Photography Thoughts

Archive for July 2008

Take even the soul,
sconvolgila,
surprise them,
transform it.
Let me still lose
breath,
reason,
take me to rediscover
forgotten places
And know
others only dreamed of.
Stravolgimi,
every moment, every moment,
because 'until' Avro 'breath,
I'll ask '
again.

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The Bank of Memory is a project non-profit dedicated to the collection of experiences and life stories of people born before 1940 in the form of "stories" of 10 minutes.

"Many of us probably remember with pleasure by children themselves, squatting on the legs of a grandfather, absorbed, careful not to miss a word of the stories we were told. These, over the years, are understood and remembered as real life experiences, lived.
Were told to teach what the experience had led to learn, because they sample, or to preserve the memory of lives lived out according to the customs and values of another age. For many of us the importance of these experiences is revealed and grew as they became "great" when we started to understand its true value. Then happens to find himself in research, to pursue what our "old" tell us they would know.

Before it disappears.

When this happens, when you are fortunate enough to be able to find time commitments among the thousands of daily life to sit and listen, you discover a world absolutely fascinating.

We would like this project can bring a little 'of this magic to anyone with ten minutes to devote.

The video is the means chosen is what we think "average" the least possible that a message must be "pure." The voice, faces, expressions are an inseparable part of a person and of his stories.

Not least, the Internet is intrinsically the average of young people or those that most of all recipients must become guardians of memory and experience. "

http://www.bancadellamemoria.it/

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Men do not change ... say a song.
But even women mica joke.
I would say that no person may change over time ... and someone gave me reason ...

There are people who regard the other as the tears in the kitchen ... dell'asciugatutto or paper towels or toilet paper.

They are convenient, useful end soon ... but their function and then? Well then you use it, until 'we can' use them, even if there looking for 'a few good corner .. or cleaned and then throw in the black bag, saying they have never been "useful" and were not always well.

I wish these people ritrovari in a beautiful bathroom with gold fittings, marble from Carrara, oils and incense, mirrors and jewelry, light and splendor. One of those dream bathroom, maybe some hotel or some Arab sheik, this? I said .. I wish these people to be in one of these baths ... and where 'almost a pleasure, "it" ... and left with a single tear of toilet paper and realizing later ...

Mettelela as you want ... but a little 'hands you dirty!

All this to say that usually when, having known, discussed, talked about a fight with someone, I realize that is worth less than a penny laundry and fake ... and 'hard I'm wrong. People then, perhaps, are also "pretend" to want to resume contact, "not to hold grudges and instead there is' always a dual purpose:" Friends are friends if they do what they tell you otherwise are not going well "This' their motto but never admit it.
But his friend and 'what you what you are against the face, telling you what I always think, that takes for you to things like that into their own ... only not understood and is often mistaken as one who "wants to make shoes "... that" creeps "and" wants to destroy. "

I like to surround themselves with their own kind ... there 'who calls natural selection, but those who can distinguish the places where "power to stay," to survive "or" having to avoid. "

A word of advice .. before shaking hands with a person and see if 'just out of the bathroom and under the nails ... check it, you never know ...

Ps if anyone should feel involved and wanted to know if I think part of that class of people ... do not have to do is ask. But I'm sure people will ask me 'will explain' who, with people above, has nothing to do ...

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This train runs, runs fast in the night. There are increased infant and I have never stopped.
The whole world passes by the window, I see the pool, but do not feel it!.
Oh, how I sometimes pull the emergency brake and open the door, stop, let it go to his fate, my destiny.
Running this train, loaded with people like me meet, you know, you love, ignore it "live".
I put a sign around my chest: "Stop, I will go down, but people laugh reading it, think of a game, a joke.

"He or she who becomes the slave of ... He or she who shuns passion ... He or she who does not overthrow the table ... He or she who abandon a project before starting it" (P. Neruda)
And how do I not die on this train that leads to death? I do not have space, I did not "air". Yet "I'm fine" and everything 'quiet, everything' "normal".
Maybe I am not normal, to look more and more ', wanting to see beyond, to launch and keep me ... And another train is approaching another milestone, marked another notch to life.

I think, I wonder, I wonder and I feel more and more 'fullness and emptiness in my full in my act.
I smile, smile still, there was no "cracks" even if the plaster occasionally yields.
I smile, smile still on whom and who is beside me. I can not and do not want to sell.

Around my sign, put it behind us and not the chest, I do not see more 'but I know that and it is' part of me.

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ARE OPEN FOR ENTRIES
9th Edition of the Literary Award of the Cultural Center Antonianum

The deadline was set for October 31, 2008. The works must be sent to Antonianum Cultural Center, 20120 Milan PO Box No. 12079, or may be handed in at the library of the CCA in Corso XXII Marzo 59, Milan during opening hours.

Award poeisa literary and narrative.
For the poetry section, each contestant must submit three to five
unpublished compositions, each not exceeding 40 lines, eight copies
only one of which should contain your name, address and
phone author.
For the fiction section, each competitor must send a short story
unpublished various kinds for a maximum of 25,000 characters, including
spaces, eight copies of which should contain only one name,
name, address and telephone number of the author.

details and rules governing membership

info taken directly from www.centroculturaleantonianum.it

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Sitting on the steps of the station marked a notebook all arrivals and departures, delays and connections.

Did not escape him nothing but ', every detail, every color, every expression.

Solitamnente calm in the midst of great confusion watched hundreds of men to go around ant knows' where.

The loudspeakers announced mechanically numbers of trains.
Lives are touching, eyes meet, souls are close to other souls, sometimes fit one inside the other expands and then fall off.
It 's a game, and' life ... few decisive encounters, many fights, sometimes even irritating.

Sitting on the steps of the station wrote.

Fell into a sheet, I picked it up.
Snapshots of life:
- Women with a red sweater. Alone. Find love.
- Businessman, busy, do not know who is losing his life.
- Grandpa with the grandchildren, a trip to recount past dreams.
- Madam runs home, awaits her husband hungry.
- Girl, runs. Must do their shopping at discount stores.
- Man, sad eyes. Not crying but is dying inside.

Lines full of "polaroid" ... real or fake caught moments of lost souls ....

Sitting on the steps of the station marked a notebook all arrivals and departures, delays and connections, but were looking for?

I found the answer in his eyes gaze din sought a face lost in time that indicates the train home.

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Sitting
the train of life
look at the scoreboard,
of arrivals and departures.
Souls touch souls
lives intersect lives.
I seek to look
now lost
to feel
home.

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Only now that
enlightens the sun,
you realize that they are
as I want.
Sailor without a boat,
painter without canvas
Discounted Items
discount to life.
Pit order
of incoherent conclusions,
registered trademark
of an outdated product.
Stationary at the roadside
finished drinking,
engraved on the soul my sentence:
returnable bottles.

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Memories, feelings, emotions ...
Relive the past, thinking ahead.
The loved ones who accompany you in life, glia friends, memories of being children.
And then find ... find your eyes to the future of your future ....
The sound of life, between melancholy and hope, memories and smiles.
The sound of life on our fingers, passing keys between blacks and whites ...

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H ow was there every day, with his white hair, his cane and his bag of memories.
The old man sat on the usual bench at Villa Borghese and listened to the sea.

Yes yes, I know that there 'the sea in Rome, but he knew that old feeling inside when the sea.

He was born in the land of the trulli, where the sound of the sea was the soundtrack of life, he knew how to hear the sea.
He had learned as a child in the last century, when "for fun" (or so 'he thought) the avevno wrote those numbers on her arm up there' in Germany.
Ash fell like snow, but could not play.
How many friends, relatives, acquaintances has seen since ... without going back and felt the sea. And then return home, only with brothers' small, an adventure, an odyssey, and still felt the sea ... The arrival in Rome, the help of someone "good", had learned a trade, apprentice factory and the uproar still sea ... He had married a "good girl" who had borne him five children before ... let alone to hear the sea.
Ah, those memories ... and as the sea.
Whenever you lose strength, hopes, looked inside himself in deeper and rediscover the sweet sound of the waves, sometimes the sea was too rough, they crash against the rocks of the soul, but the old man knew that its sea who could calm him down, even and especially in times of storm.

He sat for hours, gazing endlessly, occasionally stroking his arm, a faith that still wore the ring, his forehead full of wrinkles.
Sometimes he sighed, to get closer you could see his thoughts.
He trusted that old, yet he trusted who smiled .... and it 'also trusted me,
telling of his life and teaching me to listen to my soul as shell and find serenity 'in my view.

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