kon kèl fret ké, go ciapat en gran fridur
Friday, February 27, 2009
How Vivid And Detailed Can Hallucinations Be
Ciàpel kè ’l gh’è (XLII)
kon kèl fret ké, go ciapat en gran fridur
kon kèl fret ké, go ciapat en gran fridur
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Nikon Monarch Laser 1200
I open my backpack to take to eat, a fine moment comes and the snow covering everything in the bag. The flakes of snow, fed by the cold that envelops us, they resist even the fumes of our hot bodies. There refreshed, taking a little 'out of breath in the clearing of Rummo.
I like the glades, they're there in the woods, how to entice hikers to stop for a bit ', to feel the embrace of the mountain, before resuming the journey in the thick of the trees. In summer use to sit with his back against the trunk of a beech tree and feel the thrill of leaves stirred by the wind lies flat on the branches. The clearings steal my thoughts, making me a child again. A child with freckles, his hair tousled curls and runs to feel the wind caress your face, tears rigandogli cheeks come off like drops of life become airborne. A curious child's life, but still innocent to realize that with hard work will build its future. 
Today, that child became a man. The mountain became more and more in my life, in difficult times has been the grip to hold on to avoid falling. I have not forgotten the clear that many years ago made me dream. And today I became aware of fatigue and the difficulties of life by feeding del pane fatto con la farina del mio sacco. Nessuno sa che d’inverno le radure nascondono 
segreti, diventano luoghi magici dove il tempo pare fermarsi. I rami appisolati al sonno dell’inverno si adagiano intorno allo spiazzo. Il silenzio è straordinario, accompagnato solo dal respiro degli alberi. D’inverno è nelle radure che si percepisce maggiormente il senso dell’attesa prima dell’arrivo della primavera. Anche la vita dell’uomo è fatta di attese. Anzi a volte le attese costituiscono una chiave per vivere. Mi fermo. Faccio sfilare il gruppo. Adesso tutti sono avanti. Aspetto ancora un po’. Indugio. In questo stato d’animo open the possibility to dream and in the middle of the clearing, once again, to the wonder and amazement I see the smiles and tears of that child.
The fog engulfs us. Figures wander undefined shapes in the whirlwind of the snowflakes. Buffeted by the wind, my thought goes to his friend that is not made to continue and went back. I hope it is away from the cold of the storm. A group
stop, others continue. As in Dante's circle, forced to serve some kind of penalty, in line, tottering continue in the whiteness of the mist. We continue undeterred towards the ridge that divides the floor of the Piana del Pollino Toscano. And here, suddenly, from that sea of \u200b\u200bwhite resurfacing of two large pine guardians.
We approach while other mysterious creatures in the distance between the vapors of the mist, appear to meet us. They are the patriarchs of the Pollino mysterious, powerful, others dry and feeble, as knights of old, each with its own history and a shell, away from humans for thousands of years fighting the terrible forces of nature. Their beauty is alive and moving. I, a child, so small compared to everything, I can not do is wrap all in the heart of cold, wind, snow, hard work, friendship and joy ... and you enter the mountain area in the most secret recesses and hidden dell’uomo.
The fog engulfs us. Figures wander undefined shapes in the whirlwind of the snowflakes. Buffeted by the wind, my thought goes to his friend that is not made to continue and went back. I hope it is away from the cold of the storm. A group stop, others continue. As in Dante's circle, forced to serve some kind of penalty, in line, tottering continue in the whiteness of the mist. We continue undeterred towards the ridge that divides the floor of the Piana del Pollino Toscano. And here, suddenly, from that sea of \u200b\u200bwhite resurfacing of two large pine guardians.
We approach while other mysterious creatures in the distance between the vapors of the mist, appear to meet us. They are the patriarchs of the Pollino mysterious, powerful, others dry and feeble, as knights of old, each with its own history and a shell, away from humans for thousands of years fighting the terrible forces of nature. Their beauty is alive and moving. I, a child, so small compared to everything, I can not do is wrap all in the heart of cold, wind, snow, hard work, friendship and joy ... and you enter the mountain area in the most secret recesses and hidden dell’uomo. 
Le foto di questo post appaiono per gentile concessione di Mimmo Pace, vero figlio del sole e Adalberto Corraro. Grazie 
Friday, February 13, 2009
Yellow Fever Symptoms
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Registry Mechanic Close
E’ domenica mattina, il mio sguardo si perde contro i vetri della finestra, cerco di scorgere le mie amate montagne, ma un lenzuolo di nuvole le copre. Piove incessantemente da ieri sera, prima di addormentarmi ho sentito la pioggia battere sul tetto. Mi piace, nel silenzio della stanza, ascoltare il picchiettio allegro dell’acqua che scivola sulle tegole, la sensazione di essere in un luogo riparato, quando fuori il cattivo tempo avvolge e percuote ogni cosa.
Apro la finestra e vengo investito da un’aria fresca, sento il profumo della neve, le montagne in questo momento si lasciano abbellire dal candore immacolato di light white confetti.
The town of Morano looked like a ghost
in stone trying to recover from the vapor mist that afflict him. With his eyes caress the walls of the houses, I follow the skyline bundled up, I daub of dull colors, made of soot and mold, narrow alleys and penetrate deep into crevices that suddenly shut down and then immediately re-open . "Sipporti, arches, cracks, roads unfold shortness of breath, a few patches of green, then the windows, eyes lost and confused in this air funeral, maybe it's the fog that makes it all so painful, all so troubled . If it were not for a fireplace that smokes would seem that life no longer lived in those houses.
A steaming hot chocolate and I wake up, maybe I was just dreaming, or was a nightmare, I find myself with my fingers dirty with mold and soot, as if my hands had climbed the walls between the houses of my country, indeed the dust that soils my hands is just chocolate.
I can not look away from the windows, my thoughts turn to friends who are engaged on the slopes of Dolcedorme, along the stone columns. I gave up, I did not feel that way to deal with these weather conditions. I think it's also important not to persist, but have the courage to give up. It is not easy, especially when is young and strong you think you can dominate nature for too much self-confidence. Although sometimes, I must admit, it is extremely adrenal located in "conditions definitely not just wealthy."
not care about the mountain of our climb. We humans, with our hearts to give a soul to the mountains. You're there. Still, austere, welcoming mother, sometimes severe, but always generous.
raining cats and dogs, order now to put thousands of photos waiting for some 'years to be cataloged, so in a sense I feel I'm back among the hiking trails and the tops of my mountains.
The trill of the oven reminds me that I'm burning the "rusceddra. Toasted the fire would have had a different flavor. Fire. The fire reminds me of life. The life of the food with a passion, with courage, trust, love and faith. The happy days, as dry wood, wear out quickly, as sad as smoky wood, seem to pass ever. Day after day the flame is kept alive, glowing, happy, over the years will begin to weaken, filament winding of smoke, the memories will take over on vampore. I will remember to keep me company, I wonder if I will do, I do not think so, if today in the cemetery, to remember the moments spent with people I do not care enough. The wind, in that place of peace and reconciliation, I have entrusted my memories, as seeds, so that it can spread them over the horizon ... ... as the one day my ashes spread in the Valley of Always, too, to fertilize the root of the flame that never dies ... ... but that's another story .
A steaming hot chocolate and I wake up, maybe I was just dreaming, or was a nightmare, I find myself with my fingers dirty with mold and soot, as if my hands had climbed the walls between the houses of my country, indeed the dust that soils my hands is just chocolate.
I can not look away from the windows, my thoughts turn to friends who are engaged on the slopes of Dolcedorme, along the stone columns. I gave up, I did not feel that way to deal with these weather conditions. I think it's also important not to persist, but have the courage to give up. It is not easy, especially when is young and strong you think you can dominate nature for too much self-confidence. Although sometimes, I must admit, it is extremely adrenal located in "conditions definitely not just wealthy."
not care about the mountain of our climb. We humans, with our hearts to give a soul to the mountains. You're there. Still, austere, welcoming mother, sometimes severe, but always generous.
raining cats and dogs, order now to put thousands of photos waiting for some 'years to be cataloged, so in a sense I feel I'm back among the hiking trails and the tops of my mountains.
The trill of the oven reminds me that I'm burning the "rusceddra. Toasted the fire would have had a different flavor. Fire. The fire reminds me of life. The life of the food with a passion, with courage, trust, love and faith. The happy days, as dry wood, wear out quickly, as sad as smoky wood, seem to pass ever. Day after day the flame is kept alive, glowing, happy, over the years will begin to weaken, filament winding of smoke, the memories will take over on vampore. I will remember to keep me company, I wonder if I will do, I do not think so, if today in the cemetery, to remember the moments spent with people I do not care enough. The wind, in that place of peace and reconciliation, I have entrusted my memories, as seeds, so that it can spread them over the horizon ... ... as the one day my ashes spread in the Valley of Always, too, to fertilize the root of the flame that never dies ... ... but that's another story .
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