Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ski Doo For Sale Ontario
The book of memory
Her chin rests on the palm of the hand, while the tip of the index stands in the way the two lips. The ice-blue eyes are fixed and hypnotized by the passing fast and monotonous pylons that hold the electric wires of the train.
Travel second class, the paper on brown pants. The
look out the window every time it carries in place of his memory, and so this becomes snow, smell of ash from the gray sky, smoke from rigid mouths of inhabitants as cold every winter in Kielce, Poland. And 'as if it were still there: visually perceives the main road from the houses that run along down to the center of town, where you can overlook the church of San Leobilich, apart from years of unsuccessful restoration. It also smells near the entry doors sprouting waste the day before, covered by the storm at night, left there by a garbage truck that no longer passes for two months. So the typhus is at home in almost every family in Kielce, the cemetery is isolated from a month on the height and the infection is easier to bury the dead in the garden behind, those who have it. The nearest hospital is in Gdansk: 143 km of snow-capped mountains and characteristically tortuous.
E 'jew. At the beginning of winter this becomes a question: people are too busy to buffer the cold live, groped to heat above and below your skin. In that season so hard and gray, he could live better than a novice in the sun in spring or summer to mature.
- I and the entire Jewish community. The Nazi massacre ended recently, but still are afraid of a regime that no longer exists, which has left unreasonable prejudices dictated by distrust and suspicion racist is the need to survive that I'll sign. On the other hand just came back from the Warsaw ghetto and I was among those. " Small voices, stunned again by too many silences. The citizens of Kielce
still do not understand what happened: for them a jew is evil, brings destruction in the country, and ruthless gunmen door, door rapes, looting, husbands died -.
In the Warsaw ghetto had learned to run underground drains on ice and was saved.
- And through it all, right-wing Polish partisans pulled down from Pompey's Head my fellow survivors and killed them in the woods near the tracks -.
few years later departed from Kielce and graduated in medicine.
wanted to force him to join the Communists in order not to go into exile.
- In fact, even the Polish Communists hours we have with the Jews -. Propaganda.
arrive strikes, Communists finally face change, they become pro-Russian.
- During the days in the ghetto, I saw the Russians across the river watching the massacre of Jews, waiting for the Nazis ended. Then he went to Warsaw as liberators -.
The image of his brother pinned to the mobile home from a German bullet and he quickly slipped under the trap door that goes to the sewer system, driven by the sudden horror of a vacuum. It runs fast and there crying, with the death of his brother's firm as to push the knees to allow him to suffer, while listening to the screams of the Teutonic dictators Nazis above are cleaning Warsaw.
The image of her mother, who greets him and kisses him before boarding the train from Kielce to Treblinka: smiles her out the window.
The image of his father with a heart attack on the face and all the weight of a life on the heart is stopped.
- I was alone in the house. I walked out hard accustomed to the pain: the kids I take the face with snowballs and have fun running away -.
The image of children who died of typhus in the hospital, where was a volunteer, and rewinding back, the games of snow as a child, with his brother - my mother came out of his serious role only in those family occasions and began to make a ball with us -.
whole story of his life was to serve the world, the whole story of his life must necessarily be a uniquely higher sense that transcended his singular experience, bringing in talent for future reference, was to make the rough contact of each with own conscience.
then writes a book of memory: cover gray, slightly yellow sheets, no pictures or illustrations, a book out loud and even austere. By choice. A gallery
cover of complete darkness memories and brings him back to his seventy-seven, with a sort of thud sound insulation that rearranges its rigid skin to heat the cab.
After the tunnel, the flow reappears the pylons.
chair in front of her eyes crossing in case of a young man realizes only now that he was watched all the time.
Another gallery.
When the light fails to illuminate the faces again, for the young person is wet from tears, silent, which does not explain the pain.
- My gaze then passes on his legs to his hands together above appoggiatovi, I see a book a bit 'austere, sheets slightly yellow, gray cover, no pictures ... -. 
Her chin rests on the palm of the hand, while the tip of the index stands in the way the two lips. The ice-blue eyes are fixed and hypnotized by the passing fast and monotonous pylons that hold the electric wires of the train.
Travel second class, the paper on brown pants. The
look out the window every time it carries in place of his memory, and so this becomes snow, smell of ash from the gray sky, smoke from rigid mouths of inhabitants as cold every winter in Kielce, Poland. And 'as if it were still there: visually perceives the main road from the houses that run along down to the center of town, where you can overlook the church of San Leobilich, apart from years of unsuccessful restoration. It also smells near the entry doors sprouting waste the day before, covered by the storm at night, left there by a garbage truck that no longer passes for two months. So the typhus is at home in almost every family in Kielce, the cemetery is isolated from a month on the height and the infection is easier to bury the dead in the garden behind, those who have it. The nearest hospital is in Gdansk: 143 km of snow-capped mountains and characteristically tortuous.
E 'jew. At the beginning of winter this becomes a question: people are too busy to buffer the cold live, groped to heat above and below your skin. In that season so hard and gray, he could live better than a novice in the sun in spring or summer to mature.
- I and the entire Jewish community. The Nazi massacre ended recently, but still are afraid of a regime that no longer exists, which has left unreasonable prejudices dictated by distrust and suspicion racist is the need to survive that I'll sign. On the other hand just came back from the Warsaw ghetto and I was among those. " Small voices, stunned again by too many silences. The citizens of Kielce
still do not understand what happened: for them a jew is evil, brings destruction in the country, and ruthless gunmen door, door rapes, looting, husbands died -.
In the Warsaw ghetto had learned to run underground drains on ice and was saved.
- And through it all, right-wing Polish partisans pulled down from Pompey's Head my fellow survivors and killed them in the woods near the tracks -.
few years later departed from Kielce and graduated in medicine.
wanted to force him to join the Communists in order not to go into exile.
- In fact, even the Polish Communists hours we have with the Jews -. Propaganda.
arrive strikes, Communists finally face change, they become pro-Russian.
- During the days in the ghetto, I saw the Russians across the river watching the massacre of Jews, waiting for the Nazis ended. Then he went to Warsaw as liberators -.
The image of his brother pinned to the mobile home from a German bullet and he quickly slipped under the trap door that goes to the sewer system, driven by the sudden horror of a vacuum. It runs fast and there crying, with the death of his brother's firm as to push the knees to allow him to suffer, while listening to the screams of the Teutonic dictators Nazis above are cleaning Warsaw.
The image of her mother, who greets him and kisses him before boarding the train from Kielce to Treblinka: smiles her out the window.
The image of his father with a heart attack on the face and all the weight of a life on the heart is stopped.
- I was alone in the house. I walked out hard accustomed to the pain: the kids I take the face with snowballs and have fun running away -.
The image of children who died of typhus in the hospital, where was a volunteer, and rewinding back, the games of snow as a child, with his brother - my mother came out of his serious role only in those family occasions and began to make a ball with us -.
whole story of his life was to serve the world, the whole story of his life must necessarily be a uniquely higher sense that transcended his singular experience, bringing in talent for future reference, was to make the rough contact of each with own conscience.
then writes a book of memory: cover gray, slightly yellow sheets, no pictures or illustrations, a book out loud and even austere. By choice. A gallery
cover of complete darkness memories and brings him back to his seventy-seven, with a sort of thud sound insulation that rearranges its rigid skin to heat the cab.
After the tunnel, the flow reappears the pylons.
chair in front of her eyes crossing in case of a young man realizes only now that he was watched all the time.
Another gallery.
When the light fails to illuminate the faces again, for the young person is wet from tears, silent, which does not explain the pain.
- My gaze then passes on his legs to his hands together above appoggiatovi, I see a book a bit 'austere, sheets slightly yellow, gray cover, no pictures ... -.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Tomorrow's Exam Quotes
Reflections on the sidelines of a need
To kill innocence does not take much. It seems that if you miss the freedom and aspirations, then who should not have in front of you. Can not stand who's in front of his closed world kind of naivety, disguised criticism and rebellion, by ideals and cruel superficiality. But under the mask of clouds and mental age living paradoxes, uncertainties and chains of dismay and blind alleys. So how do we educate the cynical eye to stop and settle at the expense of feelings? How to sniff only the burned without the insight of the soft flesh? It is how to create a mechanical toy in which pseudo technology to shut himself masturbating the soul in search of one or more orgasms, childishly ignoring it will always be sterile. Earth and man need to be fertilized by those windmills really sees them, and bites from those who hope to return the blades to grind grain.
from "Notes to the Sea in Ships - between land and sea" Fabio Craftsmen, Pascal Publishing, 2009, Siena. 
To kill innocence does not take much. It seems that if you miss the freedom and aspirations, then who should not have in front of you. Can not stand who's in front of his closed world kind of naivety, disguised criticism and rebellion, by ideals and cruel superficiality. But under the mask of clouds and mental age living paradoxes, uncertainties and chains of dismay and blind alleys. So how do we educate the cynical eye to stop and settle at the expense of feelings? How to sniff only the burned without the insight of the soft flesh? It is how to create a mechanical toy in which pseudo technology to shut himself masturbating the soul in search of one or more orgasms, childishly ignoring it will always be sterile.
from "Notes to the Sea in Ships - between land and sea" Fabio Craftsmen, Pascal Publishing, 2009, Siena.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Vitamin D Deficiency And Low Ferritin
Khorakhané - The song of the wind
I am, as usual, watching the sky, towards the end of the evening.
The wind blows strong from the East and makes her way into our camp, surprised almost every time we are in a different place. The our lives inevitably follows the day, our heartbeats slow down gradually as the sun fades back to our accommodation to weary head traveling along roads SPERSE in large tracts of uncultivated fields. This time we stopped our steps a little 'longer, here in this camp where the elderly built some time ago an artesian well and then the civilians turned into cement and toilets. Children run, play and piss, splashing about in those lakes yellow inassorbiti from the earth covered with tar. I do not happened, we were free, as our fields were there for centuries, made of earth and fire. And our people are living in poverty and on luck. The past often envelops my thoughts and turns them into memories that make me heart beat fast.
When he died, my father gave me the necklace she always wore, a string of family, with a pendant shaped like a bull. Everyone we encounter in our travels, of any caste, you know who I am. The race is generous in its meaning: I can drink and eat with everyone, I offer accommodation. Sometimes I think, and always, when I look at the sky, that every cloud, every river ford, every leaf that falls, every dust trampled recognize me and my kind regards. All this smacks of old, brings with it the testimony of generations of the same gypsy blood, people from nations where magic and mystery blend into the need for survival, where the bread has the same value a necklace shaped like a bull for a reason for living right, freedom, dignity in all its sacredness, as part of life.
I still remember when I watched amazed as a child my grandmother's wrinkles, his veins on the temples so pronounced, her big lips, his hands felt so rough when he took my life to teach me the secrets hidden in the folds nature of our skin. Or to warn me to be careful with every element of nature: water, earth, fire and air, each taking and giving, demands respect, fear, understanding, particularly in those messages, changing, hidden from the history of Earth. I have the image of my own grandmother, a peek what's left of his life before a plastic window, admiring an outside world that does not belong to him anymore.
My grandfather he died in Poland during the persecution, they took him and shot him hanging upside down along with thirty other Gypsies in the countryside, so that we could all see. We were forced to flee away, first in Hungary, then in Yugoslavia until you arrive in Italy. I will never forget the tears of my grandmother in front of that horror, or the tears of my father when we burned the entire camp near Danzig, and even tears of my mother that night around a bonfire to remember and finally to cry of relief, under the shadows of our rides now tired and obsolete.
And today is a day of begging. The girls bring to the outskirts of the city to beg for some change. Sometimes the signs are back with him, with the beatings of civilians. We are told that they were beaten, so, for hatred, insult - Thieves! Go down and tell your parents that if they steal again, this time we give him fire! -.
But who has the right to judge our people, our customs, our lives? The case governs every aspect, every thought, every people and every person assigned to it.
Our eyes are turned to God alone gypsies Like now, I watch the sky get dark, and I feel out of our women light the fire, singing our song oldest:
- lay his head on your shoulder and will
a dream of sea
tomorrow and a wood fire
because the air blue
become home.
Who will tell who will
will be those who remain, I will follow this
migrate
follow this line of wings -
This story is inspired by the song "Khorakhané (in The Wind)" by F. De André - I. Fossati (Edizioni Music: The Flying Ltd, Clouds sas, BMG Ricordi SpA) to which a party is the translation given here at the end of the story, taken from the book "Fabrizio De André - the tests and the scores of all the songs" published by the publishing house Arnoldo Mondadori Editore SpA in the series "SuperM. 
I am, as usual, watching the sky, towards the end of the evening.
The wind blows strong from the East and makes her way into our camp, surprised almost every time we are in a different place. The our lives inevitably follows the day, our heartbeats slow down gradually as the sun fades back to our accommodation to weary head traveling along roads SPERSE in large tracts of uncultivated fields. This time we stopped our steps a little 'longer, here in this camp where the elderly built some time ago an artesian well and then the civilians turned into cement and toilets. Children run, play and piss, splashing about in those lakes yellow inassorbiti from the earth covered with tar. I do not happened, we were free, as our fields were there for centuries, made of earth and fire. And our people are living in poverty and on luck. The past often envelops my thoughts and turns them into memories that make me heart beat fast.
When he died, my father gave me the necklace she always wore, a string of family, with a pendant shaped like a bull. Everyone we encounter in our travels, of any caste, you know who I am. The race is generous in its meaning: I can drink and eat with everyone, I offer accommodation. Sometimes I think, and always, when I look at the sky, that every cloud, every river ford, every leaf that falls, every dust trampled recognize me and my kind regards. All this smacks of old, brings with it the testimony of generations of the same gypsy blood, people from nations where magic and mystery blend into the need for survival, where the bread has the same value a necklace shaped like a bull for a reason for living right, freedom, dignity in all its sacredness, as part of life.
I still remember when I watched amazed as a child my grandmother's wrinkles, his veins on the temples so pronounced, her big lips, his hands felt so rough when he took my life to teach me the secrets hidden in the folds nature of our skin. Or to warn me to be careful with every element of nature: water, earth, fire and air, each taking and giving, demands respect, fear, understanding, particularly in those messages, changing, hidden from the history of Earth. I have the image of my own grandmother, a peek what's left of his life before a plastic window, admiring an outside world that does not belong to him anymore.
My grandfather he died in Poland during the persecution, they took him and shot him hanging upside down along with thirty other Gypsies in the countryside, so that we could all see. We were forced to flee away, first in Hungary, then in Yugoslavia until you arrive in Italy. I will never forget the tears of my grandmother in front of that horror, or the tears of my father when we burned the entire camp near Danzig, and even tears of my mother that night around a bonfire to remember and finally to cry of relief, under the shadows of our rides now tired and obsolete.
And today is a day of begging. The girls bring to the outskirts of the city to beg for some change. Sometimes the signs are back with him, with the beatings of civilians. We are told that they were beaten, so, for hatred, insult - Thieves! Go down and tell your parents that if they steal again, this time we give him fire! -.
But who has the right to judge our people, our customs, our lives? The case governs every aspect, every thought, every people and every person assigned to it.
Our eyes are turned to God alone gypsies Like now, I watch the sky get dark, and I feel out of our women light the fire, singing our song oldest:
- lay his head on your shoulder and will
a dream of sea
tomorrow and a wood fire
because the air blue
become home.
Who will tell who will
will be those who remain, I will follow this
migrate
follow this line of wings -
This story is inspired by the song "Khorakhané (in The Wind)" by F. De André - I. Fossati (Edizioni Music: The Flying Ltd, Clouds sas, BMG Ricordi SpA) to which a party is the translation given here at the end of the story, taken from the book "Fabrizio De André - the tests and the scores of all the songs" published by the publishing house Arnoldo Mondadori Editore SpA in the series "SuperM.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Bankers Life Casualty Scam
Between them and the other people of Italy
train between Delhi and Agra (India)
.
between a binary and the other, the colors of the clothes to dry you how to live and die as the edge of the railway: it is no longer a transit time of a shift, but a survival space, in continuous suspension of the meaning of existence and the scope of travel, including the habit of being deprived of bread and slice and a heated cab, including a shack and a fancy leather chair with adjustable armrests, anchored in line with the other. Among
over a box of biscuits and a cow grazing in the trash, sowing and watering dark children, wrapped in colorful and bright clothing so as to terminate the background of the perception of dirt and dust on the fabric. Between an electronic device that calls, surf the web, playing music of your choice and a pile of garbage bags seen through the window, I is the elegance, dignity and the hard nature of the act of spinning with the spinning wheel: How far? Among the garbage and IITA-phone there are so few millimeters to understand that they are only the thickness of the same coin: the misery and luck run in the same direction as the train.
Outside, in another dimension, is still Gandhi and his campaign, his movement of the row, like a good dance, like a monument, mute, which remains the granite over time, unchanged in his example between the earth and the clouds , smiling behind those glasses, ready to welcome the world when the world will have the strength or desperation to look him straight in the eye.
.
Walking hand in his pocket
dirty feet on clay plow
life and not knowing what the spirit without the hierarchy of poverty
immaterial, without knowing a soul
and listen only
recall rich.
"But what do you want for yourself?"
"Great food, lots of money, a car, a cell phone ..."
"Where is your spinning wheel?" 
train between Delhi and Agra (India)
.
between a binary and the other, the colors of the clothes to dry you how to live and die as the edge of the railway: it is no longer a transit time of a shift, but a survival space, in continuous suspension of the meaning of existence and the scope of travel, including the habit of being deprived of bread and slice and a heated cab, including a shack and a fancy leather chair with adjustable armrests, anchored in line with the other. Among
over a box of biscuits and a cow grazing in the trash, sowing and watering dark children, wrapped in colorful and bright clothing so as to terminate the background of the perception of dirt and dust on the fabric. Between an electronic device that calls, surf the web, playing music of your choice and a pile of garbage bags seen through the window, I is the elegance, dignity and the hard nature of the act of spinning with the spinning wheel: How far? Among the garbage and IITA-phone there are so few millimeters to understand that they are only the thickness of the same coin: the misery and luck run in the same direction as the train.
Outside, in another dimension, is still Gandhi and his campaign, his movement of the row, like a good dance, like a monument, mute, which remains the granite over time, unchanged in his example between the earth and the clouds , smiling behind those glasses, ready to welcome the world when the world will have the strength or desperation to look him straight in the eye.
.
Walking hand in his pocket
dirty feet on clay plow
life and not knowing what the spirit without the hierarchy of poverty
immaterial, without knowing a soul
and listen only
recall rich.
"But what do you want for yourself?"
"Great food, lots of money, a car, a cell phone ..."
"Where is your spinning wheel?"
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Taking Out Infected Lip Ring
Italy hath been dormant between
muscles and is
oblivion, fear
just past, just future.
are our eyes and short
from north to south from chained
cathodic union:
all events are civic education.
and mendacious
makes money and intelligence to dig
and penetrates our fears and produces children
lobotomy.
Garibaldi spits on the ground,
turns white horse to Switzerland: the Alps bordering
our loneliness,
deluded by a father once again.
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