i miss you my love

summertime,
stare at bottoms and miss you,
my love i'm in mombasa,
with the humid blood, the cool muezzin
i forgot the track of my life,
but my heart is still you

you're my child inside,
my unreachable melody, enflating my lunghs
don't get to hear you, don't get to see you,
only feel you pushing just behind the senses,
smell you behind the nose,
hear you behind the hears,
see you behind the eyes,
touch you behind the skin

i will explode of pressure,
crawl under my feelings behind the world

don't get to talk to you my madness about you
i miss you, i miss you, i miss you

cumbia

night goes, what night? cumbia, dong deng dong deng

circles with the hips, open hands on someone's back

center, forward, back, deeper

is it supposed to be nine in the morning?

we're still dancing, hey

just come around after, give us some more time

who's tired?

a seed of hell, a spell, of a dieing dream, i loved you my love

the time is approaching fast, time to say good by to this place, that i always have to leave just when it gets awake and stuffed with feelings.

just when it gets a nice place to be in, i have to get out.

smoke a cigarette outside the department, the guy of the greenhouse, red in the face, perennial smile, "time for the balaclava again", says to me and to the last wind of the season. the guy of the storehouse, straight on his back, gentle smile, wide open mouth in saying "hi, yannez". mr. wild-cock, in his sixties that i'd like to reach as fit as he is, but lees gay, incredible wise and chikey smile, "hi, yannez", "hi chris, how's going". C came to visit me, i just could feel it was not right, a humanist there, bad vibes, bad sync, no sync at all. you must be in sync with this department, and just feel it.

i've been part of it, i've been it, i mean, we have been it.

click click click, 50 years run on the model, and so for 2000 years. it's hot looking at you my dear, i wonder if we'll never speak at all, or just remember we use to look at each other in between clicks and clicks.

i broke an heart, heavily, most completely. my madness vanishes, dropping a seed of hell. but was i fool to love you? i was fool, but not to love you. i had a fever, my angel, you knew that, you've been better fool to care for my sickness. we messed it up, ah? there's plenty of dreams dying fat in your mind, ah? you can feel their bodies agonizing and shaking, their voices moaning, moaning to death. can, can you my love? i enjoy nostalgy and plan to get away from stress, plan reflexive time for myself between the coast and other eyes to look in caring, a bit. well those bodies dieing are not quite moaning, listen carefully, as i can hear, i can hear the spell my love. how many spells between me and you, ah? are those gonna be the last? so, you're planning to make a tomb of your head, for all your dreams. have i nourished them? yes i did. there's no way out of a crime. i'm sorry my love, i loved you so much, in my shit, crazy head. my bacterial love, i might have got it from rats, from lices, from a nerve not feeling too well. was a bell rang holding a rope in the collapse. it was a bit like this. i hope you live my love, i hope live. and if you live, i hope you don't want to kill me. drunk of insanity we've been good together.
mad as the children we could feel our love was true.

fast, understanding and forgetting, getting nervous for the light, like smoking, my love, as you say, as dreaming, de-knotting the brain, unfolding the sight on the plain ocean, and there ride, pretty old and idealistic, horse stepping on grass on the sea water, talking slow, thinking fast, forgetting, understanding, there's the light
and there you see us, quichotte, the skeleton and the guy who did the ancient map,
you spy us silent like a flying camera, we wonder but don't ask, and on our way to emptiness of stars, we get you on the steps, many times, for long.

airborne love

i tell you a secret: i like to smell.

when the sun is all around you, and the body responds; you see, the sun can't get anything wrong out of me, he takes out the best of me, i guess, in my total respect for our star.

when someone else likes your smell, that's love, easy. for example, in a sunny day with a little breeze, i couldn't distinguish flowers from laura's hair.

and we call for love all around, airborne calling which reaches distances far away, so that someone is falling in love with us, but doesn't now. and me... oh, i love this one...

to go, to stay, to love a woman, to keep looking for her. then time will stop you where you haven't chose, where you had to go but couldn't leave again. i guess it's gonna be like this. point is, too many plans will kill you.

Machine of Mass Destruction

could not produce an holy fuck... after spending a couple of hours on the net, and even tried the rich experience of chatting with myself, i then picked up the phone with boredom and a point of desperation. when it's like that my voice is just painful to spit out, it just makes me sick, as vomiting the juice of cosmic laziness i have inside.

anyway, my young bro, little wise boy, just suggested i don't have to think of me as a man. no. he just said: "yannez, you're not a man. no. you're a MACHINE OF MASS DESTRUCTION."

i didn't let the magic of the moment fly away and i wrote this innocent sentence on my arm with a marker pen. so here me again on the computer, getting this fucking report out of the fucking way, NO EMOTIONS, NO THOUGTHS.

30s

i noticed that approachig the 30s you become much more uneasy and egocentric, you could talk about yourself for ages, until they stop you, until they get nauseated and pissed off, but you would still continue and in fact you do. things get messed up in your mind, and you feel always desperate for a recap, for making a point of your experiences, to share them, talk about you for ever. you can even set up a blog... and start talking to nobody without worrying being understood, but still it's something.

there's something magic when then young girls are happy to listen to you, to your stories and to what you think; to feel grateful for that is the only thing that can make you decide to stop it and ask questions about OTHER people, and despite the fact you're not genuinely interested but just grateful, eventually you manage to get out of yourself and listen and get facinated by other people lives, minds, emotions, experiences. and that yes, it's not a big deal to be yourslef, you're just a sick egocentric but those shiny eyes listening are a sweet medicine.

http://uncyclopedia.org/wiki/Egocentrism

Logic makes no sense

egil use to break skulls of friends in his childhood, and other innocent games, but that was his past life, by the way, now he plays tom waits down the harbour, just next to hell, and yes, hydrogen peroxide made good to his hair. wanadoo wears rubber underwear but not tonight, his wife has a rubber dress but she lost weight and can't wear it anymore, and by the way, wanadoo bought his rubber underwear in a seond hand shop. i won a chocolate bar for the best line of a collective poem, line was "give yourself a hand", you know what i mean, it keeps you out of troubles, like budism but not that extreme. peter says he's going to bring me tomorrow down the heavenly underworld of sticky oily richy people, who got their corporate heavens which i'm so courious about; places on union street with no doors for the public, only a phone call and your name on the list can get you in, and peter says there's heaven and hell inside. he said i'll have to be casual, hope he'll remember and he'll bring me, if not, what i've been here for all this time? life is calling me, is hooking me from the clouds, sucking me away. to wake up feels like dying to me, i have this horrible feeling every morning, dreams got more real than my life, sleeping i know all that is wrong and how things should be, but i forget as soon as i open my eyes. ignorance is a key factor in living, it keeps you going, to be responsible of what you've learned would put you in serious troubles. that's why we forget dreams, and we live in the oblivion of them. we live in the oblivion, we can't bear our own conclusions about all that's around us and about us being here, doing what we wouldn't do, giving sense to things that haven't, unable to pay the price for ribellion, imploring for slavery every morning, running after slavery and oblivion, while silence already got all our thoughts. honestly i say, is what you feel that gives a sense to any logic, so that to be part of a logic without feelings it just doesen't make sense, and you can realize it yourself. it seems to me at times we're building a chatedral for no gods, for no reason, so why. got to find a less meaningless livelihood, got to.

But hey, it's about to blossom here...

Trauma

You want development, you want machinery, you want jobs, you want tidy streets, you want control. So you end up paying £1.30 for an espresso served in a proper bar but flowing from a coin machine in to a plyester cup, and hope the CCTV got the disappointment and the flash of depression. But hey, what do you expect? Point is you feel lonely in expecting more. I'd like to say, to everyone in UK, that life can be a nice warmy thing. I say to the nation: wake up your senses, there's a whole aesthetic dimension of being you're just missing. But under the ears of god i say, that's the one i'm alive for.

Thanks to the sun, to the people driving fast and awake, to the people walking slowly and even changing direction (!), looking at each other, to the people thinking unfairly about the government, debating politics in their mind, while checking out girls through new sunglasses, thanks to women thinking about men, not shy of erotism, thanks to men and women reading literature, thanks to men and women MAKING LITERATURE WITH THEIR LIFE AND DREAMS, thanks to men and women reading newspapers, thanks to men and women MAKING THE NEWS WITH TEIR LIVES AND DREAMS, thanks to people with a strong sens of life, with a deep development of the self and of their senses, thanks to people that fuel their thoughts with senses, 'cause thoughts are empty when not full of your own life, thanks to people living, love them, love them, love them, they make me awake, here, ready, living, and fuck all the CCTV, rising a middle finger running away on a scooer. viva l'italia, plenty of problems, but alive.

Might not make sense to you

It really seems I'm at the edge of the good track again. Just about to step in. Not that it is clear, not at all. Just tasting forgotten flavours of life again. Because you don't really change that much, you just forget a lot. So, the sun is making me good and I lost few years on the mirror. Unbelivable how different is life only changing latitude. Mediterranean is my home, where my bones and mind were formed. And spring is the best season.

On the other side, I remember, I forget, I realize, I change. And will be hard to go back north and finish the job. I feel at the estuary with my little boat, can't imagine how the currents work in the ocean but I'll figure it out. In my mind, surprisingly, there are no plans, no commitments, not even beliefs really. Time for wisdom is to be delaied, you wear the hat when you get bold and I'm still fine.

There are lot of creatures sucking my soul, that's how society works and I've never been good in asking my share of energy. That's probably why I need the sun to recharge. Sun and those spots in the darkness where the skin is soft and you can graze dreams and flowers, loose yourself and find another. I'll do that for life.

So this grazing thing is something I like, especially when the grass is shivering under your lips, and has those hairs where I still walk alone and lost, young and skinny, where dreams went so many times that is ridiculous. There are certain people that show you the track of your life, there is one who does it for the first time; all of us is for someone. If you meet one again, is there any reason for which you shouldn't make love? Someone says, special people is for a special place in the heart and in the mind.

So consider yourself in that special place, with rubber walls; the world 'love' screams in your hears from the voice of a child. Please get me out. So I tried to rescue myself, unlock the door on the neck with the mouth. As you can read, it all turned out in non sense. You can sleep not and get rested whenever you manage to dream. I'm trapped in the mind of many people, they ask, and ask and ask. No one gets I eat things alive and uncooked at the moment. It will come a new way for life, but life will always be that taste, because that's what I'm up to if I don't have to die.

Hey, there are certain people which show you the taste of life for the first time. If you're an unlucky one, they'll go away before you've learned.

There is this love, yes there is this love, with an hundred eyes and mouths and skins, twisting and dancing and dancing. And that is it.

Clothing

I spent more of my life dressing as a wild beast. Problem was I never felt comfortable in going shopping. To enter in a shop, engage in conversation with the clercks, show them what I liked what I didn't; it is like showing to someone what you'd like to appear, and that feels quite an intimate thing to show. But I always found some piece of clothing to have a certain character; never they were new, they always belong to someone else and it just happen that I meet them, as I can meet persons. I use to find a strange extiment in stealing clothes all around. My father's shirts, directly from the 70s, they made me feel so good. The stuff you find abandoned in the wardrobe, appearing to you in shadow, feeling like opening an old photo album. And, yes, I belive clothes have the power to communicate feelings, even attitudes towards life. From there must also come my repulsion for sportsware.

My ex girlfriend thought I was particularly beautiful. She also was older than me and so began to dress me as a child. But I loved her style, what she chosed for me. She never bought me anything new, all she gave me came directly from her family wardrobe, from the shadow of old houses in the countriside. I still wear with love her black wool jumper, the fantastic leater jacket of her uncle, from the late 60s. They're old pieces, and they look it, but I can feel I am me wearing them. My past is there, her love, my love; so when I wear them I still feel I love and that I'm loved, or at least that I had and that I could.

But of course I had to force myself to go shopping sometimes. Just like another of my autistic habits, I went all the times in exactly the same place, getting almost the same things. Ther was (and there is) this linen stand in a street market in Rome. You walk among the stands and you're pushed from all the sellers in a north-african way. "Hi 'bello' what do you need, tell me!", "Hey, come, I have something for you". But the linen stand was owned by two brothers in their 50s, quiet guys with beards and wearing only linen, rigurously. Linen shirts and linen trousers is all i bought for wearing. The rest was given to me or stolen around.

Then in Africa I understood a lot about clothings. In the forest it was sufficient to wear a blanket in the local fashion, to immagine better what local might have in their minds, what therir perceptions might be. Wearing a blanket you learn a lot of movements you must do, the sensitiveness of your body not to let it fall. The manierism of wrapping it around you. Plus all the things you can do with it, for which you shall consider it in the economy of your daily life. Pillow at night, shelter for the rain, or you can collect things in it. Clothing is a step towards a different set of perceptions. The elegance of a forest dweller cutting a trail with the machete wearing an old suit. That was so elegant and dignitous.

Different context, but still in Africa. In the capital, you are a forigner with a t-shirt, you are a sir with a suit. At the University no one payed attention to me with my thech field jumper, present of good friends of mine; but when I bought myself a suit, they gave me the key of the laboratory. But also, I had lices, I toke the whole rainy season in the forest, I had mud in the smallest fiber of my clothes which I wahsed in a river for two months. I went shopping as a tirsty man drinks a lemonade. "Happiness is" I remember thinking, "to wear immaculate underware".

Then, there was M. How could such a poor girl be so stylish. She had this t-shirt, she made it herself, from pieces of other t-shirts. When she told me I thought that in comparison Armani after all is just a wanker. And her trousers, how they fit perfectly her body. And her look alltogether, no different at all from someone walking at a fashion show. She communicated me all this, with her attention on the smallest spot on my trousers, "their dirty, you give to me, I wash tomorrow". I let her did it only once, it sounded too colonial to me. The point is, to be clean and well dressed was an expression of self respect and respect for others; you don't need money, you need to be clean and dignitous. You need to show you pay attention, and that you have courage to put forward with dignity your choices or even creations. If you feel it's right, that it is, no matter what people thinks. And also, without these little attentions what would be of her young life in the suburbs of an African metropolis? And also again, she surprised me with those and made me love her.

Here, today I did something strange. It's a strange period, so I went shopping. The excuse is that I have an interview on Tuesday. So I got myself a suit and a jacket. I run back home to wear them and look at me at the mirror. I look so different. And I wonder if my actual social network would accept me like this. All the implications of wearing something. I look stylish like this. Coming from a fashion magazine. People, including people at the interview, would think I'm superficial, that I spent a lot of money. But I think about M., she would like; she would say "Yannez, this is beautiful, this is fashion". And looking at the mirror I miss her. My grandson will find this jacket in the wardrobe in the old house. In his twenties he will wear a bit of my feelings.

I'm getting pathologic

ho guys, this is getting serious. can't react. i staied another day at home, between tele, laptop and bed. you know, the wind makes a noise in this house... and always manage to enter from somewhere, it gets on your skin that irritating touch of north pole. i feel i don't care to face it. there's a psychic challenge between me and the weather which i don't ask you do understand, it's long and cryptic to explain. suffice to say i had enough. don't want to have another christmas time. i'm all in tension for something else of this place i don't belong to, with its people, palaces and wind. it's getting pathologic. i think and think again about my life in few, very few long months; what i'm going to do and where, so far away. dreams build up in the air, solid as concrete yet uncertain, because that's how my future is: i need it, yet i don't know its face. i think and think again abut MT, now she's my angel, now a liar; how she can change so abruptly in my mind. i love her, i know i do, but i don't know her, i know i don't. yet how important she is to me. i think and think again about myself and the dymension i want to live in and what do i need to have around. dreams can only drag me blind, i need to react. i'm so close to fuck all up, so close. but the idea doesn't scare me. who the hell can be possibly be here? there's nothing here, not even me, not even my life, why fear? that's a cold, polar oblivion i must escape from, and fast, runnig, rising fingers, shouting. i'll say thanks also, as i loved it; it just lasted too long and it's getting me somewhere i don't want to go.

The tiranny of global bullshit

All right, so now don't say I'm from the dark age when I say that global knowledge is no less than a illusion or a trick. Anything global is just like the war on terror, same mechanism with the trick of science. Scientists say that, so we better do this. Sorry, we must. Truth is, scientists say many things and politicians pick up what they can instrumentally use. Right wing, left wing, professionals, squat agitators, doesn't matter. Can't say anything against Science, can you? Easy, the "politics of absolute truth". Nice one.

Take climate change. That's a big thing, isn't it? Now tell me who had the courage to go and read the IPCC report. I tried. Confusing ah? Yes. I felt I had to do something about it. But when I had to explain people why, could not find the words. It just was it, there is this agreement that CO2 emission are rising temperatures. After all, the agreement is itself the base of the ethical commitment in doing something about it.

But I still think it's a good exercise to at least try to see things logically, at the level of clarity and quality our intelligence, as a species, is capable of. After all we're talking about "Our Common Future", as they said in '87. Personally, it is clear that someone is trying to get me paranoid, irrational and psychotic. Honestly, I don't have time and knowledge to find out myself what's happening to the climate. I just have to relie to what they say; the more I must relie, the more gravity has the dishonesty of the one whose role is to explain. I can't forgive that, for the following. I'm pissed off, and we all should be.

As many I whatched the documentary on the BBC "The Great Climate Swindle". Let me say that documentaries are probably the less indicated sources of truth or clarifications, but they make you think fine. Since I have acces to journals, I made some research on peer reviewed papers and learned some stuff more, whihc of course partially contraddicted the program, but I didn't expect it to say the truth, as for the other one by Al Gore.

But, for fuck sake, CLIMATE IS DEPENDENT ON SOLAR ACTIVITY, as this graph shows.



This is a scientific finding, there is agreement, I can understand how the study was done and what it wanted to say; it's fine, it's evidence, nothing to say about that. Now: why no one talks about it and say a different story? What's the problem? What are they scared of? Relax, as you can see on the graphs there's something dodgy going on after the '80s, so don't panic, you might still be right, mr Blair/IPCC.

The thing I can't stand is how Mr. Blair is applying to climate change the same psychic engeneering so successful in preparing the war in Iraq. That's dangerous, but HE IS RIGHT. He found a good method of manipulation; it just works, nothing to say. Why? Beacuse we're probably just an herd of sheeps, shyning in the darkness of this age. Much more black ones, they might have to turn on the lights.

Now, have a look at the doc:



If you have access to journals see these:

Solanki, S.K.
Solar variability and climate change: Is there a link?
(2002) Astronomy and Geophysics, 43 (5), pp. 9-13.

Courtillot, V.a , Gallet, Y.a , Le Mouël, J.-L.a , Fluteau, F.a , Genevey, A.b
Are there connections between the Earth's magnetic field and climate?
(2007) Earth and Planetary Science Letters, 253 (3-4), pp. 328-339

If you don't let me know and I'll see what I can do for you.

Your part

Can't belive it's snowing, ahahahahhahah depression.......

Slight hangover behind the frozen windows, back ache after the pull-up bar fell off under the weight of me and m*****, somehow it also gave us a bit of head ache. Couldn't realize on the moment, too busy teasing a******* who has a boyfriend but still.

People look at you, people observe you, people make their considerations; maybe even more when you isolate yourself, people think about you with more use of imagination. Even so, I spoke yesterday with persons which I considered only to barely know, and actually I don't know the names; still, they told me a lot about myself, thanks to the alchool, which I admnit is quite intimate. Surprise surprise. The tedious and useless middle-class social network also exists at a deeper level, connecting intimacies and unexpressed underworlds. True, easy. A kind of energy flow in history and space, most of the time you do your part without noticing, without knowing.

Apologize

Apologize for all the bullshit I'm posting recently. I just need to get away from this place ASAP. The wind blow and blows and blows as a drunk man pushing you without noticing. Guys in purple sportsware bring on bicycles faces rotten by alcohol and heroin and shout a language they don't even understand. seagulls roam in the sky just waiting the moment they can steal your sandwich. mums and pas and teens spending a fortune in low quality fornitures, gadgeting, clothes. and that's a great deal of life. no one to look at and dream in the pubs, just the same old friends by chance, doing the same old things, saying the same all things. the cold made us all pale and scary looking so that's sad to see us smile, our suffering skin on the chicks under eyes wet of beer and unconfortable sleeping. the world is so far away that cannot challenge those little rules of living, so that remain tremendously important even without a minor shadow of sense. this is the reign of ugliness, this is the anti-reality, this is the anthithesis of life as i know it and how i like it; sorry, it's just is. tell you the truth, this place has made me suffer and i'll rise the middle finger heading south, finally, wont miss anything or anyone; no friends, no places, no time, nothing. out of my life for good, that's the best thing they can do.

just a little more time... just a little more... i'll get out of this organized stupidity.

Dull

To execute a program is something machines do, even if the program is your own. How many lives unseen in the run towards achievements. How many achievements have no more sense when reached. How not to be productive is an healty sign that you are still sane, deep inside; and that your not quite convinced, you want understand more, you see that after all there's no flying point. It is sad, not to be able to be relativistic about your culture, as if what you see is the only world that exists. It is not. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull...

Just to say that I had enough, deep inside, and I'll go home.

Ridiculous and dignity

Nothing more ridiculous than the excess of self confidence. Dignity is awareness of one's limitations, and of their value. That's how you manage to have dignity even when you're found ridicolous. But the worse, is when you're ridicolous to yourself, isn't it?

Living totality

To do good is to do in respect of the life of others. To feel good is to feel part of a living totality. The more inclusive it is, the better you'll live, the better you'll feel. "Freedom is participation" said someone, but you can't explain that to the Americans. "America has a lot of problems, but our people has a lot of problems too" said someone else; America is doing bad and feeling worse, that's the truth. It is so lonely and crazy, as it was Rome, as it was Babylon, as it was Cuzco. Slave of a building madness, of a lonely and fierce unhappiness. As soon and as long as you're alive, you're married with anything that exists, that's what they don't understand.

Life works

Life works beleivig that little things are important. Isn't it?

So when you go far above, what's your living about?

Good tomatoes are worth living

Don't make of your life a woman. But do have one for life, right? And give yourself for life. Love is what comes loving. Is both a feeling and an action. You have to want to do it. Grow tomatoes in the garden, in the good and bad weather.

A kind of happiness

It is a kind of happiness when you can have a coffee, a cigarette, sit down and look at women passing by. Goodlooking ones, possibly.
That's why I miss Italy.

Easier than one could possibly bear

There are moments in which everything is collapse. All around. All you can do is put the pieces together, tidy your room. If you just were feeling like. If not, just look around the landscape. Take some shot, and trow them into the mess. And probably all is fine, but your thoughts just can't travel there. But it seems, nowhere else. They just flow hidden and without structure. Life is easy, easy, easy. Easier than one could possibly bear. Sometimes, not pleasant ones.

Milky milky

Look up at the sky for your livelihood and you'll be enslaved, man, no doubts. You see, there's no difference in what me or a Yanomano or a Borana or G. W. Bush do for living, there's just not. We're just milking different cows.
There's a degree instead, to which people is free, and G. W. Bush is not. The upper you go, the less you'll be man, the more you'll be cow.
You need the herd and the herd needs you. You move the herd and you follow it, to graze, and graze, and graze. Prophets and shepards would avoid everything but grazing. Therefore my prophet wont be a shepard.
He would say:"hey man, stop milking your society and complain you're getting milked back. What's the point? My father then, can't be bother to create another planet for you to graze, can't you see?"
And the man would say:"I'm sorry, Saviour, but what else can I do?".
And the Saviour would laugh and say:"And you call yourself a man? brother, you have become a cow and dull shepard at the same time, my father is quite ashamed actually. I see now he is right. What can you do?"
And the man:"?"
And the Saviour:"Well don't ask me for my father sake! What did we gave you the brain for? And the heart and feelings and imagination and all the rest? Fucking live, jesus, you're so dull... let yourself live man, you'll see it will come. Look around, listen, feel, answers are all around you. That's what you should do to change: live, because what you're doing is not quite it."
And upset, he would go away.
At this point the man would think:"Holy Mary that's a son of a bitch!"
But Holy Mary and the Saviour know that anger is a good start for life changing. Plus, they're plenty of problems too.

And by the way it's freezing here, fucking north

If the world was turning the other way round, I'll probably be the oposite of what I am. I guess I am one of those.

By the way, if you've never listened to sizzla you should; you know, the album black woman and child is somehow.... sweet and warm. Which is a nice combination, I think, remember and dream.

You must, I guess

I guess you must to be up to the greatest things you can.

Our Ecosystem(S)

Well yes, it is a bit more complex than savanna and that's it. A multi-environmental evoulution would explain the complexity of our deep memories. It makes sense to me. You experience so many contrasting differences in yourself, as the title of the blog says, existence is a battle between contresting logoi, all characterized by equal intensity and truth. If we assume that the pool of behavioural tendencies have evolved to cope with different conditions through our history, hence the capacity of controlling them, elaborate them in something new to cope with new conditions sounds as a good definition of what we do in life. To me at least.

I enjoied reding this: Potts R.(1998)Environmental hypotheses of Hominin evolution. Yarbook of Physical Anthropology 41:93-136

Provided you have acces you can download it from here:

http://www3.interscience.wiley.com/cgi-bin/jissue/20000095

If you don't have access just give a shout, I'll see what I can do for you.

Mountains and identity

There's plenty of mountains, asking to be identified. Once you have done that, they'll even talk to you, in your solitude. And you'll say they wrote those tables of stone. You'll even forget then, if it was you forging the chains. Others wont, others will never.

Spirits and identity

There's plenty of spirits, calling for your identity; some of which are decomposers.

Just remember that the paml will be broken by life, and never walks fast enough. Ethernity, I guess is brotherhood. But there's no wisdom outside the remembering of lust. Let the sun make what it does; and you'll shine of everything.

Memory of something you'll find out yourself

Honestly, I could feel the past, and recognize places never seens before. The temperature, humidity and intensity of light. The sound of the landscape, it was memory upon which I'm built. It called and called, and made me see. Running fast, through the ancestral legacy, I saw the herds of the fathers, remembered the shadows of the trees on their faces. And the smell of dust, and the grains of soil, and the thirst of blood, and the beauty of the bodies. You can feel it, you do can; there's an image deep in the mind, deep in the flesh, there's a memory of land, there's a memory of life. Not forgotten, not yet, still there. Still there, and there only, the search settles, and one instict after another come and ask for satisfaction. Images flash in your mind, awaken; you feel inside the bodies and the minds. You just remember and see, yes you do see, you do feel, you do remember. You're clashed between the landscape and your expanding memory.
There is a sense, for the emptiness of scope. Is that you forgot that you still remember.

A clash

You don't need a clash to realize that you're wrong, but you often need a clash in order to admit it. Since most of use realized, a clash is maybe what we need. As long as we allow hypocrisy, we're working for the clash to come. It's a challenge without scope, in which we all participate. As without scope it is, plane as a glass of water, as a mind without thoughts. Don't pretend it is fine if you know it is not.

Give us a threat

Homids' trend to sociality were increased by interspecific competition with large savanna predators.

I guess the principle still works pretty well.

Between August 2002 and April 2004, 35 humans were killed and eaten in Tanzania by a single lion; they called him "Ossama".

Give us a threat, we'll be together.

Us and them

We are what we are because they have been what they were and they are what they are because we've been as we've been; we'll be what we'll be because they are what they are and they'll be what they'll be because we are what we are. As simple as this. I am, because of lions.

Multidisciplinarity

The togetherness of many disciplines does not generate hybrids; to separate them, does amputate knowledge. A discipline alone, is a monster.

It does creep

Sizzla singing, disk of light on the ground, running to the cerimony, me and my sister, to the hills of lions, and stones, out of the traffic; it all make sense, enslaving master, your eyes are filling the sky and i fill them with compasion that'll never dry; understanding creeps in the darkness, of dreams, awake in the jungle spirits without face protecting their territories with screams, chaikosvki, down the steps, makes me forget; i found a seed of annihilation in my pockets, it grows lianas to the sky, umbarable cold.

Stick and carrot

As long as you'll keep a carrot in front of you, you'll make a donkey of yourself. That's what to make projects is all about: to be a donkey and to move.
Don't do it for life.

Full moon

If living is an engagement within a field of meaningful relationship, then there is no less living in dreams. The attribution of morereality to the awaken life is not a matter of fact, but a matter of beliefs and views of the world. We should not even claim that, after all, you need to eat in order to dream, not knowing much about the condition before and after being embedded in a living body.

Being dreams and awaken life made of the same experiencial material, they confound together; memories become dreams, but also dreams become memories. Dreams get interpreted, but they're experiences themself, which, as awaken ones, will determine our intentionality in the world. There is no rest in life. Think about your dreams in this way, if you want to understand yourself, don't ask to psychomants to interpret it for you. You definetely can encounter something or someone in a dream before than in the aweken life.

I awoke one night; a naked old woman, covered with tatoo, knitting my soul. I think about her when the moon is full.

The Stupid Traveller

I heard today on the TV something that freezed my blood, just for a second; then my blood exploded.

An happy guy was supposed to show people how wonderful and life changing is to travel, how amazingly exciting is to sit on a plane (from Paris to Normandy, hey, what's wrong with the train?) amazed (again) by the though that only two days before he was on the Easter Island, a week before somewhere in S. E. Asia.

He said: this is great, you can have a break from your life without breaking your life.

Well, he thought he said something wise but I hardly ever heard something more stupid than that. I don't see how you don't wish to break a life from which you feel to escape from. And I don't see how can you so cinically subract yourself from the revolutianary power of experiences. As nature, travel destinations have revolutions for every visitors. As nature, are places outside western society. What I think, is that if you don't break your life after having visited three continents in a month, it just mean one thing: you have not been listening. You've experienced a lot; but you subracted yourself from the very point, from the revolutionary relational field which comes from living and that makes places different. As all tourists, you subtracted yourself from an engagement with the place, with this alive relational field made of lives of the past, present and the future. You have spent an awful lot of money, harassed the climate and whatever else for experiencing so that you can go back happily to a life that is exhausting you but that you don't want to break? What about go fishing next time? And you say that in tele, as is something everyone should do. And just the image of an army of dulls invading the "globe" (this is not a globe!!!!), unable and unwilling to challenge them self and to listen, but experiencing a lot, this image terrifyis me. And this experience is evrything, just everything, from canoing to sky diving to learn to use that massive professional camera, everything but actual making a living, engage in living relationship, life situations in that place, which is WHAT would make your experience different in a place rather than another. Don't be proud of telling me you've been to Machu Pichu for the week end.

I'll just think you feel cool for living on the surface of things, which you don't want to break; you've might become unable to deal with what you're made for: what's underneath. Piu' la vedi liscia questa palla, piu' ne scivolerai via senza lasciarne traccia. Goddamn, you'll teast the death. And among other substances, your polluting this planet with stupidity.

Though this post is not the brightest of the universe, I'll find a better synthesis for what I was meant to say.

I'll tell you one day

I'll tell you one day about the intersection between Ingold, Negri, Kassim, the Gnostic tradition, an horse, a panda, the UN, pedogenesis, love, a palm called chonta, T. E. Lawrence, Genet, Tupac Amaru, the Kebra Negast, four moths in the jungle and a bicycle in San Lorenzo... logomakonto is all I'm able to say now

Bananas

The explaination of a mistery wont get you near to its understanding. There's nothing in it which is not metaphore of what you've already lived and seek to explain to yourslef. So don't insist in looking for explanations: if you don't see, there's no point in looking still. Why would you entertain yourself with the story and glory of empty metaphors? They'll just sing a song of donkeys and how donkey and proud you'll be to learn it.

Forget and live, instead. Nothing can be understood without life in the memory. As a further point, you'll find equations in the bus rather than the desk; and you'll get on a chair to grab the banana as soon as you stop jumping like mad, oh little chimpy. It's a world of gorillas with donkey voices; I bet you want to be wise.

Or put it this way

Everyone thought was good to write a gospel; so didn't the guy they were writing about.

May they

To "think globally, act locally" is the slogan of a smart power; of the dull priest; of the sad scientist. Of all the people but not the wise ones. May they find wisdom in their collapsing order.

Cause the "globe" will forever be a place of discovery and crashing implementation. Yet an act of conquest gives birth to revolution. Ethos will grow old and ridiculous, action after action, so will the power and the book of science and one of god. Belivers of any kind should stop beliving and begin listening. Or they'll be laughed after by birds and children.

Ears to hear

I use to make a dream very often. To swim in the sky, sucked by the surface of it, as when you struggle to swim underwater. I never fell down at the end, but went higher and higher against my will.

The world isn't a map. It is skin to wear. So the Logos it is no word or painting, no sound and sinphony. But existence.

That's what I think. And the more I say it, the more I lose it.

Full

Whenever you don't get a thing, mind the following option:

"Full understanding, in short, is attained not through translation but through metamorphosis." Tim Ingold.

I personally agree. Logomakonto, amen.

"The Power of Nightmares" series

this is a bbc documentary series about the politic of fear. It calls on the stage as protagonists of recent history two groups of people: ameriacan neocons and islamic jihadists.

It made me reflect that in politics is not important the image you have of the society but rather the processes that animates it. I belive that any vision you might have is only a glimpse of understanding which cannot subtract itself from the process of learning. Yet to move is all you can do, awaiting the smashing negation of your beliefs. Or maturate the sense of a bigger picture in which you're just an actor among others, enfolding the self transformations of the world in which your beliefs are imprisoned. Good vision and logomakonto.

power of nightmares Part 1

power of nightmares Part 2

power of mightmares Part 3

First of the year is an opinion

and the year as well. Last year i celebrated the celtic one here in scotland, marching in a spiral of fire around november/december, after which i made myself a moho, to less fear the world.

This year i did it in Ethiopia, dancing and clapping hands around a fire among people much bigger than me. for them the first of the year is the 11th Sept according to the coptic/egyptian/julian calendar they have. to the same calendar, the fiscal year begins the 7th Jluly.

Hey, rings a bell... is it maybe that someone is just putting fireworks around?! I wish him good 6007.