Sabes,

Yo te diria: seguimos, seguimos, seguimos

Que el espejo siempre me ve solo

Y el envierno ya se ha ido

Y te diria: amor, el invierno ya se ha ido, hemos cambiado ya



Y siempre, siempre tu estas

En el humo de mis sigarros, en la ceniza de mi cabeza


Y pero, ya

Tengo un nuevo viaje y nuevas botas

Y las viejas tu no las viste nunca

Tanto es el tiempo que no te veo

Que estamos solos en el espejo



Y entonces seguimos, asi

Seguimos, seguimos, seguimos

Mi amor lejano

Este amor de espejos, humo y ceniza


Lo que nos ha quemado

Nos deja tontos de recuerdos

Incapaz de dejarnos, y solos

You raised your hand again

That golden star is you, my dear
That burns your fingers skin
Every time you try to catch it

Every time your dream is real

I drove myself to nowhere
Lost in the forhead's weight of clouds
And guilt and hurt and sorrow

These are the bites of the tomorrows

And it burns, it burns, I know
As if the skin was thirst of fire
And fire claiming soil

To blossom like a flower

Forgive me now for what I say
I'll keep the blame for what you felt
If my eyes have shined the flame

And you raised your hand again

Forgive my sensless scream
Now that I talk while I should sleep
Whatching the confidence of strenght

Raising from silence and regret

Forgive my senseless scream
Now that I talk while I should sleep
You know surrenders night

Rebels the speachless of defeats

You're messed all up in thorns
While running through the fence
Breaking the glass to freedom

Across transparent pains

Your veins are drinking sorrow
From the tale of courage-scorpion
The sore pleas hugh of chains

These are the bites of the tomorrows

And it burns, it burns, I know
As if the skin was thirst of fire
And fire claiming soil

To blossom like a flower

Forgive me now for what I say
I'll keep the blame for what you felt
If my eyes have shined the flame

And you raised your hand again

L'inverno e' un sogno stupido

L'inverno e' una gabbia nera
nella bocca morbida del sonno

L'inverno e' un silenzio freddo
regresso a un utero oscuro

L'inverno e' un sogno stupido
che stupra la vita

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.