Hiprex Recommandations

"Non abbiate Fretta: la Pazienza è tutto"

The Frost invites us to be patient. Without too much crying, it seems clear. It comes silently, with his firm step, clocked. He arrives with his canvas bag, where once-maybe-we had brought potatoes, onions, or soil. He looks like a wise old man, one who knows a lot about wintertime, its ills and its miracle cures. Goes from house to house fighting tenaciously old tractor shovel snow and spread salt. Blows on sidewalks, on the steps, the bins, cars, on the decorations. E-on all-spreads a thin layer of vitreous ice. It is not an evil his. Sure, we think, we men. We might even swearing at him and yelling, and puffing, and even swearing. He, with his calm, certainly do not prohibit it. He prefers to sit silent in his silence, continuing in that his meticulous work of evangelization of Winter. And collect all of the insults.

Every door, every alley, every square to leave a small bottle. Glass. Or better: it seems the glass but not so solid. Nor is it crystal will shatter. E 'of a material so strange that it is already the most open-imagine the fear of a ticket in the roll-it frozen. Only a few men (adult, in his fifties) has the curiosity to rummage in the letterbox. It does not fear a threat, or a new discovery, or the nostalgic memories of a past gone by. E 'curious. E 'open Open Poetry.

Bring home that small message given to him by the white man wise. The approaches to the hot stove, where it rests peacefully beside a baby angel. And slowly, the heat, with the care and attention, the bottle dissolves. Like ice in the sun, exactly. Strange game of Nature: The heart melts before the frost of winter. Toyed.

Meanwhile, he puts on a bit 'of water to heat: a good chamomile in this December morning is not bad. In the meantime he lost the window, throwing the eye at that point just before and just after the time horizon. We humans call this gesture "enchanted." As usual are inaccurate, I would say arruffoni. It is not a surprise, nor contemplation. It 's a tip inside her, to touch something that has seemed that-paradoxically-a thousand miles. But unconsciously, we realize that everything is within us. And at the same time away from us. Or rather: it is there, and it is here. And that view is the point of contact between us and what is outside us. Between the ego and the world, to be formal.

This man, with her hair always thinner and more gray, does not understand all this scratching sensations. The feel. The feeling, that's all. Maybe tomorrow it will account, who knows. Meanwhile, the water boils, distracts him with his mumbling, turning it back on the usual size. Supports the infusion of hot water on the surface, quietly listening to the sound of water entering the fragrant flowers. In a moment he remembers from his bottle, still leaning over the stove to take off the web of crystals. But the bottle is gone. Disappeared into thin air. Dissolved, dissolved. Now, it remains just that note of heavy paper that the heat of the stone slowly ripples. The man, ever curious and happy for the surprise early morning, I pick it up. He opens it. Unrolling. All very calmly, of course. The calligraphy in which the punch had crossed the card is fast, those who had written so many of these sheets. E 'but quiet: do not hurry, do not breath. Quiet, laid. "Wise" he was thinking. The handwriting of an old figure, than attentive to aesthetic form. Of those with an interest in the aesthetic form.

" Look at the patience with which a snowflake falls to bleach. Do not hurry: Patience is everything. Happy Winter . These are the words to be kept so that note come from somewhere. This man, as well as many others probably, had never-heard-or read these words. Or maybe he had caught every winter of his childhood, every day when life stops, frozen under the whiteness of the sky. In any case he had forgotten long ago. A smile appeared on his face. A smile that embraced the memories, the memories, the grief of a bygone era that a second-in-one before him had resurfaced. Wait a minute. Just enough to help him regain the scent of those days, the snow of the winter so hard but so wonderfully amazing. It approximates the window, with a light step. It faces, watching the cars slide, the men who curse, the women who complain. Only children are playing, without shelter. The face to the heavens in thanks, hands knead in the cold. Smiling man again. This time with a little 'bitter. When in the distance it discovers an old man, door to door, distributing something to the houses. It is not Santa Claus, although it can make a beard like that. In a moment he enchants again, or better-you-down again in themselves, realizing the wisdom of man. Then, with a nod thanks him, wearing his coat and goes out in the cold to cast an eye to the sky through different eyes.

Blonde To Brown Hair Styles

Midterm, o quasi.

Finalmento find it a little 'time to stop, take a deep breath, pull on the oars and update the blog. I'm in the computer department, I just finished my shift at the pub and I have a couple of hours to burn before going to the theater to see Kellerman

mumble mumble ... where was I? Ah yes, September. In October I started

il dottorato di ricerca all'Universita' di Exeter, e da allora il mio umore oscilla tra il piu' irrefrenable entusiamo (generalmente dopo ogni supervisione) al piu' feroce pessimismo. A momenti cammino a un metro da terra, penso che il mio progetto di ricerca sia ganzissimo, che nessuno in Italia ha ancora analizzato il teatro di narrazione come voglio analizzarlo io e che saro' il nuovo Silvio D'Amico. Poi mi ripiglio dalla sbronza di entusiasmo, la mole di lavoro mi travolge e allora l'umore un po' vacilla.
Tutto sommato non mi posso lamentare, anche la mia relatrice (splendida donna, ricercatrice con i controfiocchi) mi ha detto di darmi una calmata e fare una cosa per volta, non a caso il PhD si fa in tre anni e non in tre settimane.

All'inizio di ottobre il Dipartimento mi ha anche affibbiato 28 studenti del primo anno per il tutorial di Pre-Text and Context of Drama. Ancora mi sembra incredibile che qui si fidino talmente tanto di me da affidarmi 28 dei loro pargoli, ma tant'e'. Ad ogni modo, l'insegnamento e' un esperienza sconvolgente, esaltante, alla fine di ogni tutorial mi sento spremuta come un limone ma felice del lavoro fatto con miei piccoli mostri. E' meraviglioso quando li vedi che ti seguono, che si appassionano all'argomento (non si sono strappati i capelli per la semiotica, ma il discorso su process and performance e sul teatro femminista li ha davvero presi). Ho anche dovuto correggere il loro saggi (un' analisi semiotica di una performance che hanno visto), attivita' che mi ha consumato per due settimane, ma alla fine e' andata bene.

A Natale, me ne torno a Sassari per qualche giorno e mi porto dietro Benjamin (ah si, per chi non lo sapesse, siamo tornati insieme)

A presto!

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Meschini o Disperati?!

despair. Meschini little desperate. Us.
us who use the pen. We who emptied dozens of gallons of ink on pages innocent. Pages that have not done anything to deserve this reversal of Anger mixed with sadness.
We are trying to understand something of this strange life-and-in the meantime threw him to the world nonsensical ramblings. We are desperate, let's face.
We do not understand anything about what happens underneath. Perhaps we should not even try to look under the blanket. We should have fewer questions and proceed on the path. Order and discipline in the ass of the objections. Instead
No. We are so desperate to look for some damned with frantic greed key. A stone that is not or-maybe-just not there. And while we granted to consume hours rummaging among the yellowed papers, including loose sheets, torn between notes.
But we do not like to be the Disperati. Ci vediamo brutti e la gente poi ci guarda male. Noi vogliamo essere Normali, come tutti gli altri, come buona parte del mondo. –Ci sarà pure un Rimedio!- alla volte ci convinciamo. E così, nel disperato tentativo di Ordinare, sistemiamo il mondo, a parole nostre. Con quelle Parole che tanto amiamo e che tanto ci consolano quando qualcosa non va, quando il sole non è più qua.
In realtà –meschini- non ci rendiamo conto che è solo un futile banalizzare, un bieco piegare la Realtà a quello che è il nostro immediato Bisogno. Ordine, puro e assoluto Ordine. Sarebbe troppo semplice. Non si prende in giro il Caos. Quel nostro magniloquente “leggere il mondo” è solo una spregevole Creazione of a world-our-image-and-likeness. Life is not so tidy. But, we'd so desperately. We tell
feelings, loves, joys and sorrows. But what I write is but a crumb so possessed of the vortex in which is wedged Life. The language does is make explicit what-oversimplifying-raging inside us. Pages and pages and pages to catch an atom bomb in an instant the entire front of us exploded. A look, a smell, a movement, color of skin. It would take years to put everything on one sheet. Everything in that moment caught us. Meanwhile, we would have already forgotten, or reinvented. " This is also a
viscido tentativo di sistemare ciò che in noi è totalmente ribaltato. Siamo questo: Caos Totale. Beati coloro a cui la disperazione ha risparmiato questa sorte. Noi, veri Disperati, tutte queste cose ci infastidiscono. Le sentiamo, ma non vorremmo sentirle. Le vediamo, ma non vorremmo accorgerci di loro. Vorremmo una vita in cui la sera si va a dormire tranquilli e la mattina ci si alza senza troppo domandare. Vorremmo Meno. O vorremmo Di Più. Non saprei quantificare.
Noi Disperati abbiamo bisogno del Tempo Ordinato. Vorremmo capire il principio di causalità. La reazione uguale e contraria che segue ogni azione. La logica conseguenza a tutto quel che ci accade. Peccato che il Tempo non sia Ordinato, né tantomeno cronologico. Il Tempo è un nostro Schema. A brilliant solution catalog that we have found the going to structure existence. We are saved with the idea of \u200b\u200bTime. We deserve applause.
E 'ugly realize this. Guess that what yesterday was a pretty rhythmic mondicino today you will discover a fictitious order. We have not received, it is not always so. We have given the order. Or so we perceive it. For another kind of being-probably-it works so very different.
India for which there is too much to ask if you want to go to bed and sleep. Have to walk in silence. Period. What we see is our own creation, but let's not the case.
But we are not so desperate. Perhaps if things go as they really would like to ask why we would not be here. We will travel in the stream as the rest of the men is a good reason. But today we do not like. And we stop. We detach and look at the top mix from outside, from outside, making us aware of being on a carousel almost went crazy. Crazy as the weather, which makes you think the inevitable need for all this silly fullness. (If the weather is crazy, life should be).
We Desperately unhappy, we run into two words to get pampered. To feel important. To have a place of our own. To redeem un'abulica existence ad un volgersi diverso. Siamo Rivoluzionari: usiamo la nostra arma per riprenderci un po’ di Dignità. Quella che vorremmo ci spettasse, forse.
Intanto –celatamente- piangiamo, beliamo, battiamo i piedi. Tutti. Chi parla di gioia, di bambini, di tristezza, di suicidi, di solitudini. Tutti piangiamo. Tutti siamo Disperati: ognuno ha le sue forme più o meno limpide di manifestarsi. Guardiamoci dritti nelle palle degli occhi e raccontiamoci quello che siamo. Cosa sentiamo. Cosa vogliamo. E l’inevitabile asimmetria fra desiderio e ottenimento.
Chi scrive è un Meschino. Un Disperato Meschino. Non andiamo a fargli troppi onori. Non incensiamolo troppo. In realtà conta meno di zero: il mondo sotto sotto lo sa.