June 2010

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

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you that such is life

E 'later, the painters are coming entrepreneurs and ENEL have already said they will spend a day to count the clicks. New tenants eager press on number 24, while the City Council yesterday unveiled the new plan set-up road. Running down the steps of Via della Luna all the way on the wall of red brick, the same slab of clay where hot breath after the trek to the center, remember? I stop in front of the door, I take breath, step back. I look around me like a thief, gain time. I'm afraid that someone recognizes me, I'm afraid that someone is telling me that it is not yet time, that I throw some mason trowel in hand and show me the crack. I fear the restoration of the feelings of caked cement mixer that swallows every bit of life that now smells of old. I'm just afraid of looking at things and see them crumble to pieces.

It 's late, but I still have two keys in his pockets. Keys light metal, made twelve years before the mill hardware in the house quell'afosa summer of '97. Thou hast already delivered, probably wound up with a formal handshake, beaten with suspicion on the table of our eager renters. Perhaps already falter in the pockets of some other tenant or perhaps have remained stuck on the surgery table, crushed beneath the worn-out cards of the match. Already I see myself in the hands of new tenants in the creaking lock slip, refuse to tuck jam. All this concern should I throw it in the municipal sewer and let it settle together with the shit, I think, but they are still here that had to happen sooner or later, so that's life and that we must learn to turn a lot of doors before you understand the game.

Yet I have taught since childhood that need to be careful black man, the man who never says a word and find that if you are in the best of days means that you're really screwed seriously . Although I was never encouraged, though over time I learned not to think too much, I often think about death: I do it in secret, away from everyone and with the discretion of the cat. I quickly learned to slip between the things, I do it so well that when I always get a lot of dust.

Yet this afternoon of June does not look like an end, there is the dark room and there are not even the clouds that make the mood swollen, but there is a generous sun that does not claim nor the 'ambition to get warm again. Again it was many years ago when I spent in the sun all afternoon and fell in love on the grass of the Temple there in a hurry.

You left the degree of red tape still attached to the door and aftershave placed on the shelf in the bathroom. You left a little 'dust on the bedside table and traces of your passage in the pantry, I've got a finger over the past em'è stuck the dirty last week. And what of the Neapolitan deck of cards resting on the marble fireplace, as an effort to strike back I spent every night to pass the load with the wink of the player used up, we were not even stripped of the Grand Bar at the tables of all those past weekend to count the points, I am reminded that in and out of the final bars of Saint Anne, you were in his hands a club in Naples, and his eyes staring like those of Mr. Quindicipalle. We were playing tressette accomplices, spies a hand scopone, companions in a quickie at Trump. You never gave up a pinch, you've never been able to do: leave the game, leave the table. Were the accounting my better days.

My measurements are 12x12, twelve years of forced cohabitation in a room of twelve square feet of space. My life is still there, clinging to the nails on all four walls of drilled radioactive. Crumbling walls, with pictures and colorful pins that still govern the years by a miracle.

this is not an end, not like at all. E 'rather than one of those days where the trade front of the mirror with soap detergent, which engages the cap of the toothpaste well into the nozzle of the sink, where you do not have the slightest idea of \u200b\u200bhow you parked your car at night before or where you left your cigarettes, lighters, sunglasses or keys. 'S one of those days where you walk in the center without regard to month-end deadlines, one of those days where you'd like to smile without the need of having to prove something by force. I have to sbaraccare home and I do not know how. A normal day in short, a day that you walk on the side and that makes you just tickled.

You left the umbrella to close the door and thought he could not forget him too. I brought it home I looked the

Quixote return by windmills, clasps him tightly under the arm and you know, people looked at me so strange that I had to cut to the smaller streets, dodging looks, move on. Was it because of the sun, or will have been because people look with suspicion anything that does not like her, for everything that life does not push us too often the accounts to blows. The fact is that I fight with an asshole that he laughed a short walk from the escalator, a broken nose and split the knuckle of the little finger, that's all. I believe that people are not used to keep them close, things. I picked up the umbrella and take a ride on the subway. Step further, here.

You left in the pots to crack belief, corks and uncorked bottles of vinegar to get near the stove. And all this corked disorder, new year in advance or last day of school. And that tells us that we were too well that we had no soap to spread to the house: if the new tenants will have better products, which we teach them the technique. And we also dock your ass.

I think you were wrong to remove the counter and score the shots, I consulted and the bill does not add up right. A bit 'of ash on the windowsill of the kitchen and already I seem to see that you smoke the way down your last cigarette, breathing in the lungs strong and close down to the alveoli to block the veins. Two minutes, two minutes before saying goodbye to those twelve years of life condensed. Just two

fitted first.

Dumb is useless to look around with those bright eyes of a cat, look what I had to leave, I had to, you know? So do not get to whine at the door that there was not yet time now Cinastik and that is not the same without my pints of red resting on the counter, OK? Because if you look around you see you that without us things are still stuck on the wall. Not even love is free from certain shortcomings, let alone us. You know, sometimes I've got thinking, I thought about how hard it is keep it close, the dust: when you move the things you always suspect to find something better than a wad of hair. But this we are, and then passes through the rag content to at least have the relief of pulling off the dirt.

E 'so that things go, simply change their residence, house number, sometimes master. And if thou hast thought in all this time, well, then they are your own business. I can not do anything because such is life, because such is life, because such is life ...

I hate you, and weep and laugh like a fool, I love you. The world out there smiling because the world always wins. Here in the world does not fit in here are like horses who do not know when it never finished the race. And if the horse won. Or maybe if they lost. Forever.

At least tell me where the ransom money, unemployment benefits, that piece of watermark s'incassa at the end of games. Where is the wound? When things end there is always a white wall on which to throw up what little 'insolvency, can not understand. And I wonder where did I go wrong, what was the date and time that I did not understand, the moment of history where I was a loser.

around the house and I lean on the table, if I hunt I can only suck in more dust Intercity. Yet there must be somewhere a sock a dirty clothes, smelling something. There must be a piece of life from somewhere, and everywhere there was much less now that you're away. So I run, I run along the perimeter of 50 square meters of tile gray, I run rummaging in every corner of space, I run the glare of the steps that smashed in the head as if they were toothpicks. I am looking for an excuse to my solitude, perhaps a prison.

close the door behind me, cast a last glance up the stairs to the third-floor speckled marble em'incammino, downhill. They are outside, sunlight burning eyes and dig the black shutters. The light is now so strong that I can not even count steps. But give me just a moment of time and see, I climb the first train in less than four hours have been for you. I run and I embrace you as I've ever done, I'm telling you all this distance in the end does not make that all the silence that remains. You will see that nothing has changed, because things change so mica overnight. Then tell me you are too emotional and try again to drive the tears from his eyes. And try to convince me that it is always necessary to get lost. That this is life and that despite the years has always needed to hear the train whistle. But please do not do like everyone else's life so that

Do not tell me that it never goes.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

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Ayrton

ninety-four The first of May I was nineteen years old and a girl who can run all weekend. On May ninety-four of life I could not understand why certain things run off the runway and we must not think too much when things are running stronger than you. If running stronger there must be a reason and nineteen years there is still a good reason to think fermarcisi.

May ninety-four The first was a great silence and my mother hugged me on the station platform. I am on that day, the eyes do not watched them because they were crying loud cries and a mother who is strong anything other than what is said. There was a silence because life only when one discovers the news broadcast, and then you take that cuddly when you're small you can not understand why all the silence of the world exists only in the perimeter of the bed of a child who dreams . Then the silence grows and eventually combines all the beds in the world, homes, families, situations, because the pain of the world is the strongest glue. Then on May 1 of ninety-four enough lean out the window of the Fiesta 1.2 to hear from the terraces the special edition of Tg1.

at 14:17 to Sunday, May 1, 1994, the Williams of Ayrton hits the concrete wall outside the Tamburello curve at a speed of 200 km / h. In the violent collision on the right side of the car is destroyed, the two wheels, wings, suspension and triangles, flying through the air like bullets bouncing off while the car slowly to the edge of the track.

Mom says it's not over yet, mom says quickly prepare a hot bath and throw you in dressed. It also says that the race will never be the same if it is true that the sample is missing

. I ask her what she was like a champion and that is something that you live your life better. I ask why things end up, and she says things never end if there is someone that if he dreams. I tell my mom if dreaming is a little 'how to grow up fast and she told me to never put your feet out of bed. Then he threw back my hair and wipes her cheeks and it is another thing that you said, the joy.

Williams exhausts its energy crawling and snug in the range of grass to a stop a few meters from the road. The helicopter resumed the merciless scene, the yellow helmet of Ayrton is tilted to the right, still, under the morning sun burns the asphalt. Then, twice, the pilot has a reflex and moves as if to straighten, but it is only a flash that lasts a very short, the first service men reached the car and realize the situation: the pilot is unconscious, the helmet is literally drenched in blood. Ayrton is extracted from the car and lying on the cement side, his heart is still beating when the doctors make a tracheotomy to leave the airways beneath him, lying on the concrete of the new Tamburello, expands a red unequivocal.

smell of spring, the smell of magnolia in waiting until the last car at the bottom of the third class. Smell of fresh, everywhere. I had just made love, I smelled his life and had wet her pants and his fly still open on pants. I could not understand all that silence, I was not done for the world and the world was a red matryoshka from drool to the bone. I was not the man who did the work, family, history. For me, life was the Indianapolis Motor Speedway without the Tamburello curve and the curves were words that if the mistakes can always use the whitebait.

The helicopter lands on the straight of the medical service of the Tambourine, Ayrton Imola circuit is transferred from a hospital in Bologna. Hope of the world while the sample is' repeatedly in cardiac arrest. Physicians are able to maintain activity in the heart until the patient in room 214 of the hospital Maggiore, but it is useless. The first bulletin issued is final, the pilot's brain scan is completely flat, only the machines have his heart in business. At 18:40 Ayrton was officially declared dead.

Mom, tell me again why things stop the run, ripetimelo until dawn and then again until things do not pass the tambourine and will already be too far away. How does it work when you lose or win, if appropriate for celebration or maybe a matter of running aground and spends his life in pain at all. What do I do with my load of dreams, I can still exchange them at the Market Street of Charmed or be already empty as clay pots? Maybe things are in a hurry to go to beat or maybe it's the road that is full of twists, I can not tell you, Mom, I wonder every night at that perimeter of bed but I'm still here that I train to tighten without the taste of catch them. Why do things run off the runway to you now that even in a hurry to turn off the light. At least tell me if you find it under your pillow or if today is already a bit less that he shakes my hand. And if you tell me some lies see that sooner or later understand that a champion closes his eyes and let go of things even when you cry. Why do things never end if there is someone that if he dreams.

- Mother what a champion?

- It 's something that you live your life better.

Sleep now it's late.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

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not a vacuum cleaner cares of life just beyond

rarely use the vacuum cleaner, I use it sparingly because I've got less time to hunt the moths between the corners of the bed. I have to admit that they have spent the last few days in a pigsty of frequent and poorly ventilated, dust on the bedside table, the dust that follows me like an asshole dry on the glossy shell of the process. The new powder on the full early in the morning then it's something that you do not tell. One day I wake up sweating and I can feel him itching all over, I try to take a shower but that did not work at all. Then I browse the phone book and start to eliminate unnecessary contacts, I'm fifteen minutes and thirty-eight on Marco M on F Francesca. Shortly after that traffic already on the stairs with the lives of others, and the lives of others is something that shine back and forth the trumpet of the condominium.

Hello, I am. Hi, I say.

"How are you? Go as a lorry parked on the Salerno-Reggio Calabria, I say. Passed away.

thought he wanted to leave the road, the thought is still lucid when he faces the last ramp and out of hunting. The light is m'abbaia this day the lighthouse down the road, the light are the dogs peeing on lamp posts and a photographic plate that impress me in the world. A spider escapes and goes fast, the optic nerve, says that two months since he left the house. Then I met the old ladies who greet me and expect the visit to the doctor. They say the health system is not working and not working because there is too much to wait. I like listening to old ladies when they go through the alleys, people, things. The rumor is that push the worm on the environment, the crop tense waiting for the meal. And now the meal is the mayor who seems not to change the party, even dust and issues around on furniture. The eyes do not stop the run and show me a better way of staying in the world know they're not alone.

With old I get out of the studio and we start running into the street. They look like artifacts of ivory in a cross-country, gingerbread ornaments of the book Heart. Not care about them all year and finish first in the pharmacy. Here I have a second block because of pharmacies in general causing me the hiccups of the amateur, sterile and aseptic as the butt of a baby covered with Amuchina ®. I order a bottle of Moment and this time I manage with little, just a headache last night, that's all. I come home and face the stairs to the top plan. The lives of others is still there on the stairs, and perhaps wonder how that went.

want to go ... And as I was cleaning the stairs, I did not move here. Then, with a cough, pulling me inside.

Poggio Moment on the table and turn on the vacuum cleaner, and I sit down on the couch, let him go for hours. I like hearing the noise of life cover.