The wind dance through the leaves of trees creating a beautiful melody, caressing the delicate flower petals as if the goose bumps of a naked woman. You feel calm and in the middle of a concert of natural sunlight disappears gradually. A cloak of darkness is covering the place. They breathe fresh, the essence of fall dormant and the awakening of a body that has waited for centuries wandering.
Open your eyes, feeling more alive than the same forest. The open ... Wake the world and becomes blind love.
begins to move, stretch your muscles one by one. Is incorporated slowly raises his arms and his back is taking female forms. Yawn ... Love all around it. Feeling full and happy. Endless flashing light on his chest. Is in complete harmony with her and everything that surrounds it. His body finally experiencing feelings that had been dormant. It is free, free to be mistress of her skin.
Sigh ... Breathe fresh air puffs and exhaled amounts of madness and desire.
Admire your body, feels full. His fingers tangled in her long hair. Bend your neck and feel ... Feel the leaves falling from his shoulders. Look at the sky and smiles. Understands that it is time to emerge.
My first (or second, but the former was an act of affirmation, this too is truth). Others are caught drunkenness of their lives, are cast to walk, get to the edge of existence: they are ways to symbolize their status changes over time, or are just strange desire to regenerate. Nothing changed, it is true. Clac made, like a stapler in my ear, two seconds or maybe just one. A sharp pain, brief and sterile. Enlarged nose momentarily by the fumes of alcohol. That's it, lady. Do you have a new hole in your body. Transferred.
is true that with every passing second is trivialized, and ultimately far more real, more profound or authentic was only that microsecond-time portion is over, is over-low to taste, to taste pain. Clac , like a stapler. Grampante.
'll remember forever, however. Be "my hole" memorial. The occasion deserves. That's why you can not get another hole in time. Each must have its time, the glut would only be en su trivialización. No puede ser trivial traspasarte el cuerpo.
"If I could see clearly, if I could decipher your language ...
Love, love, where are you?
I hold you, feel your warmth without having to hide.
I find your scent, your skin and you next to me.
My soul and have given my heart and are willing to die for you if necessary.
My feet are moving forward with the hope of finding you and hit a huge gap.
know everything inside me, know my feelings.
Little by little they are buried, suffocated in the impossible a reality.
Cruel and sad mockery of fate ...! I searched and searched for perfection, but I took the wrong path.
sorry love not what you expected, by confusing the way and move backwards.
please give me a sign before it concluded again.
want to see your sweet face, serene, to ease my mind shot to the pain of losing without being able to reach you.
not let me fall, have mercy on this poor soul that was swept away by your charm, so forbidden, for the wonderful fragrance that sweetens the senses, touching, dark recesses of the past.
Although the wind of fate you have flown to other places and my way is very far gets stuck in my hand that ever slid over mine while trying to rescue me before leaving.
Remember me. I'll be waiting for you in another life. Maybe then, our steps move in the same direction and your face I smile for all eternity ... "
(Lucille: 05/05/1994)
A beautiful and brilliant poem written by my dear friend Lu.
What would feel if someone wrote something?
I think I would be unattainable, eternal ... Two meters and the heart does not fit inside my chest.
I will continue to recognize your talent and applaud each of your letters. It is an honor to have you in my blog. Thanks Lu.
Happy Day love to everyone who has had the privilege of loving another person, who has felt swell and fade to your heart by someone ... People who have left to go free.
"Suffering is unnecessary. But one has to suffer before he is able to realize that this is so. It is only then, moreover, that the true significance of human suffering becomes clear. At the last desperate moment--when one can suffer no more!--something happens which is in the nature of a miracle. The great open wound which was draining the blood of life closes up, the organism blossoms like a rose. One is "free" at last, and not "with a yearning for Russia," but with a yearning for ever more freedom, ever more bliss. The tree of life is Not Kept alive by tears But The Knowledge That freedom is real and everlasting. "
Henry Miller, Plexus .
[The suffering is unnecessary. But one has to suffer before being able to realize that this is so. is only then, moreover, that the true meaning of human suffering becomes clear. In the last desperate moment - when you can not suffer more! - something happens that is nature of a miracle. The large open wound that drained the blood of life is closed, the body blooms like a rose. One is "free" at last, and not with a longing for Russia, " but always with a desire for more freedom, more happiness always. tree life is kept alive not by tears but by the knowledge that freedom is real and eternal .]
tears made their way down her cheeks which raindrops rolling down the window in her eyes.
were no tears pain, no! Of these he had had enough. They were tears of fulfillment. Fullness that gave him feel alive again, feel forgiveness and gratitude.
She knew that if he ever cursed love, now I could only thank those times. His love was sincere and eternal, had overcome many of its ghosts. Was very happy and acknowledged that the woman had made an effort to paint a colorful world that had grown a love dedication that nearly kills them both. A love that does not know if it was real, but that changed his life forever.
She no longer lives in the past or intended to return that love, as has already overcome their pain.
Today she just smiles, knowing that though painful, love is always a gift. And she had been fortunate to host a beautiful feeling inside your body. Be seen blooming in every "I love you" and knowing that a new spring was approaching.
Uris Library Stacks , eflon Photography (Some rights reserved, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0 )
"visiting the saints is like to do with music or libraries. Desexualized, we put our instincts in the service of another world. To the extent that we resist to holiness, we show that our instincts are healthy."
During those years, he frequented libraries Boston University, Mugar Library , photography roncaglia (Some rights reserved under Creative Commons 2.0 license )
People do not want to discuss, debate, prefer to be comfortable in conversational communities.
***
If there are no boundaries is a map with contours, country.
*** We're "around." With every decision we make, with every choice we make ... these choices, will unite us or divide us? Are we open to the world or create a wall against the outside? Are we close and prevented any communication?
***
Everything did not write. Their resignations.
***
Perhaps others will have read with more care and intelligence, but not more love, this exercise of creative imagination.
***
That which we call reality is determined to kill the literature.
***
There is a difference only and exclusively there (feeling) where the smiles begin the curve of her lips, cheeks and rounded arrugitas and to spark-spatters-ean eyes and smile we call "smile" I said. Smiles given
could hear the horses galloping closer fierce and cold aisles to scratch his face.
enviable Full of wisdom, walking in the darkness of the gloomy passages, as if knew every corner of the castle. As if it was her castle, both part of a whole.
knew I could not stop to wonder at what he did, as this could cost him his life, but did not seem in a hurry. She owned a disturbing peace.
suddenly stopped, took one of the torches from the wall to illuminate what was in front of her and from her robe pulled a red silk handkerchief, which pressed against his chest tightly, as if it were a priceless treasure.
It took a few seconds to think, but the ride of the soldiers reacted.
The scarf slipped to just leave a key in the palm of your hand, while a secret passage opened at his feet. Down the stairs with something in a hurry, take your dress to avoid tripping over it and taking care not to extinguish the torch.
seemed to be a thousand steps forming a stairway that would lengthen each step she took, which was coiled around his feet and prevented him from running faster. A winding staircase gradually haciéndosele eternal Maybe if I had time, had told the infinite steps, but was not the case. Now, should act as quickly as possible.
At the end of the ladder, he found a impenetrably door closed, with a few devastating maneuvers soon.
entered a small room. Unimaginable and that nothing was in line with the rest of the castle. It was a warm, despite how it looked dusty by the time abandoned. At the bottom of it, was what both wanted Camille: A chest, covered in years, worn, stained, stale and smelled of ivory.
Once again, looked at his key with some sweetness and prepared to open her trunk. It took a while to understand, since you were not happy memories invaded his mind, were rather painful and sad.
finally overcame her searing pain and with closed eyes opened the trunk. There it was, just as I remembered and still dormant despite being the victim of years. The most precious gift he had made: A heart that does not put conditions, which was warm and that was pure, and who gave it.
He took in his hands. He felt as he shook the soul. Released a tear and smiled a smile on his lips. He closed the trunk. He withdrew the key and heart wrapped in red tissue.
Each time the soldiers were closer to her. He could not he'd come back. but not uncomfortable. She knew very well that castle and knew every corner, every hiding place, every corridor and hallway.
to be squeezed out of the castle, and between night missed his silhouette.
climbed a mountain and there he stayed with his heart in his hands. Sitting at the edge of a cliff, staring and his conscience alone.
When the soldiers arrived, one saw a body falling into emptiness and Camille as I recall, was only his red scarf tangled in the weeds of the forest. That was his sign of freedom.
The poet immortalizes his beloved Alas I will have you because, to them the infinite sea and all the land on a flight can go without fatigue. Feasting and celebration around this you find, housed in the mouths of many. And the sound of flutes young treble rounds of love with beautiful and soft tunes you cite. And when the dark caverns of the earth descend to the appalling mansions of Hades, even then, dying, you have to miss your glory, but you'll keep the crowd your name immortal Cirno, and you will travel through the land of Greece and the islands and relentless cross the high seas inhabited by fish, without Montarto on horseback, as they will take the splendid gifts of the Muses of purple braids. And for those, even tomorrow, to appreciate the song, you will live equally as long as there the earth and sun. And yet, I do not get you one bit of esteem, but as a young child, fool me with tales.
Theognis of Megara
[Translated by Carlos García Gual, Anthology of Greek literature , Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1995]
When I read Lorca, eroticism that permeates everything he writes me drunk. Impossible not to feel, as a force that is beyond anything that sets the limits: the reason to our heads, our behavior society. As undercurrent, there's this: in the songs of the girls who wash, light and playful but at the same time ominous, like a presence that " beware - beware " on the boards of the old, requested or simply offered between teeth, interfering, judging, but they know, for better and for worse, then finally the actors the drama, but mostly ignored intense presence negligent. Nobody ever says "I burn with desire"-that self-awareness: it does not. We know, squeezing her throat, "how I like to say:" strangled in his throat "-until it is triggered, the desire, tragedy, both.
Rowan Love For the finches love rowan berries. Rowan berries are pretty, sweet and full of vitamins. This year there are plenty of rowan berries in our backyard and the young finch-boy invited his friend to eat. The pair of finches enjoyed the food so they decided to stay together in the tree until the summer.
Masha Kirikova (translated and distributed with permission from the author)
"Masks are arrested expressions and admirable echoes of feeling, at once faithful, discreet, and superlative. Living things in contact with the air must acquire a cuticle, and it is not urg ed against cuticles that they are not hearts; yet some philosophers seem to be angry with images for not being things, and with words fo r not being feelings. Word and images are li ke shells, no less integral parts of nature than are the substances they cover, but better addressed to the eye and more open to observation. I would not say that substance exists for the sake of appearance, or faces for the sak e of masks, or the passions for the sake of poetry and virtue. Nothing arises in nature for the s ake of anything else; all these phases and products are involved equally in the round of existence, and it would be sheer wilfulness to praise the germinal phase on the ground that it is vital, and to denounce the explicit phase on the ground that it is dead and sterile".
Dedicado a José Antonio Fernández de Rota , who taught me to understand ideas like this, that everything "is", no matter the subject of what is done (shell, smoke, desire, dream, plastic, lie possibility ...).
Look at My Mask! photography collection Mirror Image Gallery (All rights reserved)
[The masks are fixed expressions and admirable echoes of feelings, at once faithful, discreet, and superlative. Living things in contact with air must acquire a cuticle, and no one blames cuticles than hearts, however, some philosophers seem to bear a grudge against the images not being things, and words not to be feelings. Words and images are like shells, integral parts of nature as well as substances that line, but aimed more directly in the eye and more open to observation. I would not say there is substance to enable the appearance or to allow faces masks, or to allow the passions of poetry and virtue. Nothing arises in nature to enable another thing, all these phases and products are involved equally in the cycle of existence, and would be a complete stubbornness praise the germinal stage in the soil to be vital, and acknowledge the explicit phase in the soil from dead and sterile.]
My girls, if we read this story out of it shaking, or worse, as if we stick a knife, and we can take it away, no, no. With the pain of a truth you can not say the truth about ourselves and our position in the world, it costs us know and tell, and has been a man stampede the face of the cultural system, a man of the margins, of course. How else would he know that truth, we do not need to be expressed more than that. When the book ends and the word is reverberating painfully virgin, virgin, with all its edges throat lips, scraped from the inside out, almost hurts to swallow at last: a virgin. But my girls will not understand with all its force, can not. Just a glimpse of the surface and feel the echoes of truth in its effect. Best. Already have time.
