Snowboard Shop In Small Town Colorado

(continued) ... tale of a Sunday in November

... blacks the drapes open, the two spaces are now one, the chest and the chair a bit 'deco are no longer alone, the buzz is growing and then drop suddenly, as if to underline the change of scene and the end of waiting.

tesion perceive a different side of the wall of plywood is concentration, fear, energy that grows well beyond the door is suspended, waiting, curiosity. The intermediate space is now open at the sight, the light that illuminates the scene even though they are lifeless, it returns the shapes of objects, that is how that space, and other spaces, takes over from reality, that simple act of opening heavy drapes blacks did not just reveal a floor, of the objects, but it did become a place, a history, a universe, small and immature, but perhaps more important, not just ours, is now of all the defendants and those in the audience is seated behind us on the wall of plywood, there is no distinction there is only the imagination.

I digress risk of losing concentration and the last thing to do now, back to this in my narrow hallway and light blue, I try to wipe the memory, but just a little ', only the opening bars, not I would never mess up even the few certainties: the memory is there! A little 'surprise, I realize that fear and panic are not among the list of sensations, I'm tense, but only by a positive energy, the pulse are not exactly relaxing, but it is what it takes not to lose concentration and awareness and then is protective wall of plywood, the door on the right waiting to be crossed, one more look around, we're all there, all ready.

... silence falls, then the reassuring voice of Peter who tells us, then the music stops and the three initials to memory, the last look to Ale a deep breath, the black cloth that moves and he moves well, is a step space without time, he comes on stage but it is as if we walk together. I do a silent cheer from the stadium "force Ale", I follow his words with your mind, visualize the movements repeated dozens of times, the intonations and the silences, as the words fill the scene, I realize that is the story to tell through us and not vice versa.

We now turn to me: a deep breath and held, the music, get Donna Elvira is angry ... then by ... no it's not true ... I am not to enter, in a split second I realize that Don Giovanni is coming, I'm not there anymore, somehow I was in front of the wall of plywood, that's where they are useful, a prompter, a source of 'energy, in an effort to bring to life the story away, but the story needs to Don Giovanni, not me, at that time the script is no longer written words but wind, love, meat, Don Giovanni is bullshit, defends himself , play, struggles, gets scared, try to please since it can not be pleased and at the end ... "To complete his pleasant company", was released from the scene and reunited me, are incredibly sweaty, drained of energy but happy.

The voltage does not drop, no longer fall because the story is still there, the stage is alive and the public lives with us blacks are not the drapes are closed, there's laughter and applause are with us with the story!

All together onstage for the closing of entering one by one, each to tell the last part of the last brick to our building, with the last line "Pillappunto" the music gathers strength as the lights fall, the story ends in the best way with the applause!

And so the story does not need Don Giovanni Petrucci, Sganarelle, Donna Elvira, Carol Guzman, have been leaving us alone with our smiles a bit 'embarrassed greetings to the public. The audience is now illuminated and try sguargo with friends and family to find comfort, support, and some confirmation, I have to calm down that part egocentrinca, without which I would not be here ...

The areas of excitement and nostalgia in "dressing room", exchange rate, removing make-up, rearrange, put in place, blacks have closed the drapes, but now I know that when I open up I'll be back there with others to provide energy to a new story ...

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tale of a Sunday in November

A wall of plywood in front of me, plywood, signs of nails, is but a thin barrier and more than a dark space, a space in the middle seem to be abandoned and a dusty old trunk and a chair a bit 'Deco them alone, almost a blank.
Beyond the dark space of the trunk and seat are thick drapes blacks, block the light on the other side tries in vain to enlighten and give an appearance of living space. The tents do not block blacks, however, the voices, a random noise, indistinct, beyond the curtains and the wall of plywood that is always in front of me, the buzz is neither loud nor annoying, but constant, real presence and a sense of expectation, must fill the time.

Everything is ready, weeks and months spent laughing, joking without taking itself too seriously, weeks and months spent trying, toil, work, worry and laugh at him. Now nothing seems ready, the doubt until the last "Maybe we needed more time" but the time is up in front of a wall of plywood. I look away, the wall began to dislike myself, I seek the eyes of those around me in the dark blue of this narrow corridor, knowing smile, no words, no sound, mute gestures and words to remind everyone that we are not alone that all goes well, us.

A bit 'of stretcing to relax the muscles without losing tension, yet a look around, again the wall ... ok, do not panic ... the buzz is growing in intensity, feelings and emotions quickly cut my thoughts, hope and fear arm, I do not dwell too much, I will not let me distract the leave pass almost undisturbed. Carry the look on the wall Ugh, more and more unpleasant, however, started to enter my visual space, almost voluntarily excluded, an opening is on the right side, a door with another black cloth, than there is room still dark, the chest and the chair, I know I'll go from there but not yet ... (Continued)

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En la vida es ir todos ....

Hello a. .. I think no one but no matter. In a few
days of absence a lot has changed in my real world, and this is beautiful! I always had a positive propensity to change, the change in fund never has a specific value in itself, being positive or negative is a side effect that is inextricably linked to those experiencing it. Suffered or sought, change is always an opportunity: if you exceed captures errors, loss, confusion, change the drive takes you to a new perspective with the enthusiasm of his new kid.
Even in situations that apparently are not new, there is always a perspective, a dark corner in what we face every day, out of habit or boredom that we can escape, well-being then the jolt, the scare, the thunder that wakes us, the blinding flash, the flutter of a butterfly, the unexpected event, not wanted rompre scheme and forces us to look really, that moves and goes beyond the gaze and consciousness, which shakes the foundations of all, who finally agrees to move!

Excuse this short incipit but I felt it necessary to secure a pass while a recovery of a vision that I thought lost. Hurrah!
instead return to the old pages yellowed by time, last bet on that October 1996 and on that strange passage that has been learning to write (with your left hand), I do not think there is some deeper meaning or something which recovery or regression, I do not have open horizons of knowledge, was simply to follow a path, learn something nuovoè move.

----------------------------------------------- -------
write write write! How many thing to write.
many thoughts, feelings these days, lost
in their entirety just because you do not write soon and do not
been fixed. Then you continue to live in this soup
d idolore and boundless joy.
'm not lost, are the same points of the compass
that are mixed, masked and indistinguishable.
So I run happily on the move towards
panic or I walk away crying from happiness!
never stop, I can not and do not want. So great is the desire
stop that causes me physical pain
so better run out of breath running strong
with my heart in my throat, without thinking, rationalizing,
always just move to emotions and love.
life, still life and life is already so compressed, gray
pain that makes sense if chosen
and find its meaning exist to fill the void
and feelings of loneliness.
------------------------------------------------ ---
... A few days later ...
------------------------------------------------- -
continues scruttura left-handed.
Monday, gray, tired, behind
the weekend, strange, only without the sun
in the company without the sun.
killed Friday I love, with the coolness
a killer, with the innocence of a child.
Lucida madness or extreme or ultimate gesture of love ...
but then to whom? self-centeredness or self annulment?
Those cold eyes, prosecutors, Qualle
demand that the arms folded across
strain on the body declared
not waiting for an answer.
And then a shadow, a voice whispered
seemed as aided by the ancient bricks because
came up to me.
small figure, fugitive, with no thoughts,
emotions, feelings fled leaving
confused impressions, overshadowed by
lasrime eyes that fail to grasp them decipher.
why, why, why, and opi questions questions questions.
basically just words, limited, poor, easily
corrupt, double giochiste.
And then more questions, where, as it is, 'What
quegl'occhi hid, asked what
shadow in the night.
Blue eyes, large, fragile, what would the
are willing to receive? And I
, or just want to stay alone, solitude
, fake, searched, denied.
so strongly that I wanted to cancel the best feelings.
------------------------------------------------- ------

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recovering from the recovery of old books, which is the primary reason for this space.
Same scenario above: 1996, Milan, October, if I am not October a wrong light (I remember this). Perhaps it is the first case to explain the meaning and because it emphasizes the "left-handed writing:
I was born left-handed, we are almost all in the family, always the favorite is the left hand and in this there is also a point ' pride in Italy at least among older people, we are not many, certainly not 50% as it is assumed that statistically should be. Yeah! But why? In my house as I think in many Italian homes, the left hand was considered the hand of the "devil" ... grandmother dixit, that is, about 4 / 5 year course with the left wield the pen for the first time and get the scream strangled her grandmother: "nooooo! with the left nooooo! ", this is probably the beginning of my shift away from any religion and / or associated with popular belief.
The result is that for decades I have written happily with his right hand and did the rest with the left! Up to a Fall of 1996 , all stem from randomness dall'impugnare consciously for the first time a pen with his left ... these are the results (the initial omission is trivially the first and last name, a minimum of privacy, while the signs "#" represent the corrections on real paper): --------------------------------


(omitted) ...
this writing with the left hand
is an attempt to recover so

a knowledge or a better inner balance

always denied by the right hand
feelings and emotions to new
me, as writing that appears slowly

so childish and insecure
slow, so slow
forces the brain to think only
to it. Bella because child
fragile attempts to make himself understood, to avoid creating misunderstandings
, pure
because newborn.
may be the mirror of my soul
? I
through writing left-handed, taking a new road
to the maze of emotions and thoughts
which I never had the keys
password?
In any case, it is nice
write in this way, relaxing and challenging at the same time.
difficult to write fast and in good handwriting
but only able to read what is written is
source of pride, a little, perhaps, unjustified,
But this is impossible to ignore.
Noto # # # # # # that the feature that most
catches the eye is a miniature of the characters and also
the third dimension, that is not here you can see, the grip of the pen
small and different.

--------------------------------

Ultraviolet Adult Actress

bitter irony

Writing is a difficult exercise, translate ideas, feelings, thoughts and feelings in a form that does not make him lose force and meaning is a real job, tiring ... I've always had a tendency to fancazzismo and since as far as possible I tried to avoid working, we are at the first meeting with the irony of which the title of this post: I'm writing, so I'm working, so I'm struggling, but I was not I love what I do nothing? The only one who can argue that this is a minor problem and a non-issue ... and it is absolutely valid argument: I digress, and I know 'why perfectly and I know if I want to write it!

Sunday afternoon, cold and gray, the weather is too lazy like me, you decide, it's raining or not raining? Viro towards a bright autumn day or over the calendar and drain down a little 'healthy drizzle of cold, perhaps combined with an equally healthy mist? None of it is there that wavers between greyness and momentary splash of blue. In the end he gets better of me, I wish I had momentary spells!

No way, I digress, I try arguments that I depart from myself, I let it distract me in any event is distant or marginal, now for example I set the dryer on the repetitive and monotonous noise, thump, tapum, thud, thud ...

better close here for today, so find the words to return the monitor anxiety, frustration, anger, disappointment, impatience, inadequacy, and I will stop here, I would not go for arrogant, I said that it is useless to try to translate something that I can not focus, I'm missing, or rather, let slip. Here you find again the sense Title: Irony, bitter and cruel irony, I titled this blog with a poem by Machado, who speaks of the way, the movement ... just that now I find it more difficult.

And then I try to give practical meaning to my pointless appearances, here are my part in the comedy of Moliere's "Don Giovanni" with the theater workshop that we are putting into the scene. He wants to be an exercise in memory and then I promise I will not copy the script! (I "." Correspond to the beats of the other characters).

--------------------------
I confess I am amazed that Ms. here and there waiting for!
.
.
.
Madam, there is Sganarelle here who knows the reasons why we are determined to go!
.
.
Next! You speak to the lady.
.
.
Answer, Yes or No!
. Next I say
answer!
.
.
Lady, to be honest.
.
. I confess
Lady, to conceal that there are no doors, because my nature to be honest, so I will say that there are always the same feelings towards you and does not reduce wait to join you, because, in short, be sure that I left only to escape. And not for the reasons I figured maybe you, but for pure case of conscience, and conviction because he could no longer live with you without sin. I have some qualms
born Lady and I have opened on my actions, the eyes of the heart. I thought that I had to get married I will cut off from the seclusion of a convent, which you have fallen short of the votes that oysters kept busy elsewhere, and, considering that the cilelo is jealous in some subjects, I feared his wrath, and I conquered by repentance.
Our marriage seemed like a transvestite adultery, which would have attracted some punishment from above. In conclusion, I thought I would do everything possible to forget you and give you the opportunity to return to your previous links. Would you ever Madam, oppose to such a thought saint. and keeping you with me, I would be likely to pull on him the wrath of heaven ... and ..
.
.
Sganarelle the sky!
.
Mrs. ..
.
.
Sganarelle, let's bring out our nice and firm!
---------------------------------------

Giurin guiretto ... I did not copy it open the script.

Red Checkered Tablecloth

We are in October 1996, the exact date I do not remember, words are written in free hand left-handed, this note is significant ...

_______________________________

write write slowly, being careful not to mistake
control the muscles of the hand
one at a time, follow to gaze upon the direction of the pen

ready to correct the glitch before it is too late
making incomprehensible sign.
Slowly, slowly savoring
experience the feelings that go through there,
taste the bitterness of life for
able to see the small changes
taste, look for the nuances of sweetness
that 'love, run into the salty taste
tears


change pen, change suddenly
even more attention, the ink is fresh
leaves traces that make writing even more fragile

fracile as the moments of happiness, as the perception of a

scent that lasts just long enough to trigger emotions and feelings
and then vanish, leaving orphans and scare those same emotions

written words, those who stumble,
running, jumping, deviate from the path
mirages of thoughts, feelings avalon Words and music

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That Head!

head! ... My ex used to say that my shot is in c.. him, surprisingly he was right, but basically all the former are a bit 'of reason, at least not cost anything to leave at least this satisfaction, I believe we can put in box of the benefits to be ex-together with the fact that, at least to them, I have more of the foot.

But I digress as usual.

head I was saying ... Yes, because I spent all day yesterday remembering what I should do this morning, switch to recover the above-mentioned memories of dusty books and begin the painful task of virtualization of the same. 7:30 pm

you turn on the radio alarm clock, azz ... an annoying rattle me awake, let alone if I do not moves the cable, looking sadly to an antenna, right just enough to lose the right tune ... a conditioned reflex that causes the trouble starts his arm and accidentally banging on the button right, ok I recover ...

7:45 am: breakfast, washing, dressing checklist and leave nothing and go to the garage ... Hours 8:40: second donning a helmet, gloves, check thoroughly that any opening is tightly closed to prevent the cutting edge of cold air to creep ...

9:00 am: Get off the bike in the office and a scream shakes the fresh air and through sleepy, "LA TESTAAAAA!" Already too busy to pick up the neuron that undermine and maintain contact with reality is necessary to reach the office ... has left behind its primary objective: the moleskine continue to discuss quietly with the dust in the garage! ...

This leaves the problem of completing the VLOG (Empty Blog) today with something present some ideas illuminated some sound bite, something clever ... Ok, you know I take the faithful mouse, move the pointer over the public felt about the post and greeting visitors zero than ever spend their precious time reading. See you tomorrow ...

Makeup Guides Before And Afters

beginning of the end

I always thought to be highly synchronized with life. Making a budget is always difficult and often starts from the wrong data, analyze yourself is like looking in the mirror: the image as is always true mirror image, perfect in every detail but desperately "guilty" ...

I do not know what to do with a blog, so far the most I've written diaries on improbable pseudo moleskine equally improbable moments in my life out of sync.

Write what and for whom?

What is the meaning of story or storytelling slowly seeing them appear on a monitor? And then, I've never been fond of web2.0, the potentialities of the absolute emptiness of the network, then what sense does it add anything to anything?

this morning sitting on the toilet, healthy physiological process, necessary for us boys, and also an opportunity for deep reflection about life the universe and everything ", the radio is playing" Blowing in the Wind "... that good old Bob was right? More pragmatically, I believe there are no answers but only to ask questions and arguments to justify the continuation of the "chimney" why "no hay stack, if the hare fireplace going."

All this rambling just to say that I shall take advantage of this space, or to retrieve my old journals, writings, opprobrium and offense to the Italian language, now miserably dusty in the cellar and the garage, faithfully reporting the deeds and misdeeds last 15 years (approximately).

opening of this place, I pointed out the chronic lack of synchronicity in my life, it confirms is that I am going to use this new tool to retrieve old things.

Let's see how it ends ... for now all!

Gallbladder Versus Flu

any women on the verge of a Saturday

There are mornings when I feel alien to all and I look around as if I had one eye and far away. I often find myself smiling in front of scenes of everyday life. Actually it is a life that I love and look around furtively as if I were to take a camera small scenes of the author. Realism. That's true, that of dusty roads and commuter rail ... ...
About trains this morning, in the usual 8:19 train that takes me to the office, usually crowded, as usual, being piled up with other commuters already nervous usual, I attended a chat with the usual normal women who were organizing to go to the hairdresser all together:

- Then Saturday ... go
- It is by force .. do you come from?
- But ... We went in the afternoon.
- No it's too late there is packed and then I have to do too many things ..
- Do you want to go in the morning?
- would be better that way then you have the afternoon free for shopping .. (wink ) come, too?
- But morning I get up later ..
- We make 14 ..
- Too late .. there are too many people, he's amazing .. the best time is the one .. while people are at lunch .. it's just us ..
- I do the streaks
- We give you as a bit 'color ..
- You?
- Li board and then perhaps the fold ..
- I dye ..
- What? You did something! You can be so ..
- Ah yes .. you say? Only then do the fold
- the fact .. ... ... But he makes them?
- now there are no girls
- He does not do anything
- No .. But to me they have cut him the last time ..
- Really ? ( in the meantime I thought .. and was not even with D'Artagnan foil ..)
- Okay, but they are very good ..
- and you want to come?

moment of panic, back to reality.
is because the question was directed at ME. I was the fourth of the group which listened in silence, shocked and somewhat amused, the exchange of jokes. To be noted that the first five minutes talking about people who tagged and addavano facebook, friends of a friend who asked the other .. and already I was being an observer of the 'oh my god but human beings are made to die .. "post-figurative aesthetic discussion trichological than I was shaken.
son was forced to return immediately
to reality - you have to go to cut but I go by my usual hairdresser who only sees me once a year when they are forced to cut. Even the blue dye from me I can only imagine if I put my hair in the hands of another! I know he is very good, but thanks, I prefer to avoid ....

... ... ... .... and then I eat at one ...!

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For all the long centuries before the Middle Ages, the focus was usually set up home in a central fireplace with the environment, with a hole in the roof above it as the only outlet for smoking.
This location had the advantage of spreading the heat evenly in all directions, taking the focus away from walls still mostly of wood and other flammable materials and poor.
From 1200 onwards, things start to change. Economic development, population growth and relative comfort, along with the magnification of the city, take basic consequences urban buildings. The replacement of the wooden houses with houses made of stone and brick (at the beginning or in the palaces of wealthy people and then more and more common) you, and together they suggest, move the fireplace from the center of the room at one of the walls: the stone wall enables the construction of a chimney, and prevents or reduces the risk of fire, allows you to put the fireplace in any room, using it to heat as well as for cooking.

was born the modern fireplace.
The technique of construction of the fireplace reaches perfection in the second half of the 800, just when the technical progress require the most efficient and economical method of heating such as stoves, and cookers (first then wood and coal and gas) as a method of cooking, relegating him to a subsidiary and ornamental.

fireplaces come back today to be a viable solution to heat all rooms in the house even on multiple floors, with high power and high efficiency, ensuring a constant temperature in all environments and the ability to choose the type of power depending on the convenience in terms of economic and energy savings.
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