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I only write if you want because I'm trying a different world

The morning is the right key to open the day, I wake up just repeated spraying cold water on his face. And reveal the lock so as early may avoid the cowardice of the ordinary day.

Autumn warms her voice brisk in sleepy trills that echo in the arcades and I wait for the bus with his hands in his pockets and tranquility someone who knows that sooner or later they will come. The smell of the classroom is mixed aroma of coffee imports. The breeze that lifts me up the collar of his trench coat makes me feel like the newspaper of the city quickly peeled in front of a latte, while the chatter of two women with no age above the roar of combustion engine that sticks in the streets once beaten by coaches of gentlemen in suits.

I love this city because we live artists , when I thought, a student in jeans, I ran to class with an old man who smelled of wood from the cellar. Today I love it because of his red stone suggests stories to tell.

E 'look to the writings that I think when something or someone.

Thoughts crossing new frontiers of imagination sketched facts that never took place with the ability of the committed liar to hide his true intentions.

The characters can be born anywhere, I repeat myself. Under the hats of passers-by on sidewalks smeared with excrement and dog butts off, two clear eyes that are reflected in the window of a shop of musical instruments.

Extension of a pen from her bag and gave a couple of sentences suggested by my mood upon awakening.

I never wonder why I write. I just do.

The bus is not seen as yet I reached a call from Joseph Merico , writer Salento met online one morning in August when my universe promised encrypted words that I still could not decipher. His is a voice that smacks of tobacco and cork ornaments, I think.

"There's a bat," he says. "I see it, the people imprisoned in the loggia of the Palazzo Bentivoglio."

this shoot I know them. Should I ignore her or I'll end trip to see the transparent wings fluttering on me.

Spaghetti with clams and fried Paganelli, what do you think of lunch today? " I propose.

"The bat can not leave, stay here with him. And then what are sti paganelli? "He says.

I could get to the Palace and see that the bat is not there, but I will not follow the morning of a brain patterns of the south who can write better than me.

stress for lunch. From his house we could hear the river flowing by and see the garden of fruit trees greening the castle windows and mullioned windows.

"Let the fish market!" Continuous.

"First I have to settle the matter of the bat," he insists. When

Joseph makes up her mind about something, the intentions cling to his dreadlocks and there inevitably intertwine until an old African woman does not try to comb it with the firmness of a mother who wants him in evening dress.

"Never mind the bat!" I suggest. "I'll make a good dinner."

"On Sunday I can not write," she reveals. "There is a woman who sweeps the yard and I can not write" he says.

"But today is Monday," I correct.

"Yeah!" He said satisfied. "We're kind midweek."

And while not feel its cadence.

I see him walking through the crowd to start a week with his words written on a white towel. He never wonders why he writes. It does stop.

The sun makes its way between the buildings lining the street. Down the street I see come out of the bus.

Arousal During Male Waxing

THE FEEL A STRANGE SEASON

"It is off the sun and you're off the person who" sang Celentano between the grooves of old vinyl that I listened to my mother as a child, sitting on stone steps the beach house.

But the sun seems never to be extinguished in the land of wind and insists conceited on the backs of the last few vacationers who play beach tennis and reading novels, sipping the liquid well publicized free of synthetic mint granita.

pedal on the promenade of new roundabouts and flower beds, with trousers rolled up and cap, looking for news on behalf of a magazine whose name beaches of Italy, knows of sand in the cuffs of his trousers and grilled fish at 'open. With me, a camera, a notebook of paper label and a mobile phone. Illusion, 'door, an unlikely contact with the world.

"Write to the beaches is working for you!" I assured her friend historic sangria in front of a large glass. And look for news from the umbrellas closed can be more stimulating than an afternoon in the company of a Russian who speaks English worse than me and does not know a word of Italian.

From the street signs of businesses leaving the challenge after seasonal argue until the last swimmer while someone is running out to clean chairs and beds and dream of winter in Polynesia.

I stop to take some pictures and a woman with white hair and earrings old bill is approaching with a smile of someone who has something to talk about.

"To see you I can think of one word, independence !" Attacks. "And freedom! "He adds.

I imagine Lady Liberty in New York Harbor, with seven-pointed crown and torch.

smile at her.

The woman approaches.

"Yesterday I made eighty!" He says.

less I could have sworn, I think looking at the life pulsing in her eyes still bright.

He tells me of her. Of his struggle to be free. His disbelief of being aged. The face of aristocratic, austere and sweet as the women of the past. The calm voice, pauses to look for the right thing to say, with the air of one who feels that the time deadline does not allow corrections or retractions. I'm fine with her. She says her name is Loredana. He caresses her hair. I let her do. "I took them so long, you know," he says touching the tip of her perfect coiffure hairstyle. Sessions covered up on the wall just past the summer we enjoy the air of another afternoon that goes away.

Autumn has already made his entrance and steal a few minutes of light each day, I think. Soon the country will wear its colors. A color scale of red and yellow paint next to the fall foliage and the smell of chestnuts on the fire will give a new flavor to the streets in the city.

"Freedom is to change your mind "I agreed with one day a friend of blog," ... and to reverse the order of the seasons, "I add. And even if the first of the evening mist announces the time of his boots and turtleneck, I swear I saw a field of primroses, farther on, where someone is preparing for the holiday.

George Petty Christmas

I began to photograph in the summer of my sixteen years with a Minolta underwater yellow sunflowers and the surprise of an age which provided upsets. The first shots daring, against the backdrop of a beach that smelled of pizza heated and cherry ice cream, depict the faces of friends that the storm season is late summer wore on. Random shots of those precious smiles in salted first moments of freedom. Then came the time of the SLR, an Olympus used the 1974, companion travel to European capitals and eager young lover of portraits and backlighting. I brought along the canals of Amsterdam, in the cold windy morning of Copenhagen, the land of Vikings and bold blue eyes. I followed her to parties, including paper cups and slices of cake left in half. He captured the trills of a silver trumpet played outdoors and the chiaroscuro of the keyboard of a grand piano. E 'Up in the mountains, down the valleys of a summer that reflected in lakes in the company of fishermen from the food that smelled of brandy drunk at four in the morning. He stopped the antics of a boy who has no voice and those pants that put a paw in the disco, fields of sunflowers, past loves and belly naked pregnant friend and the first breeze.

Thanks to photography I met my mother, daughter, met the frightened face of my grandmother in wedding dress and found the old two-seater car that drove my father when I still had not this life. On the images taken and I wanted to cry. Smile and relived. Although I have framed some moves, other fire ripped though a right.

's night. Browse the past shots of a strange meeting in Tuscany. Before me the familiar faces of a single meeting.

the former is a poet. The bony face and graceful. He has handsome features and a heart child. In the other, a red-haired prince searches the hill thinking of hunters in search of pheasants. Then again, the poet, smokes and hides the fatigue of a sleepless night. Here, a photographer with a beard and glasses looking for his shot and edited a fairy-eyed woman smiled thinking about it already found. In the other, a young girl's hair seem to be moving in the wind. Somebody let slip Roman accent on the nose a pair of dark glasses. Someone else seems to hide behind his glasses sudden migraine. Two men look at each other accomplices. Here again the poet who attempts a dip in the pool. In this other guy with a green jersey smiles and does not believe to be photogenic. Then, the sinuous profile of a girl who reflects the watchful eyes of two women face similar. And yet the poet who embraces a girl than forty years and an overview of the sunset over the olive grove.

We are all more beautiful when the light fades , think. I look at and respect. A spiral of faces that are followed imprisons and holds all my imagination and the silence of the night is passing is diluted with the first hints of dawn sleepy, sly.

"The Photographs can reach eternity through the moment, "said Cartier-Bresson, capturing the minute while peering from the viewfinder of an old Leica. Perhaps it is this eternity I'm looking for, still awake at this time.

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Cerquetti INTEGRALE

VINCENZO BELLINI: NORMA


Anita Cerquetti Renato Gavarini · Fedora Barbieri ° Giuseppe Modesti
Choir and Orchestra of the Teatro San Carlo in Naples
Matio Rossi Anita Cerquetti of Franco Corelli · Miriam Pirazzini ° Giulio Blacks · Gianella ° Piero Borelli Palma
Orchestra and Chorus of the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma Gabriele Santini
Miriam Pirazzini ° Giulio Blacks · Gianella ° Piero Borelli Palma
Orchestra and Chorus of the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma Gabriele Santini
Paul Washington · Valiano christmas · Augusto Frati · Lidia Toncelli Caravita · ° Carlo Maria Lorenzo Bertlini · Texts
Choir and Orchestra of the Teatro Comunale in Florence, Carlo Maria Giulini
Luigi Cherubini: THE ABENCERRAGI



Anita Cerquetti · Lois Roney · Alvino Misciano · Mario Petri · Aurelian Neagu ° Paolo Washington · Valiano christmas · Augusto Frati · Lidia Toncelli Caravita · ° Carlo Maria Lorenzo Bertlini · Texts
Chorus and Orchestra of the Teatro Comunale in Florence, Carlo Maria Giulini
Lidia Toncelli Caravita · ° Carlo Maria Lorenzo Bertlini · Texts
Choir and Orchestra of the Teatro Comunale in Florence, Carlo Maria Giulini
° Giuseppe Modesti · Lucia Danieli · Mario Frosini ° Alberto Lotti Camici
Choir and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino Emidio Tieri Franca Sacchi · Cesare Siepi · · Mario del Monaco, Giulietta Simionato, Ettore Bastianini · · Giorgio Giorgetti · Athos Cesarini · Help Pasek · Edio Peruzzi Choir and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino, Gianandrea Gavazzeni

GIOACCHINO ROSSINI: GUGLIELMO TELL






Anita Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau Cerquetti · ° Gianni Yahya ° Giuseppe Modesti · Ivan Sardi · Jolanda Mancini · Giannella Borelli Pirino ° Antonio ° Sergio Nicolai ° Enrico Ciampi · Tommaso Solely ° Sergio Liliana
Choir and Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano RAI Mario Rossi Borelli Pirino ° Antonio ° Sergio Nicolai ° Enrico Ciampi · Tommaso Solely ° Sergio Liliana Symphony Orchestra and Chorus of RAI Milan
Mario Rossi ROSSINI: MOSES



Anita Cerquetti ° Nicola Rossi-Lemeni · Agostino Lazzari ° Giuseppe Taddei ° Gianni Yahya · Thomas Frascatti · Pliny Clab · Anna Maria Rota · Rosanna Cartieri ° FERRUCCIO Mazzoli
Choir and Orchestra of the RAI
Tullio Serafin RAI
Tullio Serafin Clab · Anna Maria Rota · Rosanna Cartieri ° FERRUCCIO Mazzoli
Choir and Orchestra of the RAI
Tullio Serafin San Carlo di Napoli Gabriele Santini 24.09.1958

GIUSEPPE VERDI: AIDA






Anita Cerquetti · Flaviano Labo · Neil Rankin · Terms Treigle · Fernando Corena · Cornell MacNeil
Chorus and Orchestra of the Palace of Fine Arts Antonio Narducci Emidio Tieri Florence Liliana Poli ° Enzo Guagni ° Paolo Rena Gary falacia
· Washington Chorus and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino
Antonino Votto Cerquetti ° Angelo Lo Forese · Cesare Siepi · Fedora Barbieri, Ettore Bastianini · ° Giulio Blacks · Liliana Poli ° Enzo Guagni ° Paolo Rena Gary falacia · Washington Chorus and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino Antonino Votto

GIUSEPPE VERDI: Ernani





Anita Cerquetti · · Mario del Monaco, Ettore Bastianini, Boris Christoff · Choir and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino Dimitri Mitropoulos
· · Mario del Monaco, Ettore Bastianini, Boris Christoff ·
Choir and Orchestra of the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino Dimitri Mitropoulos Anita Cerquetti ° Piero Miranda Ferraro · Giulietta Simionato ° Aldo Protti · Boris Christoff Renato Capecchi ° Antonio Vera Presti Massaria · · Adelio Zagonara · Eraldo Coda Renzo Gonzales
Orchestra and Chorus of RAI
Nino Sanzogno Rome Bellas Artes
Antonio Maducci




GIUSEPPE VERDI: Il trovatore

Anita Cerquetti · Carlos Bergonzi · Jean Madeira · Giangiacomo Guelfi · Giuseppe Modesti
Chorus and Orchestra of the Palace of Fine Arts
Rocco Guadagno

GIUSEPPE VERDI: The Sicilian Vespers




Anita Cerquetti ° Carlo Tagliabue ° Giulio Ferrein · Mario Nettle · Myths rigged Peace · Boris Christoff · Tommaso Solely · Santa Andreoli · Christiano Dalamangas ° Walter Artola
Symphony Chorus and Orchestra Turin RAI Mario Rossi ° Walter Artola Symphony Orchestra and Chorus of RAI Turin Mario Rossi ° Giulio Ferrein · Mario Nettle · Myths rigged Peace · Boris Christoff · Tommaso Solely · Santa Andreoli · Christiano Dalamangas ° Walter Artola
Symphony Orchestra and Chorus of RAI Turin
Mario Rossi

CARL MARIA VON WEBER: OBERON




Anita Cerquetti · Mirto Picchi · Petre Munteanu ° Piero de handheld Miram Pirazzini
Symphony Orchestra and Chorus of RAI Milan Vittorio Gui Anita Cerquetti · Mirto Picchi · Petre Munteanu · Piero de Palma · Miram Coro e Orchestra Sinfonica Pirazzini di Milano della RAI
Vittorio Gui completely deleted, as against a lack of ability to think helps in this context, no prosecution.

If the rule. Today is the exception.

On 02 September 2006 at 08:44:10 Clock I received to my post cerquetti INTEGRALE by a person unknown to me until now - a certain Pierre Ceccaldi - following "comment":


"I find quite a scandal you use others' work for your blog. Almost ALL your records covers were stolen from the site I manage for Mme Cerquetti Cerquetti and that I made for her and some friends. Please, correct all this or we shall warn justice. "
I do not have proof of identification or at least an email address of the accused enjoys, it is important first to take this opportunity objectively answered as follows:
The charge of theft and / or plagiarism is not correct and I as these back with determination and demand at the same time the author of this allegation - Pierre Ceccaldi - hereby, to avoid this false declaration with immediate effect. In the event of infringement, I announce precautionary action to.

the extent that the required legal intervention.


I return now rather back to the real purpose of my blog ... This makes perfect in themselves and in small and unimportant text of the accused has now so many curiosities that I can not help him at this point - and exact, for this reason - to devote some further comments ...


01 creating the the blog CERQUETTISSIMA seemed to me - particularly in relation to my other blogs - as a necessity. The need is justified by the risk that the discographical heritage of the soprano Anita Cerquetti threatens to be forgotten, and the maneuverability is precisely this quasi minimalist attempt to awaken to this heritage, at least for one or the other blog visitor interest. An act for the purposes of the "remembrance" and the critical discussion - and not the devotionalisierten rapture. Affirmative junk collection is not my thing.

02 The real Background: In two German standard works - by Jurgen Kesting and Jens Malte Fischer - on the great singers of the XX. Century: Anita Cerquetti is virtually no mention of one word (for Kesting only within a ranking).
03
The critical assessment of the artistic legacy of this extraordinary soprano is at the heart of all (future) contributions. A recourse to biographical facts and data will only ever made music-analytical and historical perspective. The privacy of the bourgeois Anita Cerquetti person left out.


04
find on my blog, three links to Anita Cerquetti. The link "Anita Cerquetti [1]" leads directly to the site Anita Cerquetti. " Not clear is whether this is an "official" or "unofficial" website.

05 The local "credits" include only the workforce Bob Rideout (USA), Geoffrey S. Riggs (USA), Armando Bona (USA), Todd Wolkoff (USA), Jaume Tribo (Spain), Felipe Cunha (Brazil ) on. "Copyright, documents and web design: Belza.org (France). © 1996 -. 2005 "In Belza.org concerns according to my information a "Cabinet de communication multi-media. Internet, photo, PAO. "A responsible for the content of legal person is not shown.

06 The name of the - keep Grace - mistakenly accuse echauffierten found ... anywhere. Having resulted in the assertion "... the website I manage for Mme Cerquetti Cerquetti and that I made for her and some friends"
only allows the conclusion that the accused employee or owner of the Belza.org is. As this remains unproven, despite research, is unauthorized by law the accused is unknown, and thus in relation to the site.


07
Another site Anita Cerquetti "I am not (yet) known.


08 What worship frenzy one might come too: a website is by nature a global issue and just any private fetish act more - or better: the direct or indirect Exhibitionierung any - not fictional - Information, etc. for each site constitutive. This applies equally to the website Anita Cerquetti "like on this blog» CERQUETTISSIMA. " Since we and any work of art no longer "... in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (Benjamin) live, but in the long time = virtual space economistic raffles Entities around trot is a - on the work of individual artists - focused work of memory, at least one
possibility of action.
09 sources published on this page cover illustrations: his own and other private collections, music archives, libraries, bookshops, internet etc.


10
The copyright for this cover is

solely by the companies, these recordings have published. So the labels such as Andromeda, Decca (Universal), Living Stage, Myto Records, Valhalla, etc.

11 Since my blog and only proven non-commercial Intentioned, this form of release from the companies without transferring rights is accepted, since they regard nature as a free promotional material such dissemination.

12 The published short discography of some more or has been commercially available recordings will now really is not an original - and thus protected by copyright - plant capacity dar. That the discographies of the website and blogs are largely the same: what a surprise ? - We have not even 20 full shots.

13
In stark contrast to the accused is also a very important goal of my publications, to point to the very existence of the recordings by Anita Cerquetti. And there may please download any visitor to its hard drive and / or distribute what he wants. by even a single person should first deal with the singing Anita Cerquettis: it would have been truly worthwhile.


14
I am confident that the leading figure in the well deserving website Anita Cerquetti "a moderating influence on Mr Ceccaldi be.
on Cerquetti Web site that the following sentence: Anita Cerquetti's discography is most of all> non official '. So, you find one of her records when, get it immediatly. "

D'accord!
ABSALOM

Tech Deck Element Shop Pt

PICTURES UNDER A MANTLE OF STARS JUST MARRIED


My Summer in Rome continues.

I buried the sadness in a foreign land, and between photographs and uncertain steps on the ancient cobblestones, I enjoy the leave from the stresses of everyday life jamming and a new freedom that smells like coffee in a large cup of barley.

E 'evening in Trastevere. The few remaining Roman in the city to the streets with smiles and tan mixed voices of ice cream and cold beer. The kidnapped tourists wander by so much beauty, sip drops of wonder and express desires that they know sweet life and starlings screaming. A woman with white hair pushes air into the bellows of an accordion and two girls are told by bicycle tires deflated by rolling pieces of life with the happiness of young girls in the back of a first date. I

pizzeria to celebrate the birthday of a princess exotic.

The Remains of the town passes my shoulders, kneading the shuffling of sandals and sneakers to the fluttering of seagulls in flight. A feeling is spreading among the menu items and takes jovial man's grizzled face and chubby sits in front of me. He, by the Neapolitan comic actor and innate shoulder of one of the few men of the show I've ever really loved , is sitting at a table in the company of exuberant youth.

E 'Lello Arena.

The sad eyes of those who are too busy to heal the spirits of others and that gleam that shines on the faces of celebrities and draws stares and amazement of onlookers.

I watch him. He does not see me.

Who is it? What to do with my life? Basically I do not know, but I would like to talk to him.

not I never felt much enthusiasm for the famous. In Bologna, I have seen many. Cesare Cremonini Biagio Antonacci.

I met Gianni Morandi in the house, Franca Valeri bus. I walked alongside Samuele Bersani towards university classrooms. Ayrton Senna romped through the underpass at the Grand Prix in Imola. I turned down a dinner invitation from Nelson Piquet and was in the pub with Alberto Tomba. I spoke with Neffa and Luca Carboni, Claudio Santamaria and Katia Ricciarelli.

I met Roberto Benigni at the Thai Milano Marittima, Nicoletta Braschi in a popular restaurant in Bologna, Eros Ramazzotti early in his career and Vasco Rossi in a bar in the Via Emilia. I returned the wink of Alessandro Haber front of the theater, the greeting of Patrizio Roversi cycling. I risked investing Jean Alesi with a Samba red one April morning and danced with Mick Hucknall of Simply Red, with flared trousers and a long necklace of red stones.

Lello Arena is still at his table. Now look at him in the eye and smile. I'm excited to see him. Is it because he still lingers near the grimace Massimo Troisi. Or because it's about theater, music, actors. Or because I've never been to Naples, but tonight it's like Naples and its one thousand culure had come to me.

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"Getting married is not difficult," says Andie MacDowell in Four Weddings and a Funeral . "Just answer yes all the questions you do."

are to marry the friend historical .

in the garden of an eighteenth century villa decorated by frescoes and valuable breathing air Faenza under a wide brimmed hat and large white polka dots and blacks. A lawn tickles the new leather shoes and elegant jazz orchestra accompanying an aperitif-style ceremony.

What do I eat? On the big table full of food trays

of oysters on a bed of ice cubes of frozen water that give the Romagna countryside scent of the sea that is good on everything, like the color of leather handbags from some lady.

The chatter of the guests is the backdrop to notes of a sax that sings old melodies.

Among the guests, old friends, fine professionals, women show that fans of peacock feathers and colored men in the hills cast, starched shirts of their best.

Seven hundred and fifty candles light up the dirt paths where Carducci and D'Annunzio loved to walk, while children chase each other among the trees decorated with bows secular generous foliage silent.

sip champagne and watch her acting within precious. An ivory-colored surrounds the forms, the blond hair and twisted. He smiles. From

students spent entire summers in the sun to bake. There was never enough.

see her in her costume color jeans. It 's always been beautiful, graceful. Long blonde hair and an ostentatious topless on the canvas that he knew of salt the legendary George catamaran.

Her husband is a lawyer, like her after all, and loves to make me laugh.

Appearance his lines like a sketch show has just begun. Jokes about his wallet lightened, the aunts who are still waiting ex boyfriend all the doctor and follows the timetable laid down. Launch of the bouquet from the balcony. Change of clothes for after dinner and music by inviting rhythm. And then, waiters strutting, restless photographers, the make-up "truccatizzimo," the witness asleep and a cascade of confetti petrified in scented candles.

dance, drink, eat, and I sweat till night. With my friends not seen for years. A doctor and a pharmacist in Florence, Bologna stir on the illuminated runway. A look at two kids seem drunk with the joy of a holiday unexpected.

Spouses thank you kiss and I'm happy and sad, and I think when the girlfriend wed, age in ten minutes.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERE

There are days when the keyboard writes itself. Makes use of my fingers. I look at them in silence while beating letters in sequence and I leave work ...

Why I woke up so early? The house is still upside down. I can not find a shoe. The door slams in the face of the building to a wet morning and immoral. Crumbs on the floor of a movie, a pizza plastic between swallowing a sip of beer and a cigarette without filter. The stench of smoke is devouring the plaster walls in a few minutes will reached the red stone cooked. I feel my stomach cramps tattered emptied. What happened in the night? Two bare feet emerge from a plaid blanket thrown on the couch. A tattooed arm swings carefully to the rhythm of a breath too sleepy. My body is no longer the same. The skin no longer has my smell. In my head it sounds an unlikely band of rowdy slamming sticks on my sore temples.

I just hope I have not exaggerated. The last time they took Charlie arrested the night.

But Charlie is not. He always does what he wants. Wins its share of the world with the innocence of a child's eyes and those dark curls resting on shoulders. I could never get mad at him.

Pass hand over his face and meeting my face. The sweaty forehead, his eyes tired. I have something on your nose. I mirror. Another piercing.

"Fuck Charlie! This time you could at least tell me! "

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where the sea shines

's full season in the land of the wind. On the terraces of the waterfront hotel towels colored files show the flags of foreign countries and the roadside crowd parked cars. I walk on the shoreline as dawn stretches his hands on a pink beach yet quiet and orderly. The air is the breeze and sparkling blend time by returning an image with mixed fruit smoothie and papaya.

Avanzo lazy and like the protagonist of my novel, I think of my first wish. Emerge from the water just tanned my feet making their way between spray and gnawed shells and in this portion of the time you only hear the swish of waves sleepy morning.

In the distance I see the port.

I continue walking and already the first swimmers begin to prey on the beach portions of the pirates as a part-time while away the modest high-rise towers of Milano Marittima, witnessed blatant VIP parties and reserved for the auctioneer to auction lovers walkways. Somebody runs

muscles and melting winter sluggishness. Sellers abusive stretch their eyes noticed with counterfeit goods. And old ladies walk cotonate breathing air for a fee.

keep walking through the stretch of beach. A colony of the freedom of the children barks first holiday without parents. Their screams give way to the tam tam holiday that takes the stage with no pretense of applause.

At every step the beach hues in two pieces and shorts.

The smell of suntan covering the salinity of the west wind and the stillness becomes chaos. Within minutes the noise of chatter under the umbrella above the timid voice of the calm sea. Cell phone ringtones, games and gossip rackets and coconut oil are no longer out of tune a choir director.

I make my way among the people. The sun settles down its forces and a light grip pressure on my calf untrained.

The end is near.

few more steps and hit the rocks that draw the area.

is the port! Board of moorings for luxury cars and flooded yard of shady dealings and illegal trade. On the pier

recognize the smell of the sails and fuel.

I do not know because I walked this morning just to be here.

As a child I was there with my grandfather. Sitting on the dock waiting for the arrival of vessels to see the effort of tanned men returning from a night at sea. I watched them place boxes of fish jumping and listened to their dialect elevated tell companies impossible. Folded the nets, put his arm on the front and in their undershirts stained always smiled at me.

My grandfather I never confessed, but the fisherman had become my second wish.

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Saints pay my lunch there's no romantic city

A blog is like a square. Anyone is allowed to transit, at all hours. There are stories. Pieces of life as prone to fast food. Laws and swallow. We are behind you drink a sip of beer poor, and you go elsewhere. When you're hungry you go back. Eat other words. If you are satisfied to leave comments. A piece of cake for those who come after you. A coca cola cans. A lit cigarette.

I look at the pages of my blog.

How many are featured here?

Poets and writers, discrete pens and desecration, pundits and onlookers, journalists and pimps. Travellers who have lightened the web browsing working days at the time of a click.

How many will return?

who come after them?

A blog is like a square. Sometimes it is crowded with happy faces, the tourists take pictures. At other times it is dark with the street sweepers that sweep away the exuberance of the last public charity concert. We catch up with old friends riding a bicycle, seductive glances of passers-by. And if you have time you can stop to chat with a madman who screams in the trash or the lady who walked the dog combed the fashion.

On a blog to get there by accident. Follow your instincts. Start Pages as matryoshkas. Color, appearance, mentioned profiles of individuals who hide behind fictitious identity. Today

back night in Bologna. The light fades on the red roof, "the people back home in front of the television," and while I wonder how people have ended up on my blog someone tries to chat.

"Hello" attacks.

answer to the greeting.

It 's a boy. He says he writes stories. He says it happened on my blog in the most odd that I can imagine.

I challenge him to tell.

not want to do, says ashamed.

I hope that does not begin to tell Filthy because I close the chat and not reopen again.

He asks me not to laugh. I promise not to do so. He begins to tell.

It seems that someone has read the papers. But I got to do that? I think. That "someone" has suggested a name for something that had to do with his journey. That name was Lucia and he has tried anywhere.

I can not keep his promise and I laugh.

He does not get angry, laugh with me.

It 's a strange night. The wind slams doors and windows and upstairs to discuss some old issues become known to the whole building.

A blog is like a square, I think. Not a place that mixes magic and imagination.

I do not know how you all you've come here. Of course I have had the patience to follow my stories. I wanted to best serve the dishes, pour in your vintage wine glasses and toast to the season that surrounded him. But it's just a fast food restaurant. Cheap words to eat between flights of pigeons and a chewing gum spat out that if you're not careful you stick under your feet.

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not coming back to Rome from the days when lively and mischievous carry around the age of the driver's license with a ponytail and an earring black.

memories, a night in Piazza Navona , escape through the eaves of a hotel for students and a beauty that breathed evenly spread on our bold imagination.

It 's a sunny afternoon in the capital. The girl Trastevere is leaving the computer, I came to meet with the keys to the city. "Where are you going?" He asks.

"Wherever there is a piece of this city," I reply.

walk on the ground beaten a dense pine forest that recalls the country's wind. And 'the entrance to Villa Pamphili. Some say it was dear to D'Annunzio, someone else runs on his 184 acres to dispose of pounds of food too rich and think about the costume that seems to have lost a size. The lawn covers the eyes, a honey-colored dog savors her freedom and sculpted bodies without heads in white, seem an invitation not to think.

If I had a garden so filled him with yellow roses. Planting Dutch tulips and violets.

If I had a garden so I would call friends. Trace the path with flickering torches and fill the glasses of red wine iron.

A tree with long arms and generous foliage protects our words from the heat that melts a soy ice cream.

Rome is a set. Everywhere you look, wherever you are, the goal of any filmmaker has already arrived before you. There the Rome of Fellini, De Sica to. Roma Greenaway, Pasolini. E ' a celluloid dream of this city. Yet it is a beating heart. There are voices crying in the streets.

If I had a thousand bodies leave them roaming the streets of downtown. One along the Tiber, the other at the Orange Garden. One in Piazza di Spagna and the other in the Circus Maximus. An al fresco museum, the other in Villa Borghese.

If I had a thousand bodies under a tree I would not be breathing this air forever. Capturing images as flowers and carrying a sheaf in Rome who has not yet seen.

"Where are you going?" Insists the girl of Trastevere.

"Where can I see everything," I reply.

As caring and attentive guide took my hand. We follow an uphill road. Elegant buildings, oleanders and wisteria in bloom. To the right of the dome, left the houses of the rich. The car stops. A terrace in front of us greet the entire city. And 'the sunset.

At every step I feel the emotion as a desperate knock on the door. The thousand bodies one by one back with a film of photographs taken and a ticket for the subway. They Fellini, Pasolini are. They are De Sica, are Greenaway. I leaned over, and the eye of my lens I see the paradise.

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IO

It 's a new day in Bologna. The morning falls upon me like a plaster ceiling that collapsed in an earthquake.

When someone rubs my fantasy with sharp knives, I leave the nightmares trapped between the threads of the fabric that covered me in the night, I open the door of an old dark wood furniture, flip through old vinyl records and port my sleepy body to discover the wonders of a life that continues.

was 1981 when he died. Romantic and sad, mixed with humor and sarcasm in a black cylinder head and the anger of a South that suffered under the sun ill. His name was Rino Gaetano and now sing for me.

"I write" attack with a persuasive voice, "because if you want to look for a different world, with neon stars and a little universe, and I feel like a hero in his spare time."

I listen.

Embrace the cover of his album while he continues to sing. "... I will write about the world and its ugliness, on my public image and the dark room on my past and my fears ...."

I look at him. He strokes the dog. The stylus cuts the groove of the disc. Attacks "You Mary."

"And when the sun is setting, a love song, from Baja in Salvador, oh Maria will sing for you. " His words

alternate instruments in concert knows that prickly pear and roads that unroll in the southern countryside. The tapping of fingertips on the skin of the bongos is a breeze ancestral calling to which I can not resist. I must dance.

barefoot on the wood I move to the rhythm of Latin percussion. My hips are mandolin and sway from the time of the steel ropes that move on the sound box inlaid. The blood pump with a new cadence and the head is guided by the notes that surrounded him. I raise my arms. I turn up the volume.

"And this strange taste that is made of freedom today tells me that something has changed in me oh Maria
you are no longer with me. "

He continues to sing.

My hands hit the plates of an imaginary drums. The legs are handles guitars that change with distance agreements. The song you panting breath.

The air coming out from the bell of the trumpet section in my uncombed hair.

Tour on myself, I nonetheless. Oscilloscope. I shake and I get heat.

He continues to sing.

"And when the sun is setting, a love song, from Baja in Salvador, Maria will sing oh oh oh ..."

I dance, and while dance is a metaphor, as Degas said, or are they just possessed, as it was my grandmother. But the heart vibrates, settles his shots, pushes back the emotion, and every time I hear it so, I'm almost happy.

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FRANCIS DANCE ALONE!

In Bologna there is the sea, everybody knows that. However you feel the flow of water from rivers that cross the Po. Channels hidden architecture pimp, carrying bottles without messages in the damp darkness of ancient groundwater.

It 's a trivial town Sunday to the gardens. A lawn of bodies in the sun consoles the desire of the beach. Costumes, suntan lotion and squeals of children complete the trick and we are victims of a conscious deception, we are on the Riviera.

On grassland, which returns the lazy days of past moisture, roll a ball American. A dog chasing a Frisbee and a small fluorescent woman is wearing a walking cloud sugar that tastes like country fair and carnivals. Lying on the grass listening

distracted the student spirit of a group of friends. "How you keep the salad in the refrigerator" and "How many years living camels" are just the beginning of an exchange of words that makes me smile while illegal in My eyes closed dissolves the green eyes that did not see again.

The calm reigns on the afternoon Felsineo. The old snort the fresh air of the branches of trees and strange tattoos blueggiano on the skin of skaters.

"Francis!" Cries a mother with a cool drink in hand.

Two girls look and burst out laughing.

"Frank" to call back.

"These women can not even look after a child!" Said a guy with a newspaper under his arm.

"Francis! Francesco ", the cry insists secure.

"Francis! Francis! Francis! "Becomes despair.

goliards I leave the chatter and reach the woman stirred. Your child is five years old, shorts and a bright red T-shirt. He says it's gone.

"Francis!" Back screaming.

"Francis!" Her voice choking. A committee

suddenly mobilized. Silenced, the two men standing by as the fear that deforms the face of the woman in another stifling tears cry.

Someone called the police. The collective flow

dramatic news reports. Pedophilia, abductions, the black market of the corneas. The woman continues marks the time to cry and endless minutes.

"Francis! Francis! "Call in chorus. The entire lawn is silenced, when the eyes meet unbelievers among the children who stopped to smile and trees that create dangerous areas of shadow, a red shirt advances weeping and humiliated. The mother sees it without looking. Reborn. "I was just trying a fountain!" Mumbles through her tears. The two embrace. The alarm. The guys back in the sun while you can still hear voices shouting "Francis!" I think that when you love someone, you should never lose sight of it.

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AND YOU STILL REMEMBER THE OUTDOOR HOT WATER

E ' morning. A flash distorts the outlines of what looked familiar, thunder splits the air and the voice of nature cries its sovereign authority over things of life.

I stay in bed a little 'to listen to the silences that make old fears resurface.

The storm in the city is like a show that is staged in the wrong theater. The setting is reduced. The trees are falling replacing ferrous antennas hoisted on the roofs of houses. The extras are pigeons that are hidden under the arcades. The water quenches any ground but flows along the walls of ancient buildings in sandstone and shapes the waist.

Everywhere is a new freshness and roar down on the dry dusty roads paved.

The aroma is that of wild berries and poisonous mushrooms that grow on the bark rare scattered in hidden gardens.

Bologna remain in apnea for not drowning.

I'm still in bed wrapped in sheets and yellow hair. Someone in some other cities, read comics that I've never liked my neighbor and withdraw quickly clothes hanging in dialect cursing.

One time I was on the beach on days like this. There is always something happening when there was a thunderstorm. The thin light tan and I enjoyed the exalted the absence of tourists that left the sand just for me.

When the wind got up there, too. He was blond, the Irish mother, the father a fisherman. He carried his surfboard on the shore and never spoke. I watched him hoist the sail, attach the boom and disappear far away. He wore a cobalt blue suit that left two strong arms and expert findings and cut the waves like dolphin impatient. I always expected his return walk along the shoreline while peering through his hair to keep me out. He faced the stormy sea. The domava as you do with young foals kicking off the bridle first, then gained the shore tired and happy. One day she waved and blew a kiss to me. Behind him, a shy rainbow disappeared.

The rain calmed down. The roar of the cars did not include the screaming of the swallows. Soon I will return to the country and I hope to face the wind storm.

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Summer has exploded as the joy of the winner. The hum of air conditioners turned steals the serene face to the terraces on the roofs of Bologna and the voices of the vulgar television announce anything with great enthusiasm.

The weight of the last days I carry him. My shoulders sag. It 's just a moment, I think. When the work out and poisoned life redden more than thirty degrees, is that I need a shower. A fall of water that water good humor.

walk barefoot on the cool marble of this old house. The thick walls shield me from the city heat and the heavy curtains from prying eyes as I leave traces of clothes on the floor and bounces a hypnotic music notes, epic.

nettle shampoo, conditioner of the fairies, wide tooth comb and natural foam. Within the tank mosaic green, pull the tent canvas and close my eyes waiting for the jet. The first drops, such as steel pins, stick to cold on the face and wake me up from the torpor of a sunny afternoon. Embrace the hot water you want without suffering, and I wait confident and spreads the scent of a cream bath. The water is always colder.

He pushed her back. Chrome fittings on a layer of condensation announces the frost. "Holy ... put." Swear, and go out of the tub dripping. The wrinkled skin as goose squawking annoyed air of a little girl with a broken toy.

Beyond the window of the boiler can not see flames and a slimy pond takes shape at my feet. I try to start the fire but nothing to do. As an ice cream that melts under the hot sun I wander the house looking for a box of matches. I find them and returned shivering. We'll try and try again. The light turns on.

"The waiver is also wisdom," said my math teacher. And I am not wise to try to exhaustion, but no results.

The discouragement is way easier when no hot water, but even worse would be if it lacked the cold, I think. Go to the kitchen leaving a trail of wet footprints. There are pots and ready to ignite flames.

child I see myself in the former home of the grandparents, a wooden tub in the bathroom that he knew he must, with the woman's hand soap me singing "Parlami d'amore Mariu.

smile and now the toilet will not stop. If only not to give rise to the words of that old teacher who could only play with numbers.

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Sadness, Please Go 'VIA

I fought with dragons throughout the night to earn the awakening. "It 's the dawn of a new day," my mother always said when a child, I hid under the covers to avoid facing the crisp air of the winter morning.

In only a few cars and some road bike that slides over the ancient cobblestones.

"Chasing a dragonfly in a meadow, a day that I had broken with the past. ..." He sings on the radio Battisti, my coffee while grumbling and demands attention.

Since yesterday I as a mosquito buzzing around the sadness that wants my blood. I took her to the park to see the children of dirty ice cream. He is distracted by pushing the joke of two old men sitting in the shade, then returned to my side, lying in the sun, as no bathing season.

We walked on the grass in slow steps, without speaking. E 'uphill riding my bike and I brought her dead weight windows to see off the streets of downtown.

He drank my tea, ate my cake Almond.

At sunset we stopped in the square where a blue-eyed man played the guitar. Reflected in vain I looked at those notes that talked about her. The false smile to hide my true intentions. And at an opportune moment I fled panting back home. I cut for unknown streets. Erased my tracks by throwing sand on the tracks. But the front door I found sitting on the step, which made faces at passers-by.

In the evening he was still with me. The livid face of fatigue and a cynical grin that seemed to say: "I do not rebel, so I stay here!"

Some say that sadness is the encounter between the desire and its limits. The online dictionary gives the sentiment just as the artists always on the run for more than themselves. Eugenio Montale said that man cultivates the misery for the sake of fighting it in small doses.

For me it's just a bad match, words that I can not forget. And 'the smell of rust of a track that draws the wrong track. The taste left in the middle of a meal. The castle far away where I live with the prince.

back to sleep. Who knows, maybe the second will really wake the dawn of a new day.

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ARTIST YOU WANT TO SPEAK

Painting is the language of those who prefer signs and colors to the sterility of certain discourses. Perfect for the deaf and dumb and unknown to the gossips, painting is music for the eyes. Sometimes a song, sometimes it is rock. If jazz is sudden. In its more subtle nuances is a classical sonata.

I'm not a painter, but when I spend every last word and the bottom of the pockets are not that crumbs of syllables, is the color that I need, its natural melody and forms that come out of the shadows.

"His daughter will never learn to draw!" thundered my first teacher of the class. "Have you ever seen a left-handed painter?" Was raging. I'd never seen even a painter, I looked at my left hand and followed the lines of a life that was not all that thing there.

It 's a humid morning in Bologna. The town holds a summer and after the illusion of someone upstairs has already made the coffee warm.

are in an empty room, my future bedroom. A tiled floor looks old ceiling bare four long strides towards the sky. At that height would be a good decoration liberty, simple, floral, I think looking at it. I've already painted ceilings and a frieze of that type is not so difficult to achieve. But my imagination knows no censorship, and in light of a dark blue-stained clouds, I saw two winged cherubs who walked garlands of flowers and leaves intertwined.

"No, you can do it!" Warned a voice from within.

Why not? I ask naively.

"Why have you never painted a body." Retorted the voice.

The painting comes from the observation. I will be meticulous, I assure you.

"not enough to look, you need more experience." Insists arrogant.

I look at the ceiling. The image of little boys back to dominate the leaves laurel and geometric forms that redefine the space. I see them. Half-closed eyes, bodies and prosperous suspended.

I can not leave nothing.

Monto an old scaffolding. The shiny metal alternates dried drops of color elements.

On the wooden table there are three primary colors of powder and a bag of charcoal. A piece of fine sandpaper, jars of natural pigments, brushes, and a bowl of clean water.

I turn up the volume on the radio and I climb up to the last level.

The smell of the dough is colorful and an afternoon of games after trouble in a village school.

I look at my arm. The meat is not pink, I repeat myself. There's yellow, blue veins, the shadow of the folds of the skin. If I had not learned to see I never realized how white is on the wet leaves. I'd never see the shadow shapes. I never noticed that the sea at night can be yellow.

With all the jars are opened like a chef who mixes ingredients and produces attractive and poisonous creams that can not be sampled. The first color is ready. Too dark. Too pink. Too cold. Add a touch of yellow. The color is warm but it is still too heavy. Mingled with white. Add another shadow. Now it is gray. A bit of Magenta and solid returns to relive. Still too dark. Other white. Mingled with water. Too yellow. Cool blue with cyan. Too off. Spice up again with Magenta. Cookin 'raw with the yellow and put it out with the shadow. Last pinch of white: this is it!

Now I just need strength and a good dose of luck to guide me his hand. And if all goes well, soon I'll wake up looking at two little boys who dance, the color of my tan arm.

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That house is not a hotel and ducks

It 's a hot afternoon in the wind country. Bathers season embracing the sun on the beach. Blue is as generous as the breast of a nurse, and a bustle of footprints in the sand in order to remove the last drawn north.

Col background tune from the sea, walking in the woods, over a green needle sticks and broken, and under the skin flushed and smelling of suntan swimsuit again. At one time there were more to color the hedges, wildlife refuges and keepers of the dream of knights ready to rescue unfortunate princesses from the snares of evil witches.

I make my way between severed trunks carrying babies in strollers and drowsiness. In the distance a baroque piano notes Brush on rough bark of pine trees. And 'Bach. I approach. One step and are still in front of the house. The windows are wide open, a veranda retro glimpse of an interior of objects and antique furniture. On the walls pictures of family and historical photos. Old dark wood furniture, lace beliefs, ceramic stoves and a red geraniums contrasting the white walls. E 'La Villa , haven for tourists and the secret garden of my rough days.

House by the sea to an ancient family from Ferrara, who in the fifties became a boarding house for travelers, The Villa is my place of magic and seaport dock where to catch his breath.

At Villa Giorgio lives, sixty or more, the son of a beautiful woman in her nineties, famous for crossing the Adriatic on water skis, and a charming actor in soap operas that distilled essence of wild flowers and drove a sports car with an ancient plate.

George writes, paints his girlfriend and goes to heaven and sea. He has a wife, beautiful children that no longer exists and is a repository of all memories of the place. As a young girl going beyond the gate for a peek at life full of adventure. At Villa's always something happening. At Villa there was always someone. In the evening, sitting in the living stone, you could hear fantastic stories of those years that we do not have belonged. There I met dragons and empresses, kings and courtesans.

Sometimes, parties of good music and heavy alcohol mixtures made us feel like old sea dogs back from a long journey. At the end of the evening I watched with envy the guests climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. Accommodations at the Villa I really would have liked. I dreamed to spend the night with a prince, but I was told early on that the last had gone with Snow White.

Within the porch. A fragrance of wisteria and clothes hanging replaces the smell of resin and undergrowth. I follow the trail of smoke from a burning cigarette. Is anybody. If you are lucky you have something to tell.

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"Talking about music is like dancing about architecture," said Frank Zappa. But enough words to talk about music and dancing, I think.

E 'evening of jazz at the brewery in Bologna. Organizing concerts takes me to live as a local place of applause and the paying public. Every Tuesday is "behind the scenes" that falls to me, the lighting of that starter who sketched the fabric of every live performance.

Four instruments sit on the stage. First you place the battery, brass plates that meet the whipping of two magic wands. Then the piano keys in a dark suit arm a fellow dressed in white. In the background stands up bass, violin strings grew, while a trombone hole silence, singing an aria from overseas.

they are! A quartet of thoroughbreds of the swinging jazz sounds that blend in to the rhythm of bebop.

Tonight I have no appointments, no one to talk to journalists and while I think of becoming public and travel notes, comes forward, punctual as the dawn of a day you would not want the first incident.

Ready Lucia? I am the engineer. "

" The guys are already here. "Reassured him.

"I I'll be there! "Replica him. Communicate

four musicians who live there will be a sound engineer is like removing the safety net in an acrobat before double somersault.

with confidence and I get closer to the mixer with air expert.

"Are you the engineer?" Asks the pianist.

"Yes", I ment.

If I were in front of the panel of a Boeing 747 would be more relaxed and with a little effort I could find the autopilot and fly.

The evening begins.

"Lighten the sound of the trombone!" Suggests the bass player.

I watch the lights flashing and a sense of helplessness I repaint the face. Before me, an endless series of buttons, levers and knobs are arranged in a policy that completely ignores. Move the first lever and raise the overall volume of the speakers. A sound of thunder fills the peaceful public chat at the tables. The silence reproaches me first, then follows the glances of the drummer and I see only his wand raised.

"Lighten the trombone!" Insists bassist.

My eyes follow the input cable that connects the microphone to the mixer and restricts my action buttons relating to it. There are eight. What will be the light color?

The Eyes of the Bassist I beg.

I turn secure the first. No effect.

The bassist insists.

The second button is red. Instinctively not touch him but I break the deadlock. The only relief and response part of a warning whistle that pierces even the thought.

E 'panic.

'm like a blind man driving in rush hour traffic.

The third button is grayed out, reassuring. We tried again and remain in apnea to capture even the slightest variation. Rotates clockwise while I still can not breathe and the sound of the trombone began to emerge from the tunnel that had intubated. Here is the light color, I think. Bassist smiles. Listening to that tune which has regained enamel and those highs that were missing.

The tension dissolves, I resume breathing.

"Bury me along with the last artist, because my life would be useless without them," wrote one day, but I know that if this continues, will have to bury me first.