Invitation Letter For My Brother

Leggere i Fondi del Caffè

able to read the coffee grounds is not an art: it is a disgrace. A sad damn disgrace. For years she hopes to learn this clairvoyant ability to predict the future. Understand the world we dream of ourselves, to learn to read e-together-face with the bones. Bullshit. All bullshit.

no use intuit secrets in the lump of powder and liquid that wallows in the bottom of a cup at a slight angle. Even decant it a little 'help. And even tease with a teaspoon.

Both-to-end we always want the balls to accept what he has to say. Not there is much to turn around. Accept or imaginatively reconstruct an inconvenient truth, watered down. And look at the reality does not seem the happiest job in the world. Indeed. We always try to do everything possible to embroider a thin gold thread on the sail of a vessel departing. Illusion-perhaps-but admire the sunlight gleaming on the horizon that gold will make less cynical. He does not care, do not look at your face, will not have mercy on you. Fagociterà the ship, as it did with many others, as he did with many others.

So what's the point that extraordinary ability to read the coffee grounds? A niente. Ti schiaffa soltanto nel fango. Ti conficca le dita fra i capelli e con violenza ti affoga in quella melma soffocante. Complica la tua esistenza, strattonandola fra l’inevitabile Verità e la speranza di un tuo eccezionale Errore. Invece no. Chi legge in fondo alla Tazzina non ha il Diritto di sbagliarsi. Non può fermarsi e tutto ad un tratto annullare quella sua tragica eccezionale abilità. Si resta lì, fermi, ad orecchie basse e Si Legge. Senza fiatare. Senza poter fare altrimenti. In silenzio, sottomessi.

Forse l’ammirazione di qualche stolto passante potrà illudere che tutto ciò sia un Talento e non una Disgrazia. Gli applausi e i complimenti danno alla testa, offuscano eyes. The specialty of a different humanity certainly does not imply a Fortune-as-a pretty damn bad luck.

Reality-is-it is clear what it is, although it is always our perceptual apparatus to filter out our being in the world. Sooner or later, however, we are at war with the walls of our possibilities for action. But-a-times I think that the unconsciousness is a blessed virtue. Or maybe I should call Concreteness, Pragmatism, or trivially simple. That simplicity is not steeped in that door to go beyond looking and what will be will be. That lightness absence Anxiety, Complexity of intricacies. That walking on a cloud gray, unaware of what goes on. Do not touch.

Sometimes I curse all my constituent Thinking. All this feeling. Sometimes I hate him right.

And every time I take the coffee. I try not to read anything. Almost never succeed.

Test Drive Crash Helmets

Quei maledetti Cinque Minuti

There comes a time when everything is shiny and clear. In the head, everything in there. See the scene, the objective, and where you want to get there. It is not too pleasant, is clear: there is something that is knotted stomach, un viluppo che pesa e svuota. C’è Paura di quella Consapevolezza nitida che tanto incoraggia ma che –sotto sotto- annienta la cognizione di causa del tutto.

Fatto sta che quell’improvvisa chiarezza ti infonde tanta determinazione. Sei deciso, quasi duro, secco. Sai di doverti imporre e lo vuoi, ne sei convinto. Hai una carica addosso talmente effervescente da farti fremere le vene. Vorresti andare e spaccare. Velocemente. E non per volontà di decisione chiara e distinta, ma –forse- più per paura di perdere tutta quella carica. Perché forse quella carica non è poi così decisa. Lo senti che qualcosa non è così definito, chiaro. Soffochi però questa timida voce come un fastidioso rebel anarchist. A sovversore the established order. The hatred and beaten to a pulp. Wondering who knows why there is always a voice that devastated the perfect stability of a system of ideas. But-inevitable curse of the Vita-comes a day that leaves perfectly preserved are crumpled from an angry fist closed. But, in any case, the rebel is purged. Expelled, exiled where no decision can not crack. Or maybe he already did. So you get closer to what you do. It is not difficult: it takes only five minutes. Five bloody minutes. The simple and linear time needed to introduce the talk, argue and end up with a better decision. Dry and determined.

But no. Too simple.

The preparation is perfect: no objections. The reasons, as well. As the grit. Damn all prepared in detail. The only thing I had not foreseen, and you would never have expected-Lei She is coming, coming to greet you. Two pools, a "how are you" situation. She who sits still and looks at you and asks you something. But you're already thinking about the scheme, to the lineup, are you driving at. I do not listen. There is no way.

Then you start to talk, looking for the opportunity to attack the wing and crossed in the middle of its determinata presa di posizione. Ed ecco la Tragedia. L’inevitabile fatalità che disintegra ogni possibile sicurezza.

Lei ti guarda, mentre parli. Lei ti guarda e Ti Sorride .

Eccola lì la Tragedia. Tutto si sfalda, evapora: puff! E te ne stai immobile a guardare la scena preparata che letteralmente se ne vola via. Te –ormai- sei di nuovo in quel patologico flusso di legami e attrazioni in cui puoi solo continuare ad annaspare.

Non è colpa Sua, non lo fa apposta. Sia mai! Non c’è nessun progetto maligno. Lei E’ così, non costruisce niente. E’ il normale flow of life is accomplished. It has a power that goes beyond the ability of male management of the situation.

You can not help but to endure it, accept it with his lips that ripple. With a smile that you check there. E-Meanwhile, the conversation goes, everything covered in the guides. Everything goes on. It seems the best way. Pare.

Maine Lease Wooden Wedding Tables

Un Solo Senso alla volta -uno soltanto-

only one direction at a time. One only. We have five, all right. Some say that the multiplicity of impressions of the same thing in the awareness of this helps. I think not.

We are not able to deal with them: we get out of hand, they go on their own, groping at random in an ocean of feelings often elusive, often changing. And we lose the focus of our research perceptive trying to organize the material coming from the nose, eyes, ears. We listen to the enchanting music in the harmonious movement of strings and ropes. Contemplate a sunset while leaving the car whizzing behind us, while a phone rings in our pocket. We wander disoriented by the quintet of sparks that stimulate the brain. A gaping, without understanding anything.

This is not to curse God, nor to structural failure. It 's just a lack of application. Tenacious and constant application. Arrogantly consider ourselves masters of our meaning, users of sublime level of our instruments provided, teachers of sensory perception. Instead, there is to learn with patience to recognize every single detail that comes to mind, but not limited to a finding approximate.

E-learning for this precision-the focus must be. Simply. It is not a job too complex, nor difficult. Just turn off all the other senses. All others, at that precise moment they are unnecessary. I do not dare say that they are useless: they are just unnecessary. A Plus can certainly characterize better what is perceived, but-often-diverts attention from the essence of what che cerchiamo. E così imparare ad ascoltare le note di un brano ad occhi chiusi, immobili, con le mani sotto il mento. Imparare a contemplare le colline inondate di primavera tappandosi le orecchie, distesi in un angolo di un prato. Assaporare il profumo di un olio che è appena stato aperto o la dolcezza di una carezza che ti sfiora il volto.

Focalizzare la ricerca percettiva verso uno e un solo apparato sensoriale. Il tutto al fine di cogliere sempre più dettagli, affinando progressivamente la precisione e –di pari passo- la relativa emozione. Potenziare con l’allenamento la propria personale capacità di conoscere il mondo, di amarlo, di apprezzarlo. Anelare a emozioni da toglierti il fiato, da lasciarti gush a solitary tear from half-closed eyelids.

And so lost in the middle of the audience of a theater. Hear strings flying from side to side, swaying between fast and fleeting touches and hugs long two full bars. Seizing the cries of serious bass that hide behind a corner, timidly. And the whole atmosphere caressed by the duet of piano keys on the left and right that we tell stories of distant lands, of forbidden dreams, loves being chased.

All eyes closed. Only and only with closed eyes.