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Facebook photographer Of course good people. I come across a profile for the event. The girl is pretty strong, graduated, has a very good job, often travels around the world, and has some nice tattoos. Definitely a very interesting girl. Then came the sentence that represents the profile, a sort of pass for the soul or maybe just a way to represent more than a photo of the self. Well there is a quotation from Oscar Wilde who said that to live is the rarest thing in the world and that most of the people there and nothing more. Striking phrase that strikes anyone who reads it in that context. I go on arrival in the profile between the film and the film's I Love Shopping ... Music, in the first place that Paraculo Vasco Rossi ... And then finally, the thing that most of the rest says it all ... favorite book: Go where your heart takes you ... Well, no, I do not want to f ** k me yours and I do not like judging people, especially if you do not know, but these preferences clash, they barrel, with the drills of Oscar Wilde ... And I will stop here.

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Goodnight


dall'eccidio 18th year of Borsellino and young escorts. A reflection, sadly concrete: it will be difficult to get to the truth. What happened during these years? The wave of the anger, the pain of a pure and honest, born in the aftermath Capaci and followed with Via d'Amelio, has vanished. We were not able to turn the mourning into a long wave of deep indignation. Rub the statues of the two martyrs. In the heart in broad daylight. We have not been able to transform the destruction of grief and horror in a push towards a healthy acknowledgment. No cut with the past. None. I remember those days of ninety-two, I was 23, I was the secretary of the PDS citizen of my country, South Italy, July 19 when I heard the news of a bloody Paolo Borsellino and the boys of Commons, I could hardly believe it. I thought the attack on May 23 Capaci had awakened the conscience of the Italian people, that the reaction to the game of mafia and the underworld politician, would have triggered a response that can undermine the power of the mafia and political patronage. Eighteen years later, I realized that the boy dreamer and idealistic back then it was blatantly wrong. In the years of Berlusconi, we are seeing very serious events that bring in that '92. But then the Italian people reacted to the events of tangentopoli, took to the streets to demand justice, throwing pennies ... Today, a sense of numbness lingers in public opinion. The continuing cases of political wrongdoing, the tangled web of politics and mafia circles, sentences excellent, the statements "shared" by defining Dell'Utri Mangano (convicted mafia) his personal hero does not produce any reaction. During those del'92 days we would say that had not died in vain, those wonderful heroes and concrete. Now, for 2010, I could not swear.

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Apple Snow (The End)

For security Grandma gets up and serves all the usual baked apples. It will be the effect of sugars, but Angela is suddenly quiet. I do not think my sensible discourse on marriage to appease his spirit. From my words you understand that do not really know anything about midlife crisis and distracted husbands. I'm on my carefree second year of marriage, Marco and I argue only for those who go to the grocery store and who has to clean the cat litter.

When our spoons stop set the absolute silence. We shook on the same couch as a family of pigeons on a ledge. With a blanket trying to restore the circulation in my feet cold.

"I have never told of Anton?" My grandmother breaks the silence while we are all committed to set the tongues of fire in the fireplace and get something sensible to say not to fall nell'empasse a silent too long.

ago Mom shook her head and sniffs. I secretly crossing his fingers, which is not a shameful secret ... But it is.

Anton, a name that my grandmother does not pronounce well and in Lombard dialect still sounds harder, recalled with a sweetness that you would expect. Anton is the summer sun is blushing and tulips brown ears is the sound of wind in the leaves of the poplars and the salty taste of sweat that soaks your clothes. With that as we travel in time to the youth of an old lady who has never forgotten once saw a soldier, to the river while doing the laundry.

Maybe because with the added patina of memories a beautiful day it becomes more coy ed'effetto a music video, maybe because when we are young we all live with my heart in hand, exposed, open, for sure that guy Germany today has earned a slice of immortality.

the story ends When my grandmother Angela sighs and shakes hands with strong bony among its well-kept and painted nails red. Neither I nor she knew that there was a first encounter with his grandfather than Remo. Made us think that her love life had begun and ended with him.

Soon after I fall asleep and wave my legs in the initial phase of sleep. When do the dreams I find that the couch is too small for the bodies of two adult females and relaxed, having tumbled on the carpet, I decide to move. When it comes to the morning light is already awake, catch the eye of Angela who is waking up on the couch.

Turn on both phones and get a burst sms roaming. I watch my mother. The spreads a smile, while receiving at least ten times. His phone trilling as an alarm clock gone mad. She sighs and shakes his blanket to his chest, then jumps up and mend the scarlet gown. Find a mirror and frantically rummaged in her bag to catch the eye pencil. In ten minutes it is ready and charged, while I struggle to reorganize his thinking.

"After all, your father is not so bad ..." He shakes the phone. "Ten messages, all his,"

I look out the window. The snow the night before was a blank wall now is melting, is yellow and resembles the mush of baked apples. I stretched, weird no hurry to run away.

Last night I learned the recipe of the time: the world I can wait another few minutes.

THE END

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Apple Snow (Part IV)

When I try to call the phone a voice Marco contrived and too friendly with me and apologizes to communicate the absence of field. The text messages are lost in the ether and not answered. I guess the words float suspended from invisible wires, and one by one fall off and are washed away into the void.

The grandmother, who had prepared the dinner and calibrated to an accuracy cryptic, announced that there is to eat well for Angela. Mom sits at the table and macerate the pot roast and a bit of a piece of cabbage, he studied the two parts of its bite as if calculating the nutritional values. Forklift pockets and generous mouthfuls I licked her to clean the knife dripping grease.

"I've decided. I'm leaving your father. "

Angela shoots his shot so deadly, with nonchalance. I blinked and I cough a bit 'of cauliflower, the grandmother makes the sign of the cross.

"My dear, do not look at me like that. You are great and you know for some time that things do not go with us. "

" Oh Signuri, "exclaimed my grandmother, my mother's mother, as if it had been hit by a stray bullet.

Yes I am an adult, but age does not prepare children to similar stories. I immediately go to his head the image of Lucy, a twenty fustacchione with almond eyes and biceps by swimmers. Banish the thought, shaking his head vigorously.

"Mom, I do not think a decision to be taken lightly ..."

you have two feral eyes that blink and shake my way.

"There is nothing light in my life. Believe me. "Once again, I guess that talking was Scarlett O'Hara and I feel the situation Mami.

Outside the snow is so delicate an mantle insidious, will not let me go home, I can not escape from this comparison. Suddenly jumps the light and there is no way to restore "They should be" points out his grandmother referring to energy managers as you would the aliens. Fortunately, there is a fireplace, and dinner is served warm and flat in the service voucher.

Three generations of women forced into a forced cohabitation within a rural house with no contact with the outside world, without the light and comfort technology. Looks like the promo a new format to be disturbing and Reality. But here there is a script and you are likely on their skin, yes why certain balance should not be undermined, not certain keys are pressed, it is known.

Yet Angela is here before me crying buckets of tears as heavy and rattles off intimate details of her marriage. He cries and leans on my shoulder hours hours on the arm of her grandmother. Violates all the taboos of the family in a few symptomatic strokes, so well studied that seem to belong to a fiction writer.

"Mom relaxed, yes, words can not go all that bad! I went to dinner with you on Sunday. You and Dad seemed normal ... "

" Exactly! "

" do not follow. "

" Normal. Close as brother and sister, perhaps as old friends ... "is broken, sobbing," Where is the passion? "

Grandma He rolls his eyes, wants to plug his ears and flee. There are conventions in her walls, the word "passion" the land. It is not a bigoted woman, does not belong to the ranks of right-thinking forcaioli, but not in his vocabulary there are certain terms. And anyway, is not the word itself but rather to frighten the possibility of having to speak with her daughter something about sex.

Continued ...

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Apples in the snow (part three)

When I go to see who is at the door I can not believe my eyes on the gate intabarrata in a bright red shawl is Angela, my mother, beautiful and surreal balancing on heels of sharp a pair of unlikely cleavage ruby. In the blizzard my mother is a Red Riding Hood a little 'elderly, by adding a splash of magnetic appeal that they owned only some great divas of the past. I think when I see the hair piece of Marilyn Monroe, shrewd eyes Audrey Hepburn, his voice is an exact copy of one of the colossal voice actress of the fifties-style Samson and Delilah.
Why do not you look like? The scale of the genetic combination hangs across the side of anonymity, do not forget how her. I resemble my father, I like him insignificant spaghetti hair and a physique not really a dancer.
"blessed Jesus! What a storm! "
Angela jumps on the driveway and reached the front door, takes off the shawl with a flourish and gives me a sticky with lipstick kiss on the cheek.
"I had the beautician interromepere massage because of this damn snow! It is not for the money, even if you pay in advance and in such a case is not right, but who knows when Lucy will have one hour of the hole for me. "
My grandmother and I look a bit 'uneasy, we nodded, but not We have the faintest idea how to work the beautician's appointments. And anyway, who is Lucy?
"The Koreans are very busy." My mother says how to pronounce amen at the end of a prayer, is solemn and absolute.
"Maybe because they are the best." Gambling just to attend and please her.
"It gets better, my dear, trust me ..." Angela
While he dwells on the art of Thai massage, as stimuli on the skin and spirit, I raise my grandmother and shoulders in unison and we smile. We do not live in his world, making us accomplices like two schoolgirls.
I look out the window again, my C1 is submerged in snow, at this point, my fears became a tragic reality: they are locked together the two most important women in my life, forced to live together and forced to encounter two colossi of femininity family.

Continued ...

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Apples in the snow (part two)

"It's raining the silence between us, I want to talk but you walk away." The song is a crescendo of wailing harmonics. I smile, I think of when I was a kid and I was sitting here at the same table that was covered by the same oilcloth tablecloth in front of the same radio with this tape that played and played endlessly. So puffed and replaced the music with something of mine. It was good anything, including Metallica, just to express my disagreement with another era.

"You can stay here, eat and then tell me."

jolt. He rolls his eyes and cough a piece of apple.

"I must go. I'd love to stay ... "I hasten to add," But Mark is waiting for me ... "

actually at home waiting for me there are a couple of unresolved issues, my husband with a long snout and a few practice that I bring to the office tomorrow morning. It does not matter, I am a bit 'stiff and will not tolerate being disturbed my plans.

"Ah, youth ..."

"we remain, but I have to work."

The grandmother does not mind what I just said, rests on the table two dishes, glasses and cutlery for preparing two. Then he goes back on the stove and the fire under the pots. He has so many pots on the gas, more than it holds me in my apartment.

"So while you wait for yourself and for your husband. So bring it home to dinner ready. "

This is not a bad idea ... I earn time. Time is most precious possession, there is nothing that attracts me as the idea of \u200b\u200bsaving it. To secure a few minutes of rest assured it is becoming the goal of my life, slow down the pace at which everything rolls away from my thirty years and so you have time at my leisure.

I look at the narrow shoulders of my grandmother and have followed his long, bony hands, I stop for a moment to watch his slippers are worn. It is always the same. My eyes perceive the same for a lifetime, perhaps misled by the fact that she always wears the same clothes.

The blue sweater with button-shaped white pearls she's wearing now wearing the same for my birthday ten years, when my parents gave me a new bike. Sublime idea for a girl who compiei years in December. I waited months to be able to show off. I fear that my relationship with the passage of time has cracked on that occasion.

My thoughts are interrupted by a high-pitched trill pierces the silence. The doorbell intercom sounds harsh, I think the only glimmer in the darkness of medieval technology where I am.

Continued ...

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Apples in the snow (first part)

Apples cooked with ginger, sweet scented, coated with a thin crust of caramelized sugar, fluffy and fragrant. I'm still hot, smoke in the white china cup with the handle so thin that the squeeze gently between thumb and forefinger, as if the stem of a tulip.
My grandmother gives me everything when I visit. I eat, my stomach fills portions of which are not used to the feeling of satiety. Snowing outside, in the kitchen of her grandmother's room for only a vague sense of impatience that teases me with a fringe of consciousness. I'm stuck here, away from it all, locked in a trap of affection and snow out of season. Waiting for snow to stop to put me in the car and go home, anxious glances at his watch and looks desolate in the direction of the window. Marco
be worried? Will fed the cat?
Outside there's always the darkest, the wind swirling snowflakes that seem to cotton balls are so big.
"Bela the me Putin! This is the the me Putin! "
The grandmother is in raptures, as always when I see it. I smile and play the first notes of Lisa casually with blue eyes. The cassette tape that we are listening to be least as old as me, the radio stretches and lengthens the notes of the song. The grandmother sings "Without the braids are not the same anymore," his voice changes when he speaks in Italian, loses its determination.
"You want more?"
I could, I should not, I will ruin the appetite for dinner, but his question is rhetorical. He has not yet finished formulating it that my cup is full again of white pulp, soft and fragrant. Berth to the nose as if it contains flower petals. The smell of apples, lemon zest, I love them, so I promise to find them with a spoon to eat them first.

Continued ...