Re-aiming
Why give one to organize the past when not even here? The review of a few, it rearranges, edits, updates it. Smiles, groans, sighs, tears. The last bet live a long game that ended. Thanks
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thank You For Sharing Our Special Day Tags
"Writing is more important than death. Writing is defend the loneliness that is, is an action that comes from emotional isolation, but isolation from communicable. By the word we become free, free time, the exigent circumstance. We write to regain defeat forever ... writing is a tool for this irrepressible desire to communicate, to "publish" the secret found "María Zambrano
Gropping Chikan List Of Vids
words borrowed word is non-critor
1934 Yesterday, at the meeting of Group of reading and writing without a name, Lucy wrote about collision of two words ... and rain later ... here's the result:
"I could write something like this afternoon I saw rain, I saw people running and you were not ... afternoon rain could refer to expected and sadness but ... and if rain is the laughter and the afternoon heat ... and if rain is freshness and tenderness afternoon and if rain is warm and the company later .. a rainy afternoon does not seem so bad ... " 
1934 Yesterday, at the meeting of Group of reading and writing without a name, Lucy wrote about collision of two words ... and rain later ... here's the result:
"I could write something like this afternoon I saw rain, I saw people running and you were not ... afternoon rain could refer to expected and sadness but ... and if rain is the laughter and the afternoon heat ... and if rain is freshness and tenderness afternoon and if rain is warm and the company later .. a rainy afternoon does not seem so bad ... "
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sacramento Gloryhole 2010
then does one feel so full of literature, says that as a writer I'm reading through your blog, it is necessary to write. I am full of words and ideas. All the afternoon immersed to the crown of the language gap has me excited. I was very far from the notebook, computer, napkins, receipts for payment, something in which to write even if some lines.
I feel ecstatic, as if all the ideas possible to be written following my travels in the muno miles, points and other than Calvin, Geography Fuentes novel, Rushdie's Satanic Verses quoted sources (because the memory of the display is updated again as if I had the novel in my hands), Calvin visited by Fuentes and Calvino Invisible Cities, as I said, as if everything that has turned into shapes, pictures and words during the dive so rude battled to get out. Ideas crowd as spectators at the stadium gates open, they all want to come out first, get in, but finally get it done any certain, collapsing on each other, make a show stopper and is suspended amid fears the stampede.
The World is a wonderful book. At least, so it has proved to me, full of provocations, new images, literary exercises in this moment I have a desire to know, I read a mile in his novels, I have to visit the other rooms in your hotel for loners .
Like Calvin, instead of repeating every time I feel more and more open, as if a strong match trunk of his ideas that was a "simple" trial and suddenly I started to find its continuity, its branches , its aspects.
'm coming home. Will I be a writer? While writing this text I can see myself in the mirror, the toilet in the room: I sit cross-legged, the computer on my lap, on the bed of my mother comes home from work yet. The light is low. My sister expected to see a horror movie that asked me to come down on the Internet. In my mind a question insists: I'm a writer? Will you write a novel? My grandmother finished serving food, keeping a little time goes for tomorrow. The imprudent man should be finishing their journey. Am I a writer? I remember the words, the cheers, the motivations of those around me and trust my ability to write. Those who have read and enjoyed my stories. Will you write a novel? And is that the readings food writer, I'm resizing the novel as an object of this postmodern and led me to ask what it is. The novel as a device built at the point of trade. Perpetuity perennial ongoing effort to write a story that connects with other stories and history, not only now, but as Calvin says Fuentes talking with future history. Connected to the morning that even without rising on the horizon, touches prophesy.
Am I a writer?
you write a novel?
What am I missing?
I feel ecstatic, as if all the ideas possible to be written following my travels in the muno miles, points and other than Calvin, Geography Fuentes novel, Rushdie's Satanic Verses quoted sources (because the memory of the display is updated again as if I had the novel in my hands), Calvin visited by Fuentes and Calvino Invisible Cities, as I said, as if everything that has turned into shapes, pictures and words during the dive so rude battled to get out. Ideas crowd as spectators at the stadium gates open, they all want to come out first, get in, but finally get it done any certain, collapsing on each other, make a show stopper and is suspended amid fears the stampede.
The World is a wonderful book. At least, so it has proved to me, full of provocations, new images, literary exercises in this moment I have a desire to know, I read a mile in his novels, I have to visit the other rooms in your hotel for loners .
Like Calvin, instead of repeating every time I feel more and more open, as if a strong match trunk of his ideas that was a "simple" trial and suddenly I started to find its continuity, its branches , its aspects.
'm coming home. Will I be a writer? While writing this text I can see myself in the mirror, the toilet in the room: I sit cross-legged, the computer on my lap, on the bed of my mother comes home from work yet. The light is low. My sister expected to see a horror movie that asked me to come down on the Internet. In my mind a question insists: I'm a writer? Will you write a novel? My grandmother finished serving food, keeping a little time goes for tomorrow. The imprudent man should be finishing their journey. Am I a writer? I remember the words, the cheers, the motivations of those around me and trust my ability to write. Those who have read and enjoyed my stories. Will you write a novel? And is that the readings food writer, I'm resizing the novel as an object of this postmodern and led me to ask what it is. The novel as a device built at the point of trade. Perpetuity perennial ongoing effort to write a story that connects with other stories and history, not only now, but as Calvin says Fuentes talking with future history. Connected to the morning that even without rising on the horizon, touches prophesy.
Am I a writer?
you write a novel?
What am I missing?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Trac Vac Dicharge Chute Adapter
Sun City (age)
When loneliness, companion insurmountable moments of re-encounter, take me by the hand to walk through the streets of Sun City, I smile and make pact of silence. Mouth shut for so long is a relief, is a quiet and dark lake where my bugs can go for a walk and looked out of my eyes. Sometimes I look at the nail of the other, objects, shapes and figures or in the sea.
I went to greet a few days ago. Had not visited the beach since my arrival in this country. I missed him. I called. Was. The cold wind that combed his mane me shudder. Its vastness again captured my attention.
I went (we approach, loneliness and me) to the edge, not even take off our shoes. It was too cold despite the sun. In a place that I thought would not be achieved, foam up and licked the tip of my shoes, feeling that told me "Welcome back." How can the memory of her algae do not forget any of his swimmers, their lovers, their visitors? We took him to lick wounds, which leaves us in the skin, invisible scars of salt as much as we bañemos leave their memory in us.
Mar, always well-loved, always receptive.
I went to greet a few days ago. Had not visited the beach since my arrival in this country. I missed him. I called. Was. The cold wind that combed his mane me shudder. Its vastness again captured my attention.
I went (we approach, loneliness and me) to the edge, not even take off our shoes. It was too cold despite the sun. In a place that I thought would not be achieved, foam up and licked the tip of my shoes, feeling that told me "Welcome back." How can the memory of her algae do not forget any of his swimmers, their lovers, their visitors? We took him to lick wounds, which leaves us in the skin, invisible scars of salt as much as we bañemos leave their memory in us.
Mar, always well-loved, always receptive.
Mortician Liscense For Fl
Thank you, Louise for me to get this text. I put in the puzzle of my blog:
"THE ART AND CRAFT
Getting become an instrument, in office, task.
THRESHOLD FRANCISCO
writer look in the mirror and think it is ink. Only then is there salvation: when you are what you breathe, when one is air and bronchus, throat and choking. Only then is life bright. Need to become sperm and skin wound. Also in the quake. And woe torn orgasms. Only well-being the office, the task-can be present, splashing the walls with ivy or sully the memory of our own.
The paper, ink, minutes. Left of nonsense, let the listener on the other side with your eyes, let's smile and applause. Be converted into dots to continue tomorrow and next year, and after his death. Proclaim at once the bug and will be rewarded. This so now I can state that I am both the writer and the written. The Bovary c'est moi, my leadership and my obedience. I support containing the voice and the illusion forged in the shadow of madness and wine. And I am, maybe just a word that fills the lungs and pride: a writer.
But now I'm here with no other choice but to blend in with the office and tool. I'm so industrious and laziness that crosses every line written, and text that sleeps in negligence. Because I am of the same skin and nail it the Song of Songs and the dark mineral build up my insides. Coal and poetry live in I do not like foam, but as a profession, such as opening hours, as necessary in stride way.
step Because I'm the heel and the ground behind it. I'm not nothing but ink poured, I'm just old and lonely this job. I desire, but desire to be the pen, and his wound. Because when I'm all that (the margin, ink, pastern, the number marking the order of the times and the glue that erased), when there is no distance between the root of my teeth and writing, I feel it's worth stay here, unhurried, even until death if you dare.
auction is useless word, the imposition of commercial criteria. I'm an ink shrinks and expands in a heartbeat. And I'm here to testify, with rigor only be if I'm writing. Write and breathe. I move and agonize. There's only word: the word portrait as stroke, sleep and stroke of orgasm and death as a stroke that makes sense of all strokes. Task, task, trade, profession.
Then the word is me. I am, I said, whip and back, inquisition and heresy. I am the voice crying and relief. I, a writer who shouts or silence as sweet kisses. The machine tool of my tunnel, my bridge, and the sticky boiling asphalt at noon. I
instrument, the office and the task. Nothing else matters. I do not care. "ALFONSO FERNÁNDEZ
BURGOS
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