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Sleeping in a room without windows

As I looked, the voice of another age, his hands fell on his face, for fun, I thought it would be a bit 'a shame, a bit' an insult to the intelligence (dis) ordering of the meetings, an illegality beautiful and good, with the complicity of our immaturity and distinct so innocently obvious, a certain awkwardness to make reservations and to stir up the pole and the rest of the world barricaded off, with photographers and onlookers, waiting for an event that will be consumed in silence and without the knowledge of authorities. A shame, an outrage, an illegality, not to delay as much as possible the moment the applause, when people casually talks as if the stage had suddenly dissolved under the wave of their shots, not to regulate stunned the last traces of white lights and white, which is also a redemption and a chance to start again from scratch as a separate new.

She slept in a terrace where there was room only for the bed, and a wall of bars to repair the falls, or their simple projection in fear, devouring the moment in which a tear had shown the possibility that the words were finished talking to them, they shrank the conflict in the confirmation of the complications away.

He watched a stream, the stream that had every kind of American action film that is, every time I needed a scene with a stream going to frame that. Had they not pointed out by showing photos of various films with a stream in the scene, and actually matched them all. It was not asleep. The cries for help of a road in the Trans had lacerated his stomach, and had died when he tried to tear away the cynicism in the concern of possible damage to his car, parked below. At that point the wall had started to sneeze and some windows had been opened as an annoyance call. The black writing on the ceiling, dashed from the chandelier still, only letters were indistinguishable and presumably changing and did not give any explanation to the kit launch vehemently injunctions against the impotence, in spite of the uncertainty principle of H, its an observer in the face of reality.

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have the meaning that you will give to my presence

when the door closes I feel a bit 'vacuum. or maybe socks. maybe you just so that I do not even realize, one hand clutching the eyes to cover the violent scenes and a song to hide the background of gunfire and explosions. protect you from the emptiness of a fog on the first floor of Tarkovsky indistinct, but you will get closer, printed sul mio viso, che la luce e il respiro depurano dal tempo, come in quel sogno, una bambina. Il vuoto è proprio dietro di me, disteso alle mie ombre, una per ogni luce sul palco. Perderti e proteggerti coincidono con lo stesso movimento in avanti, io sono il punto d’equilibrio, la barriera saldata sul precipizio che è anche l’unico appiglio esistente. Quando te ne andrai, un istante atterrito concederà al corpo invaso dal nulla  di incespicare spandendosi a terra, togliendo materia al vento, ritornando lentamente alla distrazione degli specchi, niente di cui dolersi, solo spazio da riempire, fra gli interrogativi sul senso avuto dall’uscire da se per incontrarti, giustificazioni nella Beauty to wake up find you sprung up from the collarbone, in the perception of the potential you have to let me get the picture I have of me, that is on your liquid form and discontinuous, which are modeled your cheeks in my hands.

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Adrift: Parks and Gardens 3 / 3: The Naked Park.



The main objective of cities such as Milan is to believe that underneath it never existed at all, that there was no grass, earthworms, crickets, mushrooms, rivers, land.
Rather, a sort of neutral ground, a platform specially designed to accommodate urban areas. The green one encounters around gives the impression of having been imposed from above with a crane, as the great vessels of asphalt in which to grow trees stuffed. Of course you do not think that Milan has spread around at the park in your house, that urbanization has shunned them for mercy.
None of us is a city, but who would have had to become probably very proud to have finally destroyed nature, earthworms, crickets, the earth beneath our shoes dirty then I cleaned all day, the ants. And it feels so
Milan. Free from the inconveniences of the world as we have been given.
For this reason, it is absolutely inconceivable to any sort of climate change and weather patterns.
The sky, which in most of the land has the advantage of not being built on, not afraid of zoning or late capitalism.
The sky's the dorks, and that Milan is not well. It rains a lot or a little rain, there is the summer heat or air in the mountains, cold or humidity Soviet of Satan, Milan on time are surprised and very quickly try to draw from their stupor of statements parascientific.
Living in this city for 28 years, and if only I had kept a notebook with some notes, I probably would have noticed that in February is always a fucking cold, it rains a lot in June, that sometimes it snows a little 'accident and with the snow that we do not make the bullets, which sooner or later comes a week of awful hot.
Each of these events come to Milan but as it was unique, with an exasperated roar, and soon the ranks and the ranks of the symptoms of an impending climate apocalypse (people at the bar that worried face and says Hollywood "anyway is not normal that makes this hot ") or as a sort of one-off miracle. In the latter category is the big snow falls.

The Snowstorm is every couple of years, but none would be ready to swear, because each of them can boast the legendary memories contours and difficult to place in time. There is talk of serious snow, the one that blocks everything and that triggered sensational battles in front of schools, the snow of a God who tries to tell you something. In one of the biggest snowfalls in Milan in which I participated in, or perhaps in all, we went to the Parco Lambro do bob races down a hill, which look more like an episode of Jackass since almost everyone was completely drunk.
Ecco, il Parco Lambro, quello sì, dà l’idea di un pezzo di mondo schivato dalla città, dribblato per rispetto. Entrateci da Via Feltre, possibilmente di notte, possibilmente non dopo aver visto filmacci sui serial killer che girano per i parchi a caso, e cercate di sfruttare gli alberi e le pendenze – due cose con cui a Milano non si ha mai a che fare. Sugli alberi potete arrampicarvi (io non riesco), per il pendio potete fare i rotoloni o aspettare che nevichi tenendo il bob in mano. Potrebbero volerci un paio d’anni o forse no, ma quando accadrà sarà bellissimo e arriveranno persone gioiose e forse un po’ oblique, convinte che Milano sia sotto un incantesimo.

Quello che il Parco Lambro può offrirvi senza manto bianco vale comunque una visita, possibilmente in una notte ispirata, nebbiosa o disperata (quella nel video era un po' di tutte e tre). Fu il teatro dello storico, discusso, incazzatissimo Festival del Proletariato Giovanile nel 1976, quattro giorni organizzati da Re Nudo, duecentomila persone, mille casini. Oggi, gente che lo attraversa in cuffia pensando sto dimagrendo sto dimagrendo , animali feroci che non si fanno vedere e luci aliene che ti fanno credere che a Milano di notte ci siano dozzine di lune.
Anche quando non ce n’è neanche una.

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close yourselves in the street, between the slots cut out silhouettes of passers-by, grab handfuls of deplorable vacuous and dull eyes, between the wakes of the cars launched 'against each other in the lanes merged with the nearby pavement exhausted from a full day of talking and shopping bags, I remember when I bought my first heavy jacket, was for the trip to Russia, was the first day of work to be boss, for his niece was allergic to dairy products, are very happy to find you well, better get some phone calls when you ignore it, pretend to be anything, take ten minutes to think about the last dream, she left the house and had a stiff neck and caressed her back and you scratch a little, as designed, go to the cinema tomorrow if it's free because we are the number plate, ten minutes to focus on the figures opaque filtered out of the tent, the window dall'acchiappasogni of wood, from the terrace, from tablecloths into large squares hanging from the railing, trees and telephone wires, so light that they appear in the morning shadows or stains from the kitchen.
ten minutes to imagine that around lunchtime, in front of a mirror, she observed the reflection dell'appendiabiti distracted by the door and an anonymous brown umbrella, which will become a December evening huddled in the shelter of a roof to ' entrance of a cinema, which will become a wall of pink flowers climbing in a cottage near the lake, which will become a story by Pasolini, discovered one of the last exam, which will become a meeting-so intrusive and laws-this-piece-than- is-really-nice, which will become a small smile, cloaked in a white face and thin red hair.

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Write a forest do not need to be loved.

She was very determined, was not let go, with your blue indelible signs hung on the door or left on the pillow, then slipped to the ground behind the tables and the stairs, barefoot, to pretend to chase, while the nearby leaves the house and run to cover my feet, then fall back into a rap all'accelleratore determination to see you go away from painted parking specifically recommended by a night time. always happen that way, we'll wake up suddenly during the tremors prevented in meditation, in semblance of planning fluid, fluid in the smiles printed in the ears, who knows How many more times will happen, who knows how many other times not. you will lock in your pre-printed or hesitation, you will miss a metaphor in the poetry of concrete. thanks anyway for those moments of eternity suspended panic docile, waiting disconcerting immersed in words and pictures in black and white , thanks to these scores to wobble masterfully executed until it comes time to turn the page, and then lost the edge of the physical distance, the transience of daily newspaper that pre-existing back to claim their rights and prosaic reasons of consistency.

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scratch test il muro col tuo nome, piano che il buio è solo un tentativo, che la notte i muri si scalfiscono con la leggerezza di una parola, ripetuta in sillabe cadenzate da minuscole pause, fra i denti e il palato, non c’è più nulla a significarla eccetto l’aria tiepida che incontra la stanza, quasi riscaldata dal movimento, quasi soffocata dal movimento, ombre-solido-imploranti e non ci sbatto più contro perchè ho memorizzato la posizione, i piedi a bruciare logorando la soglia di separazione, le mani a stamparsi schiaffi supplichevoli sui cuscini gualciti, libero eccetto il corpo chiuso e goffo e non ci ho mai trovato nulla di bello, se mai smettesse di pesare, gli stringerei volentieri la mano e lo conserverei scrupolosamente nell’armadio, in alto, come il vestito buono per i matrimoni degli altri. intorno agli occhi chiusi una piazza vuota con un ritaglio di macerie domestiche, buone a riempire discariche, deglutendo muri di rifiuti flaccidi, simbolo del disastro, e il mio personale modo di interagire con la sconfitta, calpestando i pezzi più piccoli per infastidirmi i piedi, accovacciandomi a contemplare i più grandi, che visti da vicino con la guancia-freddo-pavimento, occupano lo stesso campo visivo di una casa atterrita dal sole prolungato, e incombono imponenti, amorfi di briciole ma apparentemente compatti. 

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Adrift: Parks and Gardens 2 / 3 - The Melancholy of questionable or Forlanini





Il ricordo è gentiluomo - e per metterti a tuo agio nasconde le tue miserie e riscrive le scene meno riuscite.

Amori lancinanti, vacanze di una vita, primi baci, grandi addii e clamorose dichiarazioni durante il cenone di natale: nelle cantine dei miei lobi frontali si lavora alacremente per farmi credere che in tutti quei momenti io ci fossi col corpo e con la mente, che il mio flusso di coscienza fosse interamente dedicato all'evento in corso.

Ma il presente è distratto e ci vuole del tempo per ridargli credibilità, senso, intenzione.

Una delle poche eccezioni a questa colossale opera di ricostruzione del vissuto (o forse un secondo livello di ricostruzione che ama presentarsi come eccezione), uno tra i pochi luoghi che associo a improvvise e consapevoli intuizioni di compiutezza dell'esistenza for me is the park Forlanini.
If happiness has never lasted more than a minute, that's where I could stay longer - as early risers in the mountains to see deer and one day he meets someone who does not run away at the first sound. The park is
Forlanini in Milan east and extends between the homonymous street, monstrous traffic artery, which provides daily tot inclusion of vehicles in the urban area, and via Corelli, a pleasant street notorious for having to address CPT
gray area between these two lines, certainly nothing undeniably nice, you can find space and oxygen. The park is in fact
Forlanini arguably good - sometimes even arguably beautiful. Part of his questionable
the beauty derives first of all honesty. There are city parks
able to hide the houses and men, and make you think long-quarters of an hour to be elsewhere (the Tiergarten, Berlin, New York's Central Park, the Parco Lambro, Milan).
lie with large foliose branches covering the scenes, we encourage projects bucolic or jogging against the worst painful sense of guilt. The Forlanini no evidence, either, enough large fields that we can make plans projects are divided by small canals that it is reasonable to assume full of huge rats, shoot hills that seem to hide under trees planted close to hide something bad, the background planes that leave from Linate airport, the machines that can run from Linate and Milan perception quite clear that the horizon is a dirty business.
You enter where you want because it has no gates or fences, but fate would have it the way structures doubt limiting its scope: a sort of giant miniature golf that seems built following a period of great hype of the mini (which does not But there never was), a kind of shelter where they raise and stun the dogs bark at me when I have drugs in his pocket, a sort of admired from a small pond where the nerd who tried the radio-controlled boats, a baseball field that I think I'm always in competition with the mini golf in the category sport che in italia nessuno si caga.

La sua discutibile bellezza non ha, a onor del vero, molti altri highlights.

Si potrebbero citare i granitari vintage che raschiano giganteschi blocchi di ghiaccio per affondarli poi in sciroppi di pessime marche o le cascine di grande interesse storico che ho scoperto essere tali solo da wikipedia (per anni le ho credute rifugio ultimo dei ratti enormi di cui sopra), ma sarebbe come cercare di vendere un gameboy a un dodicenne di oggi.







La verità è che mi sembra di ricordare che quindici anni fa, quando ci si giocava a calcio con gli zaini a far da palo e il tramonto a chiudere le partite, tutto dentro e attorno a me fosse più ragionevole.

Melancholy was already there but he did not object, it was like a rudimentary first notice of the time.
you return home tired and I generally bruised, imagining the life that awaited us more or less the same - only with more sex, more money and perhaps the real poles instead of backpacks. Those with real stakes
saw them two Pratoni further: twenty-two Omoni in chest, ranging in age between twenty and sixty, who every Saturday at 13 you would meet to make doors, choose teams, discuss the Saturday before, vows revenge, trying on shin guards, to comment on its belly or bacon.
I played with them several times, risking her legs and waving to receive ball su un campo che pareva immenso già dopo il primo scatto. Capii abbastanza presto che non avevano soldi, che il sesso non era certo un capitolo felice delle loro esistenze e che tutto sommato non ci voleva molto a procurarsi dei pali veri.

Poi cominciò il liceo e la gente smise abbastanza in fretta di voler sudare a pomeriggio.

Con pochi superstiti si inscenarono ancora per diversi anni tentativi di rallentare tutto quello che stava succedendo alle nostre vite. Con risultati alterni, si continuò a sudare e a credere importante buttare la palla tra due zaini che venivano continuamente spostati e messi al centro di inutili discussioni sulle possibilità teoriche di rimpallo della sfera casomai avessero d'improvviso assunto la forma di veri pali.

No one tried to cheat each other that much, and around the park also was not trying to trick us - leaving the machines in the background and feel the air go to places where once we went on foot.
When my heart is full of landscapes and sighs from the manual, going back to remind me to always be the case.
The last time there I found the darkness descended, the ones with real doors that down after the latest attempt not to change anything and the people who have arrived since there certainly had to have a good reason. Perhaps
to finally meet a huge rat, that there in fact I've never met in person.
If that had happened, maybe we would have grown all with less melancholy.

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E gli occhi chiusi dark eyelids lowered liberated much sharper images of the common thoughts, cities were observed by a meter away, balconies and ships, and most colors, decide where to go and what to watch, usually there is never anything, everything moves to a higher level of abstraction. I think of an object, a bottle, and I feel in my head, but I do not see really. and that night, at the end of the night, I had seen so much, that maybe I had no great need to look like repetition of the melody of a classical work in the lead after an hour of listening, uncovering able to handle the sheet of a number of tools, search for those sensations again and I hope that no incidents eccezionali, adesso non c’è niente, e non si sente niente.

il sole a forma di luna, riflesso nei palazzi e negli animali irrequieti e nascondersi fra le nuvole e riapparire nel bronzo-plastica delle pellicole fotografiche piegate in due che erano scarti di esposizioni sbagliate che erano luce dosata male e adesso filtri rudimentali per il sole arancio e spicchi nascosti, divorati lentamente e lentamente rilasciati, e succede così raramente che dovrebbero guardarlo tutti, bruciarsi di lacrime nella momentanea sopraffazione, invece di evitarne la vista, come accade di norma nel resto dei giorni.

E gli occhi chiusi sul primo treno dell’anno, sfiniti the first night, deep in the seats, around the words of others are like reading the thoughts of hidden thoughts and exhausted as the fog muffled the windows overlooking the grass and the white off, coming to be confused with the dreams lasted for a moment that come to halt because of the thoughts themselves, when they become too high, they become voices, and not only streams, collected, stolen from the other and immersed in their own lives. Impressionist paintings of dawn breaking from the clouds on fire, on the banks of the river with lamps that sink and break and swim and go away as streams of color that ends up diluting the blue, the crowd blurred fluid that fills the square, and girl to the side because although there are immersed, feels elsewhere, in another context, and some French eyes step away and one day disappear.

the old year is over and hug a stranger who will never see again. while I was speaking all languages \u200b\u200bexcept mine.