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E anche questa e' andata

Twilight Signature Quotes

Un milione di poster

And I thought that Britain was deberlusconizzata ground. But here comes the poster for the conservative candidate, the same layer of greasepaint, same pass of photoshop, the same rhetorical slogan. Our school did mythomaniac nano. That bitterness ...

Unfortunately I have not found the original, but only one of the brilliant parody of the legendary campaign.

Cervix Soft Before Period

And don’t go with that awful tourist idea that Italy’s only a museum of antiquities and art.

The Italians abroad, and the Italians in Britain in particular, belong to a strange category that are not yet able to decipher. I watch them at the airport, I listen, I try to understand who they are and what the hell took them to leave the country. Most of the time, 'the search for better economic conditions, other times the studio, sometimes the simple desire to "see new things," that motivates them to do that famous one-way ticket. Some of them will wonder for years if and when we book the return ticket.

When I'm here usually I avoid them, not 'nice to do the Italian nostalgia that goes abroad and then attended only compatriots, know only Italian television on satellite and complains endlessly perche'in throughout Italy and' more 'beautiful, more' good, more 'easy. No, God save me from this terrible fate and dall'Italietta that pursues you wherever you go. I wanted to be international, I wanted to be integrated, I I abhor the national football and I will not cry for food and the rain (although when I walk around at home in July because 'God sends rain while your enjoying the beach in Sardinia po'ti run balls, and 'legitimate).

Pero 'there are three Italian that exception. Came into my life recently, but their company has the strange power to alleviate my worries. I do not know why, maybe 'cause I recognize in them something that belongs to me.

The first and 'a student of the Drama Department. We met a year ago, at the beginning of the welcome week. I remember her insecure and confused, maybe scared, maybe considered drop everything and go home. And now has found its size, very good student, at home, surrounded by new friends. Britain and 'her to become a bridge to the world.

The other two are doctoral students in the first two years as I've known little but sadness in their eyes, the tenacity, the hopes that I recognize the many Italians who chanced to meet, and perhaps the image that the mirror me back every morning. We share the work and the difficulties' that always accompany the research, especially in the beginning.

is not 'missing Italy, Italy does not exist, we never managed to "make Italians", but' sometimes simply because they think and dream in the same language makes communication a bit 'more' immediate, a little 'less cumbersome and, therefore, shortens the distance that separates us from the other. Know they're not alone in this daily, enormous effort, comfort, and often cheers. The first point of contact and 'always language, common origins, but later the relationship is based on the path that we are sharing in this moment of our life, knowing that that person is going through or have gone through your same difficulties'.

Some time ago the distinguished Professor Celli, director of the LUISS, it took half a page of the Republic to advise his son to leave the country. Gee, maybe easy for the young scion who surely will have 'a loft in Manhattan all for herself, but for us that this choice we did not' so simple. Maybe it was solo di lasciare il Paese, putroppo questa non e' una questione geografica o amministrativa. L'esimio si e' dimenticato di mettere nel conto che qui si tratta di lasciare affetti, consuetudini, ritmi, legami difficili se non impossibili da recuperare o ripristinare. Il tuo inglese puo' essere buono quanto vuoi, puoi essere integrata quanto ti pare ma ci sono giorni in cui la malinconia ti prende a coltellate, in cui ti attacchi a Skype e tieni tua mamma al telefono per ore, in cui pagheresti oro per una chiacchierata con quell'amico che ti conosce da una vita e che sa cosa ti passa per la testa prima ancora che tu apra bocca, altro che language barrier. Giorni in cui hai davvero bisogno di qualcuno o qualcosa che ti ricordi perche' stai facendo tutto questo.

Without taking anything away from the extraordinary opportunity ', the magnificent experiences, meetings in the last two and a half years. Without taking anything away from the deep love I have for the country that welcomed me two and a half.

Some time ago I met a British of Pakistani origin story 'that the English consider Pakistan but in Pakistan they call "the Englishman." As he spoke of his being poised between two worlds, said that a man can 'have many homelands, but there is' one that no one will' never take you away, the home of your childhood. And maybe 'only home of my childhood that I still preclude place to call home.

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Libera!

Finally free! In freedom 'probation, but free. At least I hope.

In contrast with the rest of the world I closed my facebook account. I think a good way to start the new year.

took me almost three years of lost time to make me the facts of the other to get to this point. Almost immediately I realized how that site could be addictive and hell than I left dazed and frustrated after each visit. I have tried to regulate them but to spend too much time on my work computer, and the painful truth 'and' have never failed to regulate. I poked fun at how those who pretend to quit smoking but continue to cadge cigarettes to friends and keep a hidden package knows 'where in the house (right now and I' felt like a cigarette ... that will '? I quit smoking six years ago!). I can not explain the 'cause of this addiction, I wonder' what would a psychologist. And since I have not a psychologist, I see only one solution, throw away the package and avoid smoking.

Since I'm far away from home and my friends are scattered to the four corners of the globe, I attack the rock as a mussel miserable every opportunity 'to communicate, including facebook. But after a while 'you realize that this is not' communication, the media and 'too brief, restricted by rules and formulas that make it impossible asphyxiated communication.

Before opening a profile on that site is unmentionable in touch with friends remained the same, there you call, send email, and sometimes even letters (antediluvian stuff). I still have on your computer a beautiful series of emails sent by a dear friend who lives far away. He wrote all of our everyday life, 'the reality' around us, and filled with words such as absence of meaning, with genuine feelings, not with obscure messages in a bottle (oh my God's status) or no babbling sense.

My boyfriend says that I'll feel 'cut off from the world that friends often do not take the trouble to call me or send me an email. Of them do not know, am I that I hope to do a little 'more' often, it's me that I hope to be more 'productive and make better use of my free time.

Facebook and 'just a ridiculous substitute for human contact, intrusive and suffocating. The blog, at least allows me to put in cross four words of sense. I wonder 'if my friends give up the many applications of that infernal social networks and will be reading them.

Ah, it 'breathe better ...

Flower Arrangements For Showers

La bottega del Pulitore di Vasi

Arts complicated to clean precious vases. It requires attention to the fragility, attention to detail, patience in the application. It is not a profession for men troubled, nor for careless rogues. Refraining the hasty, violent, the angry, the irascible. Only those who have a lot of time and a nice dose of perspective is called learning.

In the old shop and there is no teacher. Only a pot waiting for you. One and only a fragile vase, magically precious. Covered with a thick layer of opaque dust. Gates and the gate of the old, surrounded by ACRI smell of dust and mold, I already see it on your counter. Next to the soft cloth on which to study the art. Below, a basket: there should be rested up the pieces. The broken shards.

There is no clock in the shop. No artificial light. Only a few large window facing south, also dusty. Silence reigned throughout the hall. Each worker works concentrated on his small jar of clay.

Mani alienated from repetitive slow movement is blocked only the dull roar of cracked surfaces. Each heart-in-his mouth puckers bitterly to dry the ticking of a lost heritage. A sort of communal prayer recited by anyone. A hug to a broken dream. A second, just one moment. Then the work begins again, as it was. Each in his own way.

No one has a contract, a precise period, a period of work. We do not want to hurry, I've already said. It may remain closed for days, months, years. Even a lifetime, if you are stubborn enough and patients. Some even raises the brightness of his vessel by reason of existence. People who have lost head, who greeted everyone and everything, closing in that old room, and living on bread and water. And a little rest the night curled up on a bale of straw next to their bench. A miserable life, for the world. A life of love her for that pot for him. Points of view-as-usual.

I saw out of that mysterious place gray men are folded into self. Men heartbroken, disappointed, hurt. Men who were hurt, someone had lost in an instant, years of work on time. Who knows what it feels cm polished by hours of meticulous work are shattered. Tic. And everything collapses in on itself, mixing with those bits still full of dust, dirt. Must hard to accept to be judged to have failed without even a bit wrong '. It makes you wonder if you have not been too impulsive, too hasty, a little sweet, a little tender. But something must have been wrong. There was a misstep.

Or maybe that pot-so precious to be collected in a soul-self did not want to be caressed. Maybe it was already cracked, already dented. And the careless eye had enough sweetness at that point, destroying the rest. What a shame.

I would one day learn the magical art and not be more than mere spectator. I would like to know that old man who welcomes young hopefuls in his shop. I wonder if it is the usual pain in the ass or nice damn wise. And maybe ask a little precious pot polish, and clean, and shine. Maybe I welcome you, or maybe I'll throw out a kick up the backside, railing against my clumsy hands trembling. I do not know.

Certainly, this garden bench in front of the shop-I'll never learn that ancient wisdom. It is to enter and work, risking the balance on that thin line between disappointment and happiness.