I dream of these horrible times. I wake up agitated and confused and is a hard reality riagguantare and measure the relative reasonableness of my problems: a comparison of relief to the monstrous shadows that are absorbed slowly into the pillow.
I would have done without the restoration of the Epiphany: yet another blatant misuse of religion for commercial purposes. And for me one more slalom between invitations to dinner, unwanted visits to talk in a vacuum.
I have no plans for the future, I forget what it means to have a perspective or hope to accomplish something. Are being ascetic and contemplative and I look for quiet places. I feel singularly attracted to anything that is remote and primitive. Stone, iron, wood. Crop unpublished views in places visited by always hugs rust of brambles, a scalloped roof, austere sleeping beams, chimneys exhale slow, constant, comforting.
I have no plans for the future, I forget what it means to have a perspective or hope to accomplish something. Are being ascetic and contemplative and I look for quiet places. I feel singularly attracted to anything that is remote and primitive. Stone, iron, wood. Crop unpublished views in places visited by always hugs rust of brambles, a scalloped roof, austere sleeping beams, chimneys exhale slow, constant, comforting.
to reconnect with civilization, to get out a bit 'in this godforsaken place, where for months not get a watchable film, I'm exploring the possibility of going to hear Angela Hewitt in Varese on Sunday 16. Not that I expect some kind of emotions: the program is just awesome and can meet the solid conservative dell'attempata Varese taste good. I must say that lately all my certainties are staggering and can not be excluded that the interpretations of Bach's willing Hewitt actually have something to say to those who are preparing the committee completed under the piano (if you still call it that), the the rest I must confess that today, stumbled across the legendary interpretation of the Four Seasons by Fabio Biondi, joined by some violent strokes of the bow, I had a jolt and for the first time in my life I wondered if that revolution carried on by force of gut strings torn and beaten, if all that furious roughness, in short, was indeed lawful. We will have perhaps made a mistake by electing a revolution in taste and interpretation of what was just an isolated cry hysterically?
anyone at this point, realize that I really lost my compass points. But maybe it's just that right now are inhabited by other furies and many other revolutions'm pondering lately. Some tasty disquisitions seem to me now like a distant luxury.
(pictured a drawing by Mervyn Peake)
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