and your nose, you stupid horse in monto back, a new head to watch you burn, a broken head to ride horses. You're definitely waiting for something, while you walk on the carpet of leaves of the path, and smelled the smell of rotten soil that rises to fill the nostrils.
You are a terrible revulsion of those dewy cobwebs, rain, stretched between a bush and one in the middle of the path, you get caught you feel the spider's web that spreads to your head and you touches the cheek, you cover the eyes, think of the spider that has manufactured, you see huge, hidden in a darker hole in the bushes while you tear the web and try to wriggle. Lanci also some urletto of disgust, and the horse suddenly turns to look, while the pigs raised her head, without much interest. You're certainly waiting for the father, you're out of the house in silence, avoiding puddles until the beginning of the forest, you know that my father will be looking for you right there, between the pigsty and the horse, while kicking the leaves and you walk among the juniper bushes. Do not have the right age to chase too many thoughts, you have only seven years, and at the bottom of your mind is free from worries.
anxiety hits you like an insect bite, so you feel that you will die, but then deflates and stops hurting, something else grabs your attention, you're already elsewhere, I remain a red mark where you've had one bite, you look at it from time to time, do you remember the insect, but you seem to have point someone else. Of course you get out of the house in an agony, have you seen my mother since running last night, you heard your grandfather, who is ill, you heard your grandmother who was crying on the other side of the phone, even if the receiver ce 'was the mother, but her sobs were so loud that you hear them so to speak from a distance. Now the anguish you have already left, sometimes you forget everything, then you find yourself thinking about your grandfather, do not you know why you have come to mind, and a bit of anxiety begins again prodded her belly.
There is a cowhide rug in the house of your grandfather, a corner of the rug is balding, a stain and gray uniform. Sitting on that carpet, or on their knees, often you have watched your grandfather from the bottom up, a true giant, and you scold strong, the vest costoline from which protruded tufts of white hair, or as you explained how to assemble the pieces your meccano. You've watched countless times to smoke a pipe near the window, and as many times you went to open his box of hidden tobacco to suck the smell so good and sharp, you'd say that to be your favorite smell, if it had not happened to the flushing of petrol sniffing, in a few trips when you stop to refuel.
One day, the sea, your grandfather took without saying anything your yellow bucket, took it away to the rocks, saw over and broke it in a crack between the rocks. Every now and then check again saw his white head with an opening, and at last you have seen resurgence with the bucket hanging from a hand, apparently full and heavy. E 'come in front of you and has placed the bucket on the ground, you have you looked inside, and it was a swarm of crabs dark clashed against each other, constantly trying to climb over the smooth walls of the bucket. Your grandfather then put her hand into the bucket to get a bigger crab, was rummaging in a while and then you saw him withdraw his hand shooting pool of blood, had a long cut on his thumb, and the blood dripped on the wrist and arm mixed with sand.
suddenly comes to mind a scene you've seen recently. They killed a lamb at home, just up the road in front of the door where you went to go kick the ball. Have you seen the animal pour a side in a plot of grass. Her belly swelled and deflated in an unnatural way, did you get to his head, he cut off a red throat, and blood flowed slowly there, spreading around the head, that darkened in a puddle in the grass and were careful to stay away. The lamb was trying to bleat, but the that came out was just an indefinable sound, as if the throat of the beast, there was another animal, smaller, a little monster with a voice hoarse croak, away from the bottom of the gorge. Her eyes were open, and the warmth of her body you invested. Slowly the earth has begun to absorb the puddle, and lamb's eyes narrow into slits fine, without making any more noise.
You heard a terrible burden on you recline fully, crushed to the ground, allowing us to look away, to move a step, and even to breathe. And 'only lasted a few seconds, but remember that feeling now that you invest in new, even if they know how to make memories, only laterally.
Are you there, on the edge of the path with the tip of your shoes soggy dampness of the forest, his eyes fixed on the leaves, please review where the lamb and cut his throat, like a huge opening, which could out enough blood to getting your feet wet, you feel that your throat starts to open, as you move your hands to bring you, can you imagine a blade penetrates. You have waited so long, and finally feel that my father calls you, the sound of his feet near the pigsty. Runs towards him, feeling that your throat is still intact, with all that weight she shut you in the stomach. He takes you in his arms, and you can finally bury the nose in the fluff shirt, feeling her tight, you need to sniff sniff.
How's Grandpa? Inquire when you call on the ground. He takes you back in my arms. My grandfather is dead. He says without a particular tone, all in one breath, but you feel that tightens its grip, or maybe you are that you have become a dead weight. Now that something in your belly grows inside you, filling your lungs, arms, head, carries the blood on the tip of the ears, out of the mouth is not true. It 's all you have to say, is everything, put the shirt in the nose and repeat to her. It is not true.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Cake Pattern For Shoe Cake
Horizons, mirages ... and the continuation of the journey
Go where, traveler? They said that the journey is the meaning of things, but we have also shown a goal, a mirage of power to captivate the mind and make our journey. Further on we have sunk their hands into that vision, and it has simply dissolved. So ... perhaps we needed other mirages on the horizon, yet sublime, again to mislead the mind and allow us to travel even up to that horizon ... and then what? Other horizons yet, travel to, other mirages, golden city ghost, illusion, and one day, looking for the event behind us, the impressions of our feet, all still imprinted in the sand holographic the universe, all beginning to infinity. How many steps one after another, how far behind us: an oasis in whose shade we rested, the illusions that have given us the impetus and vanished again.
The time will come when the mind is liberated, and it will not need to imagine the golden city on the horizon, and then we will not leave the most impressions, but on that last stop the journey will continue without form, through all forms, vertical, and the sands will be small below us, until we take a look with all our past impressions, the whole journey, all in one slam of an eye.
"Becoming waterproof the success and failure, "this teaching of the ancient alchemists to the disciple who would be called such. And 'perhaps the biggest challenge for me, I chose to live in this West, full of urgency vesre success, such as the fear of failure. No, not yet waterproof, the traveler, even on the scale of the surf world, and often through the unconscious, I'm afraid the error, I wish success ... but something changes, moves, my gaze is made lighter, seconded. I'm learning again to play with the results I get.
results. Failure and success are both ... think about it. Man acts in the world and always gets results, throws his will and increasingly the world responds. It 'amazing. There is never indifference, the universe always returns the ball every time we catch them as some successes, others say failures. But what's the difference, traveler?
Can you tell you, what distinguishes them? Add a sentence to the ancient teaching: "To become impervious to the success and failure, and abandon all expectations " How many things I "expected" by the spirit when I made the first steps of this existence, the illusions necessary to give me the push and understand finally that His kingdom is not of this world .
the success I have tried in every gesture, in every project. Often I found what I thought was failure. But the perfection of things is beyond any aspiration for success. The gesture is to perfect my fingertip, which impresses its force on the keys, the intention is crystal clear where I turn off a candle at night, creating a flick of the wrist and palm to not waste the breath. Success is the natural way of things, the passage is clear, without interruption. Sometimes we build dams to store, it can work, but it happens that the levees collapse, plumber, or mute the water run its course. It is not the time of the dams for me, it's just time for perfection, waterproof error or success.
a hug from the land of Thunder
Nican 
Go where, traveler? They said that the journey is the meaning of things, but we have also shown a goal, a mirage of power to captivate the mind and make our journey. Further on we have sunk their hands into that vision, and it has simply dissolved. So ... perhaps we needed other mirages on the horizon, yet sublime, again to mislead the mind and allow us to travel even up to that horizon ... and then what? Other horizons yet, travel to, other mirages, golden city ghost, illusion, and one day, looking for the event behind us, the impressions of our feet, all still imprinted in the sand holographic the universe, all beginning to infinity. How many steps one after another, how far behind us: an oasis in whose shade we rested, the illusions that have given us the impetus and vanished again. 
The time will come when the mind is liberated, and it will not need to imagine the golden city on the horizon, and then we will not leave the most impressions, but on that last stop the journey will continue without form, through all forms, vertical, and the sands will be small below us, until we take a look with all our past impressions, the whole journey, all in one slam of an eye. "Becoming waterproof the success and failure, "this teaching of the ancient alchemists to the disciple who would be called such. And 'perhaps the biggest challenge for me, I chose to live in this West, full of urgency vesre success, such as the fear of failure. No, not yet waterproof, the traveler, even on the scale of the surf world, and often through the unconscious, I'm afraid the error, I wish success ... but something changes, moves, my gaze is made lighter, seconded. I'm learning again to play with the results I get.
results. Failure and success are both ... think about it. Man acts in the world and always gets results, throws his will and increasingly the world responds. It 'amazing. There is never indifference, the universe always returns the ball every time we catch them as some successes, others say failures. But what's the difference, traveler?
Can you tell you, what distinguishes them? Add a sentence to the ancient teaching: "To become impervious to the success and failure, and abandon all expectations " How many things I "expected" by the spirit when I made the first steps of this existence, the illusions necessary to give me the push and understand finally that His kingdom is not of this world .
the success I have tried in every gesture, in every project. Often I found what I thought was failure. But the perfection of things is beyond any aspiration for success. The gesture is to perfect my fingertip, which impresses its force on the keys, the intention is crystal clear where I turn off a candle at night, creating a flick of the wrist and palm to not waste the breath. Success is the natural way of things, the passage is clear, without interruption. Sometimes we build dams to store, it can work, but it happens that the levees collapse, plumber, or mute the water run its course. It is not the time of the dams for me, it's just time for perfection, waterproof error or success. a hug from the land of Thunder
Nican
Early Pregnancy And Pink Mucus
Esnedy Milán Herrera
ANTIGONE
Massimo Sannella
Genoa
La Stanza Poetry
Saturday, February 7, 2009, at 17
Monday, November 3, 2008
View I-catcher Console - Web Monitor
The Song of the enemy trees
Years ago I had my first encounter with the word of the trees, when, during a seminar in many hugged them to tell them about our "personal history" and, perhaps, seek answers. This time, his forehead leaning against the rough trunk of an oak, I had the feeling that enter them, as darkness enveloped the hot and humid, from that empty houses vibrant probably lymphatic veins. It was a response body, tender and reassuring.
Then I lived in the woods near Siena, and from time to time I stopped to auscultate the breath of some large tree, for advice, or just to say hello. I have always received a reply, Exact and natural, just like the growth of their branches, or the seasonality of their lethargy.
I remember once in particular when in the throes of confusion at times undermines everything in my life I turned to a group of birch trees in a day of light wind that was rattling the leaves and shake the highest part of the silver leaves. "How do you get your peace of mind?", This was more or less, the question that cast. They replied in unison, like a whisper in the middle of my head, and a sense of expansion moving up the neck. "You can certainly ... but you're willing to become like us?" Frank, words I took advantage of surprise, and I forced myself to smile ... no, I was not willing to take root, to "make do" by a foot of ground as the others, and receive wind and rain and sun without seeking other, perhaps simply because I was not a tree ... and again those few words brought me the clarity to accept what I chose to be, my humanity, the shape of my thoughts, weaknesses dle my body, and the flames behind them.
If you ever want to hear the word of the trees, traveler, can adapt to the slow metabolism. Live in a time other than your own, much faster than that of stones, but always very much slower than you might expect. With practice you will learn to feel the slow, and slow down your inner time to adjust to that wavelength. If you've ever practiced tai-chi maybe you already know what I mean.
The enactment of trees extends for several feet around the trunk, at least until the area covered by the branches. So know how to respect that space if you choose to communicate with a particular tree. A good way is to ask yourself a few yards from the border of leaves, make a little bow of submission and start to move slowly towards the trunk, arms outstretched and palms facing the tree. Keep your eyes closed will help even more to perceive the boundaries of the adoption of the tree, and increasing its density gradually you close to the trunk. Your map should slow down more and more as you approach the tree, until such time as your hands will rely on the bark. In that moment of contact there is a flash of communication, a rapid flow of information: difficult to grasp with the mind but easier to perceive the body. I live like a small electric shock along the spine, but not necessarily be the same for you.
From this moment you can communicate, say, ask, listen ... You can feel the desire to embrace the tree, pull your heart to her, or your front of his torso, you might even be willing to pet, massage, or kissing her body. Indulge in this tender, if you like, it's just the world's heart that beats without distinction. Listen to what he has to say this is wisdom, the answer will always be ... but do not attach to it, do not expect anything, just Breathe, do not necessarily have the words in your head, just itching could be on your hands, or a sense of warmth in your chest, you let it go, is enough.
You can then remove the contact slowly backward a few steps without turning one's back, and thank him with a gesture of supreme love that you join the palms in front of the heart and bowing his head, smiling.
The tree is a living symbol of alchemy to me that governs the evolution of things. Its roots are in the ground. Dark, cold and wet. Its seed is food rotting in the humus, the changing of the bodies of dead wood. Only here can arise from the trunk, whose will is the same: reach for the sky. Turn a small plant and his will never waver, nor be subject to confusion: it will always know what is the direction of the sky, and bend to continue to rise. The will of the trunk thins and breaks down in its height to reach the most rarefied, branching into smaller and more refined will, multiform and correct form in the body of the crown. From there, take as appendages of the spirit, born leaves are empowered to receive and process the sun its light into nourishment. Nutrients from decay, food from the Sun .. the land necessary to forge a trunk-will, which will open its branches in the crown of the sun to metabolize
More could be said, because it is true that each symbol contains countless others, but I think now would only please the mind.
May you hear the song of the trees, traveler, because it's another light that shows the Way. 
Years ago I had my first encounter with the word of the trees, when, during a seminar in many hugged them to tell them about our "personal history" and, perhaps, seek answers. This time, his forehead leaning against the rough trunk of an oak, I had the feeling that enter them, as darkness enveloped the hot and humid, from that empty houses vibrant probably lymphatic veins. It was a response body, tender and reassuring. Then I lived in the woods near Siena, and from time to time I stopped to auscultate the breath of some large tree, for advice, or just to say hello. I have always received a reply, Exact and natural, just like the growth of their branches, or the seasonality of their lethargy.
I remember once in particular when in the throes of confusion at times undermines everything in my life I turned to a group of birch trees in a day of light wind that was rattling the leaves and shake the highest part of the silver leaves. "How do you get your peace of mind?", This was more or less, the question that cast. They replied in unison, like a whisper in the middle of my head, and a sense of expansion moving up the neck. "You can certainly ... but you're willing to become like us?" Frank, words I took advantage of surprise, and I forced myself to smile ... no, I was not willing to take root, to "make do" by a foot of ground as the others, and receive wind and rain and sun without seeking other, perhaps simply because I was not a tree ... and again those few words brought me the clarity to accept what I chose to be, my humanity, the shape of my thoughts, weaknesses dle my body, and the flames behind them.
If you ever want to hear the word of the trees, traveler, can adapt to the slow metabolism. Live in a time other than your own, much faster than that of stones, but always very much slower than you might expect. With practice you will learn to feel the slow, and slow down your inner time to adjust to that wavelength. If you've ever practiced tai-chi maybe you already know what I mean.
The enactment of trees extends for several feet around the trunk, at least until the area covered by the branches. So know how to respect that space if you choose to communicate with a particular tree. A good way is to ask yourself a few yards from the border of leaves, make a little bow of submission and start to move slowly towards the trunk, arms outstretched and palms facing the tree. Keep your eyes closed will help even more to perceive the boundaries of the adoption of the tree, and increasing its density gradually you close to the trunk. Your map should slow down more and more as you approach the tree, until such time as your hands will rely on the bark. In that moment of contact there is a flash of communication, a rapid flow of information: difficult to grasp with the mind but easier to perceive the body. I live like a small electric shock along the spine, but not necessarily be the same for you.
From this moment you can communicate, say, ask, listen ... You can feel the desire to embrace the tree, pull your heart to her, or your front of his torso, you might even be willing to pet, massage, or kissing her body. Indulge in this tender, if you like, it's just the world's heart that beats without distinction. Listen to what he has to say this is wisdom, the answer will always be ... but do not attach to it, do not expect anything, just Breathe, do not necessarily have the words in your head, just itching could be on your hands, or a sense of warmth in your chest, you let it go, is enough. You can then remove the contact slowly backward a few steps without turning one's back, and thank him with a gesture of supreme love that you join the palms in front of the heart and bowing his head, smiling.
The tree is a living symbol of alchemy to me that governs the evolution of things. Its roots are in the ground. Dark, cold and wet. Its seed is food rotting in the humus, the changing of the bodies of dead wood. Only here can arise from the trunk, whose will is the same: reach for the sky. Turn a small plant and his will never waver, nor be subject to confusion: it will always know what is the direction of the sky, and bend to continue to rise. The will of the trunk thins and breaks down in its height to reach the most rarefied, branching into smaller and more refined will, multiform and correct form in the body of the crown. From there, take as appendages of the spirit, born leaves are empowered to receive and process the sun its light into nourishment. Nutrients from decay, food from the Sun .. the land necessary to forge a trunk-will, which will open its branches in the crown of the sun to metabolize More could be said, because it is true that each symbol contains countless others, but I think now would only please the mind.
May you hear the song of the trees, traveler, because it's another light that shows the Way.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Meagan Good Shorthair
Volunteer
on a country road I have traveled often, not far from a large farmhouse that for some reason always seemed to me left, despite having a good view, spacious walls and red shutters. The air here is something that worries me ... a vein of deep water? A history of turmoil? I do not know, but I am sure that I could never live there, even if the owner offered me the keys.
on a country road that runs along fields barren and stony, with tufts of green grass as tiny explosions of life, I walk and I walk the woods.
The shadow is from the trees and grows as it approaches, it is dark, terrible. I feel the skin behind my neck stand up, my heart stops, the shadow taste my fear, which is similar to that of those without hope, sees the enemy was advancing slowly towards him.
gets me, around me, and begins to suffocate slowly, pressing his chest and throat without hesitation, as a press that does its job. Of course I offer resistance, and of course all my squirming is a choke faster, each new burst of muscle, slow and steady pressure on the chest.
Finally something snaps. Un'interruttore security, you name it. Suddenly I surrender to the enemy close, but not a drop of renunciation, is Love. I offer myself to him, without understanding the reasons, without understanding, simply an impulse that exceeds my mind guide me in an irresistible way to love the shade, give me what I am experiencing, no regrets, unconditionally. A shiver of tears through my bones, and the shadows, sudden as my offer was turned into an armchair in soft grass, hug you close, and its herbs I caress the body with the tenderness of a child .
The embrace lasts a few moments, when my total abandon you, no wonder now, with no possibility of any explanation groped. Finally I wake up, so thank you all for myself and this wonderful field of battle is the Dream. Volunteer
the enemy then, let go ... we will be back up, insights, and necessary because that is the key of keys, especially at this time Western contract and so aggressive. My skin is more electricity must point out that embrace the dream took place in a few months ago, now you just have to continue to send it here, my shadows, in what some are calling this sleep wakefulness. 
on a country road I have traveled often, not far from a large farmhouse that for some reason always seemed to me left, despite having a good view, spacious walls and red shutters. The air here is something that worries me ... a vein of deep water? A history of turmoil? I do not know, but I am sure that I could never live there, even if the owner offered me the keys. on a country road that runs along fields barren and stony, with tufts of green grass as tiny explosions of life, I walk and I walk the woods.
The shadow is from the trees and grows as it approaches, it is dark, terrible. I feel the skin behind my neck stand up, my heart stops, the shadow taste my fear, which is similar to that of those without hope, sees the enemy was advancing slowly towards him.
gets me, around me, and begins to suffocate slowly, pressing his chest and throat without hesitation, as a press that does its job. Of course I offer resistance, and of course all my squirming is a choke faster, each new burst of muscle, slow and steady pressure on the chest.
Finally something snaps. Un'interruttore security, you name it. Suddenly I surrender to the enemy close, but not a drop of renunciation, is Love. I offer myself to him, without understanding the reasons, without understanding, simply an impulse that exceeds my mind guide me in an irresistible way to love the shade, give me what I am experiencing, no regrets, unconditionally. A shiver of tears through my bones, and the shadows, sudden as my offer was turned into an armchair in soft grass, hug you close, and its herbs I caress the body with the tenderness of a child .
The embrace lasts a few moments, when my total abandon you, no wonder now, with no possibility of any explanation groped. Finally I wake up, so thank you all for myself and this wonderful field of battle is the Dream. Volunteer the enemy then, let go ... we will be back up, insights, and necessary because that is the key of keys, especially at this time Western contract and so aggressive. My skin is more electricity must point out that embrace the dream took place in a few months ago, now you just have to continue to send it here, my shadows, in what some are calling this sleep wakefulness.
Implantation Symptoms Have Stopped
The sinusoid, and guardian of Alchenican
It 's true, the urgency to free up some shares I have neglected to introduce myself ... I am baptized Nican, the caretaker of these lands. I do not have keys for now, because I do not have gardens or gates that do the guard. You could exchange it for a passing, or, better still, to a tourist.
Nican is an essence, that of me which comes closest to the heavens, and who has the tenderness and sincerity of the chick. There are other parts, emotions, thoughts ... a physical body that needs nourishment, and then pulse slower ... boredom, looking for a pure pleasure and without haste, the lies, the guilt. Some days the pulses living moments of domination, Nican and then moves away from me, waiting patiently for the balance is restored.
We all live in the potential difference, the sine wave, which allows, among other things, the existence of electricity and radio waves. And 'what creates the movement on this plane, up and down, go down to rise again. It 's just a ride, but there are many who think it's all over the world as possible. It happens to me sometimes, when the descent is steeper and chilling, I forget for a while that it's just a run to go up even higher: and I fear hell.
There are days when the awareness is crystal clear, quiet, and the fire flares up on everything. Daniel Meurois -Givaudan, one of the great explorers of our time for change, tells of when he warned this difference even in the presence of the Master Jesus who sometimes lived, and that made Christ appeared "to have more grip," and then happened to share with him the eye, and literally get lost in the galaxies of his eyes, which were simply one and the doors to the whole. At other times the sinusoid lived his downturn, and then returned as the eyes of Master Jesus, full of love and compassion, but where "no longer risk getting lost."
Living this potential difference does not mean surrender to the impulses of course slow, let it go, but the path is instead to restrict the wave, the sine wave to the shorter, faster, the higher vibration. Go up an octave, access to new and more harmonic frequencies. Only practice, and without constant blackouts, it is good for this job ... and what it means to "practice" I leave you the pleasure of discovery for now. Otherwise, the sine wave remains the same, the ups and downs of life always identical, and all watertight. Tighten the curve then, meet with the practice loving and ruthless with each pulse down, breathe awareness of each wave crest, and again give the push to the next. The wave becomes narrow, the ridges are most often, a man infinitely more sensitive. As long as seen from outside your life seems like a straight line, a new and very high frequency, and you can find that the sine wave was none other than the tiny vibration of a harmonic note in the universe. Now, finally, you can compose music.
It 's true, the urgency to free up some shares I have neglected to introduce myself ... I am baptized Nican, the caretaker of these lands. I do not have keys for now, because I do not have gardens or gates that do the guard. You could exchange it for a passing, or, better still, to a tourist. Nican is an essence, that of me which comes closest to the heavens, and who has the tenderness and sincerity of the chick. There are other parts, emotions, thoughts ... a physical body that needs nourishment, and then pulse slower ... boredom, looking for a pure pleasure and without haste, the lies, the guilt. Some days the pulses living moments of domination, Nican and then moves away from me, waiting patiently for the balance is restored.
We all live in the potential difference, the sine wave, which allows, among other things, the existence of electricity and radio waves. And 'what creates the movement on this plane, up and down, go down to rise again. It 's just a ride, but there are many who think it's all over the world as possible. It happens to me sometimes, when the descent is steeper and chilling, I forget for a while that it's just a run to go up even higher: and I fear hell. There are days when the awareness is crystal clear, quiet, and the fire flares up on everything. Daniel Meurois -Givaudan, one of the great explorers of our time for change, tells of when he warned this difference even in the presence of the Master Jesus who sometimes lived, and that made Christ appeared "to have more grip," and then happened to share with him the eye, and literally get lost in the galaxies of his eyes, which were simply one and the doors to the whole. At other times the sinusoid lived his downturn, and then returned as the eyes of Master Jesus, full of love and compassion, but where "no longer risk getting lost."
Living this potential difference does not mean surrender to the impulses of course slow, let it go, but the path is instead to restrict the wave, the sine wave to the shorter, faster, the higher vibration. Go up an octave, access to new and more harmonic frequencies. Only practice, and without constant blackouts, it is good for this job ... and what it means to "practice" I leave you the pleasure of discovery for now. Otherwise, the sine wave remains the same, the ups and downs of life always identical, and all watertight. Tighten the curve then, meet with the practice loving and ruthless with each pulse down, breathe awareness of each wave crest, and again give the push to the next. The wave becomes narrow, the ridges are most often, a man infinitely more sensitive. As long as seen from outside your life seems like a straight line, a new and very high frequency, and you can find that the sine wave was none other than the tiny vibration of a harmonic note in the universe. Now, finally, you can compose music.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Filmes On Line De Mario Salieri
The Cross and the Rose
No, the traveler, the Cross was not born two thousand years ago.
He crossed the world history since the Spirit dwelt the first human. And what is at the bottom of the cross, if not the symbol of the Spirit (vertical), which enriches the Matter (horizontal)? Penetration mystical and complete intersection.
Where the vertical meets the horizontal, the exact center of the Cross, the rose blooms there, you create the life and love. And in fact, a traveler, if you widen your arms and cross to become the Rosa Mystica is exactly the area of \u200b\u200byour heart.
When you look at a starry sky, and felt the old longing for the places from which you came, that you would go, open up the case, it becomes the Cross, the Nature of Things will then know that you are aware of your own home, and will respond by filling the your vessel of sadness, tenderness, love.
The Cross had a thousand sons, and he could talk at length on the variations of this dance, but for now you do this your suggestion OS: I am greatly benefited.
When I lived in the woods yet, I happened to go outside during the night, attracted by an irresistible impulse, a sense of closed (despite living in a well ventilated and very high ceilings). I went out to breathe the night in the courtyard of my house, dark, with old stone well from inside which a fig tree was determined to be born.
looking up the Milky Way, The Star was looking for, then viravo the Big Dipper, and I let you look blurry to embrace the whole sky. It was then in me stood the Cross, as a natural movement of bones and muscles in my arms opened wide, my body is abandoned, a feeling of deep emotion shook me from within. I Cross, I was the Pink flowers, talking to the stars, were only the nostalgia, abandonment, tenderness, love, touched my source with the petals of the Heart.
There is much more to say, travel to, stop here in words, why not go well. Only by living the Cross you know what happens when you leave crucify man in a sky of stars.
Do not rush, however, the cross rises exactly when you are ready to assist, not a minute before, not a moment later. Haste! How many I hasten to energy spent in reaching horizons that have opened and then only when appropriate. How much ingenuity in the pursuit of power, the powers ... once deluded myself thinking I could save only quickly reaching the domain of matter and the world, but there is no domain, not in the human sense of the term, there is instead a dance, and the full domain is not simply cease to dance be the dance itself.
But all this had to scramble to my trip (note, mine, not necessarily yours), allowed me to deal with a distant time when I had reached very high peaks, from which they precipitate and perhaps an excess of pride ... but this is of course another story. 
No, the traveler, the Cross was not born two thousand years ago.
He crossed the world history since the Spirit dwelt the first human. And what is at the bottom of the cross, if not the symbol of the Spirit (vertical), which enriches the Matter (horizontal)? Penetration mystical and complete intersection.
Where the vertical meets the horizontal, the exact center of the Cross, the rose blooms there, you create the life and love. And in fact, a traveler, if you widen your arms and cross to become the Rosa Mystica is exactly the area of \u200b\u200byour heart.
When you look at a starry sky, and felt the old longing for the places from which you came, that you would go, open up the case, it becomes the Cross, the Nature of Things will then know that you are aware of your own home, and will respond by filling the your vessel of sadness, tenderness, love.
The Cross had a thousand sons, and he could talk at length on the variations of this dance, but for now you do this your suggestion OS: I am greatly benefited.
When I lived in the woods yet, I happened to go outside during the night, attracted by an irresistible impulse, a sense of closed (despite living in a well ventilated and very high ceilings). I went out to breathe the night in the courtyard of my house, dark, with old stone well from inside which a fig tree was determined to be born.
looking up the Milky Way, The Star was looking for, then viravo the Big Dipper, and I let you look blurry to embrace the whole sky. It was then in me stood the Cross, as a natural movement of bones and muscles in my arms opened wide, my body is abandoned, a feeling of deep emotion shook me from within. I Cross, I was the Pink flowers, talking to the stars, were only the nostalgia, abandonment, tenderness, love, touched my source with the petals of the Heart.
There is much more to say, travel to, stop here in words, why not go well. Only by living the Cross you know what happens when you leave crucify man in a sky of stars.
Do not rush, however, the cross rises exactly when you are ready to assist, not a minute before, not a moment later. Haste! How many I hasten to energy spent in reaching horizons that have opened and then only when appropriate. How much ingenuity in the pursuit of power, the powers ... once deluded myself thinking I could save only quickly reaching the domain of matter and the world, but there is no domain, not in the human sense of the term, there is instead a dance, and the full domain is not simply cease to dance be the dance itself.
But all this had to scramble to my trip (note, mine, not necessarily yours), allowed me to deal with a distant time when I had reached very high peaks, from which they precipitate and perhaps an excess of pride ... but this is of course another story.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Jesse Jane Streaming Clips
Raven, Dove, Phoenix ... Look at the star
The Crow is back, traveler, she caught the window to draw my eye, then he raised his voice hoarse of victory: I'm still here, do not you drop!
But I know that you can not kill the crow, as you can not kill a ghost. It 's just that I happen to forget him, or look at him with tenderness, as something that helps me to be at the bottom. But even this is unwise to give in to goodness: for he is merciless, he knows all the masks, and a map of my wounds. He knows how to move inside of me to catch what is cooler or pull out the old follies as long worms from the soft ground.
The crow is all I had available: he and the ability to transform it. I do not want to kill him, but leave that to give birth, mature over time, my dove.
I glimpsed at the top, above all the clouds, move like a gentle breeze at altitudes that do not know the wind. Up there, the raven has no home, is the United White, adjourned the land par excellence, where Being sees herself on the throne of wisdom, and there's nothing else to do. Some
in the past have stopped in that kingdom, when they felt the dove resting in their lap. It 's a happy place, after all, but certainly is only one step of the journey.
Fondling the dove in a precise point to root of his wings I am told that it is possible to detect a spark of fire, the first cry of the Phoenix, and sticking to its long tail to reach the Red Kingdom, the Kingdom of Love.
and the Phoenix, after all, is just the beginning of a new journey: perhaps unimaginable to man because it is a journey beyond the human.
Raven, Dove, Phoenix ... the egg white in my womb already has them, one inside the other, a mother of the other, all you need. 
The Crow is back, traveler, she caught the window to draw my eye, then he raised his voice hoarse of victory: I'm still here, do not you drop! But I know that you can not kill the crow, as you can not kill a ghost. It 's just that I happen to forget him, or look at him with tenderness, as something that helps me to be at the bottom. But even this is unwise to give in to goodness: for he is merciless, he knows all the masks, and a map of my wounds. He knows how to move inside of me to catch what is cooler or pull out the old follies as long worms from the soft ground.
The crow is all I had available: he and the ability to transform it. I do not want to kill him, but leave that to give birth, mature over time, my dove.
I glimpsed at the top, above all the clouds, move like a gentle breeze at altitudes that do not know the wind. Up there, the raven has no home, is the United White, adjourned the land par excellence, where Being sees herself on the throne of wisdom, and there's nothing else to do. Some in the past have stopped in that kingdom, when they felt the dove resting in their lap. It 's a happy place, after all, but certainly is only one step of the journey.
Fondling the dove in a precise point to root of his wings I am told that it is possible to detect a spark of fire, the first cry of the Phoenix, and sticking to its long tail to reach the Red Kingdom, the Kingdom of Love.
and the Phoenix, after all, is just the beginning of a new journey: perhaps unimaginable to man because it is a journey beyond the human.
Raven, Dove, Phoenix ... the egg white in my womb already has them, one inside the other, a mother of the other, all you need. Stroke Victims With Enlarged Liver
The Polar Star, a traveler, it contains the archetype of the direction, not only physically, but also in a metaphysical sense. It can guide you to your north or simply make sure that your spine is aligned to the Earth's poles, and more broadly to those of the cosmos, of the Spirit.
Find a space where you can observe the sky, and look for The Star. It is located between the Big Dipper (Ursa Major) and Cassiopeia.
You can recognize the Big Dipper well, with his form so prominent in the sky, and with a bit of effort to get to see his right hand a double v-shaped constellation: that is Cassiopeia. Between the two there is a star very bright and very visible, and Polaris.
Look at her fixedly for a few minutes, let soak, let the heavens rotate around as you rotate around the star, after all you are the pivot, the center, the direction ... are the star.
You can find the direction so that the structure in your life simply by looking at the star, but looking at it makes your eyes are not so much as a point of light in the exact center of your chest. Physical images that point, let it flourish as a white rose, and watch it with The Star.
Only on this condition can be answered only if you are willing to accept whatever you tell The Star. You may not like this direction, perhaps because it tells you the truth, and something you appreciate still lying, or simply because it seems too simple an answer, with no complications. Know then that the direction is not very complex but always crystal clear, the problem of man is only in having the courage to accept it without reservations. Abandoned
the Star, caressed by the rotation of the cosmos, motionless in the simplicity of a point of light. You must not do anything, just open your squad and let them touch the Pole of the Universe. But perhaps this exercise will require you to: Open the rose, do nothing, and just be who you are.
After all this is not to store everything, sleep, and the next day brings attention to the signs, even for children. You may seem bizarre, frivolous, or even meaningless. You watch them and not do anything else. Acettali as your acceptance of the starlight. The universe always answers, always, the man plays and sometimes you lose, but the universe does not cease to show the signs, you know to be patient. If signs confuse you stop to interpret them, just Breathe, let them be educated by you, which might not suspect its existence.
From the second day, if you want, imagine yourself to sleep again The Star, and open again Squad direction and clarity in your life. They already are, the warrior must rise only able to support their view.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Rephresh Gel Philippines
The void calls me
not know about you, the traveler, but I feel close to the edge, hanging on the edge, more and more. I feel the light sound of the dust stirred up by my foot falls into the abyss. But still I can not see the abyss, I'm afraid, and my eyes are closed. I jumped at other gaps in the past ... but now it is different, this chasm is calling me more than others, I can not look back, I still can not take the leap, are suspended, and the wind makes me swing like a delicate fruit trees.
I dropped so much weight, traveler, that sometimes I think I'm ready to jump up, and yet I still wake up in some sunrises to discover that the illusion is still strong, which will still be shaped properly, that the confusion has its rhythmic gusts.
The void down there, there, call me, and his voice is light and warm, is not human, has the persistence of the trees, it will never stop calling, even if I could look back and take a few steps away from ' hem. And 'The voice of love, and ruthless because its tone is that of no return, the total abandonment.
I know, a traveler, I talk about a leap into the abyss, but then I know it will be different. It's not in my nature to sever all ties at once, to launch a leap. I'm an old soul who is working his mind is like a mix: I have patience, will, and I'm lazy. My name will end up in a vacuum, and I will not have memory of the jump. 
not know about you, the traveler, but I feel close to the edge, hanging on the edge, more and more. I feel the light sound of the dust stirred up by my foot falls into the abyss. But still I can not see the abyss, I'm afraid, and my eyes are closed. I jumped at other gaps in the past ... but now it is different, this chasm is calling me more than others, I can not look back, I still can not take the leap, are suspended, and the wind makes me swing like a delicate fruit trees.
I dropped so much weight, traveler, that sometimes I think I'm ready to jump up, and yet I still wake up in some sunrises to discover that the illusion is still strong, which will still be shaped properly, that the confusion has its rhythmic gusts.
The void down there, there, call me, and his voice is light and warm, is not human, has the persistence of the trees, it will never stop calling, even if I could look back and take a few steps away from ' hem. And 'The voice of love, and ruthless because its tone is that of no return, the total abandonment.
I know, a traveler, I talk about a leap into the abyss, but then I know it will be different. It's not in my nature to sever all ties at once, to launch a leap. I'm an old soul who is working his mind is like a mix: I have patience, will, and I'm lazy. My name will end up in a vacuum, and I will not have memory of the jump.
Homemade Rabbitfeeders
Welcome to Alchenican
Welcome to Alchenican traveler ... Namaste, join hands and greeting the divine part of you.
This is where you need to pass: through the lands suspended. Let my words be read, not cling to them because they are not the verb, but only sharing.
That your lands are suspended as you wish, to bring you the place you have chosen as their destination, and through that you have the will to drop any weight, any unnecessary frills. We come from the light through the darkness to return to the light, or better to make light of darkness ... here is the dawn, suspended land of rebirth, and the twilight land of dreams and death, changing, that they can join in the suspension of your and my breath, bon voyage. 
Welcome to Alchenican traveler ... Namaste, join hands and greeting the divine part of you.
This is where you need to pass: through the lands suspended. Let my words be read, not cling to them because they are not the verb, but only sharing.
That your lands are suspended as you wish, to bring you the place you have chosen as their destination, and through that you have the will to drop any weight, any unnecessary frills. We come from the light through the darkness to return to the light, or better to make light of darkness ... here is the dawn, suspended land of rebirth, and the twilight land of dreams and death, changing, that they can join in the suspension of your and my breath, bon voyage.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Napkin Tovagliolo Ladies
Antigone
Don Quixote
David
***
SHEETS OF PAPER AND COPPER
On another occasion, I wrote that "the painting of Patrick White has always accompanied, and stubbornly, writing," because "the word invokes the image as a super-word (over the word), while the image relies on the literary vocation, and finds consolation. There is informal, then: but it is the informal one accustomed always to consider also fully informal speech, and especially the freedom of speech poème en prose. " Now, the opportunity is new and more complex: it is to present the newest sculptures in copper Bianchi. And the critic-curator-collector understands unexpected to observe objects in all directions. Not because the transition to the sculpture is unusual in itself, even in the twentieth century - but because these figures, which are first great literary characters complicate the initial forecasts and demand to be understood. Patrick White's work has always been accompanied by the writing - of which I became a witness, that friend, and professional editors on a case by case basis. Now begins Bianchi abruptly to act on large sheets of copper, and raises them in the form of stable bodies. It is no coincidence that in principle are called sheets of copper, as it comes to sheets of paper. The imagination of the writer sees them immediately as a new medium for writing. In this case, the handwriting, as always in black, turned into an operation of folding and cutting, looking for angles and shadows, without peace, there is almost nothing bloodless writing in painting sculpture of Patrick, which bends matter and the body ("bow lips of my anger": The walled ). Meanwhile, White has gained fully willing to do without bans manly acting here and now. Today David, Antigone, Don Quixote, the Angel (an Angel more Rilke, and so literary, that hagiographic) are installed to stay, with new perspectives: as things and things worth to believe. And the copper is both delicate and sharp: it may hurt the observer and the artist, but a gesture can change many centimeters in one fell swoop - the man and woman recognize exposed in their malleability, which paradoxically becomes body after have been sheet.
On another occasion, I wrote that "the painting of Patrick White has always accompanied, and stubbornly, writing," because "the word invokes the image as a super-word (over the word), while the image relies on the literary vocation, and finds consolation. There is informal, then: but it is the informal one accustomed always to consider also fully informal speech, and especially the freedom of speech poème en prose. " Now, the opportunity is new and more complex: it is to present the newest sculptures in copper Bianchi. And the critic-curator-collector understands unexpected to observe objects in all directions. Not because the transition to the sculpture is unusual in itself, even in the twentieth century - but because these figures, which are first great literary characters complicate the initial forecasts and demand to be understood. Patrick White's work has always been accompanied by the writing - of which I became a witness, that friend, and professional editors on a case by case basis. Now begins Bianchi abruptly to act on large sheets of copper, and raises them in the form of stable bodies. It is no coincidence that in principle are called sheets of copper, as it comes to sheets of paper. The imagination of the writer sees them immediately as a new medium for writing. In this case, the handwriting, as always in black, turned into an operation of folding and cutting, looking for angles and shadows, without peace, there is almost nothing bloodless writing in painting sculpture of Patrick, which bends matter and the body ("bow lips of my anger": The walled ). Meanwhile, White has gained fully willing to do without bans manly acting here and now. Today David, Antigone, Don Quixote, the Angel (an Angel more Rilke, and so literary, that hagiographic) are installed to stay, with new perspectives: as things and things worth to believe. And the copper is both delicate and sharp: it may hurt the observer and the artist, but a gesture can change many centimeters in one fell swoop - the man and woman recognize exposed in their malleability, which paradoxically becomes body after have been sheet.
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