Progressivism Essentialism

Coney Island mon amour

I never had the opportunity to slide with Dad in the folds of the fan that was magical and Coney Island by the crisp rays caress me of his noon of any fire, perhaps softened by a bearded Disgrace Kelly and Gary Cooper the star of cardboard.
Whenever this possibility seemed carved in the horizon of my desires my father pretended indisposition (a toothache caused to the new dentures, the alleged declaration of war between the United States and the Milky Way, the stock market index or a race of gliders in St. Louis) until the ban by arguing trip related to the dangerous neighborhood. It was infinitely stupid dad, so as to have deserved - affibiatogli colleagues who worked with him at the gasometer - the epithet of Archie The Human snots. Wow! How to blame them since they spent most of his time in the Figs 'Blue with' ecstatic expression accompanied by a frantic search for a new gold-bearing veins in the mines of his boundless stuffy nose.
Mom was gone a few years ago with a distant cousin of North Dakota, a guy in his early twenties, very deficient air, something like Billy Lawson, Rawson, Cowson. The last letter was in May millenovecentocinquantatre and read something like this: "Dear Stan, here is a tale that is, me and Billy and we decided to get married to their brothers and sisters to you. I work as a nanny for wife of people who are so well known here in Fargo and I send you kisses and I'd like to know that you are well, your father will get breakfast? As you can tell him to put on a pancake on his nose for that disgusting. "
It seems to me to see her mama, with the heel on the pavement sizzling white hot, the propriety of the profession which he loved betrayed by circonfondersi sensual gestures, crack the morning glory modulating the voice on the register at the Geraldine Russell eyes while he was sweet to the workers of the telephone company.
And basically I only have a handful of marbles rolling along the roller coaster of memory, you and I sealed the iris of these mobile, and ever after the incident, in glorious ascension to the warehouses Adler or rumbling and lightning came down Sunday along the Hudson.
So, at the dawn of a particularly generous in July of flies, rain and dreams of spiders decided to take the first bus to Coney Island not before saying goodbye to my father (and lying on the destination) which, incidentally, could at that time undertaking to shave and at the same time, put his index bluish in what sounded like a canyon to be gutted, esplosogli now in the middle of the face.
Until then I had a beautiful park adorned by a series of amazing figures, something that looks like General Tom Thumb, Jo-Jo the dog-faced boy or Siamese twins Chang and Eng, all withdrawals from an epiphany of creatures pictures of old postcards of the human anatomy or the bizarre hand-painted posters to advertise yet another world tour of PT Barnum and his associates.
The Coney Island of Houdini and acrobats, however, had long since closed its doors as well as his famous attraction "Fire and Flames" (nothing but a simulated fire off as a result of false and melancholy firefighters hired for the occasion) . What disappointment
when, instead of the 'eccentric live nativity scene, not a procession of three kings accompanied by a fantastic bestiary is parried before my eyes, but a more modest carousel of stalls exhibiting donuts and hot dogs! The yards that lined the streets looked like colored pencils arranged in an orderly fashion along the graph of mad quell'agglomerato of moldy barracks and even cotton candy was stale, he remembered the taste of syrup that expired ingollai the Christmas Eve one thousand nine hundred (and I almost sent to another world if it were not for Uncle Arthur who had the alertness to notice my principle of suffocation while hidden from the tree, I moved the Martian plastic given to me to dad with the points of "The Knights of the Green Ray"). I was so all alone, thinking about the disappointment of that 'hot July morning, when I noticed a dot in the zigzag line steam' horizon. Like a fly trapped in a jar of honey a black Ford proceeded in my direction without being able to hover permanently from the recesses of the South that he concluded in his viscous golden eye. L 'car approached a red shack - sciorinante the laconic inscription "House of Wonders" - followed by a swarm of people who waved their hats and pointed to friends, relatives and girlfriends who apparently already knew the show and that it constituted a' attraction to share with the uninitiated. A man opened the door and, quick as a shadow of a tree seen through the window of a moving train, his figure slipped inside the cabin followed by the whistles and the promptings of the knot that was now swelling profusely. I was about to embark on the way back and, on the other hand, I had already decided that Coney Island would never see her again, but I resolved to leave after that last show in a circus. After a few minutes the announcer came on the plank that served as the stage and, schiaritasi his throat, he uttered these words with a loud voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, children and cute puppies, I have the honor to present a priceless talent, never seen in Europe , Asia, Poles and the South Seas! Able to swallow any object with its unique proboscis - the syllables pronounced by a mechanical phonograph Edison rusty - here comes the unique, the incomparable, amazing AR-CHIE AND HIS FA-VO-LO-SO-NA SO! ".

Sciarlselisé

How To Get Bonus Items On Poptropica

The Lady with the camellia

I find it hard to remember something so solid, marble and inevitable comparisons to the rain Sunday in Alpine, split into two like an apple, one part for books and other church.
The frame powder of my reading that morning was a prelude to the liturgy of the August numb parish priest of Bonzo (who, despite the name arsonist is a charming little village is not beat the sun for a good part of the year) provided a quick glance at the celebrations of exegetical 'anti-America present in the form of uplifting stories, the pages of Reader's Digest Selection.
stories like 'The bomber in Portland "- none other than a girl bolsheviks enmeshed and made some schoolboy that infiltration of Caucasian origin - or articles in the form of panegyric on the production of U.S. automobiles in 1965, did they peep from faded advertising Nutella, with skiers ruddy bundled up in sweaters sharp two-tone.
was one of those skeletal Sunday in late September, before the function to which I would go, thinking how the hell I spent the last day of vacation just like a dog owner to which they have poisoned the faithful friend, an ambulance he flashes his starry blue above the plaster of the house had come to take my grandfather ("They had come to take" is a phrase that has become, over time, a particular color, a gradient from the Gestapo or Stalin's OGPU and in fact the wail of sirens, if he promises an 'island of calm and relaxation, sometimes turns into deportation to stateless persons and those satellites that dot the neutral geography of our nebulae cement hospitals).
few days later my grandfather would have released its latest and intimate matter - which is what it seems to conclude the essence of our fragile individuals in the sheath of a few syllables crumpled - the cracked wall of municipal notices, leaving the faint shadow of that take accommodation in the hotel for hours of family memories. Happen before the burial I went to the morgue of the hospital and it was there that I saw the lady with the flower on her lips.
His coffin was adjacent to that of the grandfather, this deaf community of beings who met strangers ever before, lighted, by contrast, the opaque and vulnerable rib on which stands the monumental building of our links and relationships (disappear constantly, each other).
If the large circle surrounding the body of his grandfather gave them a license to "reputation" or at least was an indication of how many there were people who had known, estimated, perhaps even hated, his roommate did not seemed to enjoy the same favor and lay abandoned in her last bed, private last viaticum accompanying the deceased.
The thing that surprised me most was, however - and by virtue of selfishness imaginative and macabre curiosity that often coexist in a child, though he can look good and loving - a detail that would prove a harbinger of phosphorescent dream-like films, able to hallucinate my future nights. As I approached the coffin past the lower lip of a lady who seemed to sort of lump crystallized, as though it were foreign to his body and lodged there by a gust of wind, the habit of a relative or gemologist from the care of a delicate violator of salt mortuary .
A small, pretty little flower bloomed, at the corner of his lips and gave an almost dead to the old heights, it seemed that Mrs. claim a 'last show of coquetry before the final seal cover his departure.
Shortly thereafter taken to dreaming about for a while and I must say that not all colors of the dream were impregnated on a dark or frightening, despite period has elapsed and the vestiges of those dreams that do not allow a glimpse of the material crushed in the bottom of the dark years, survived the collapse image is detached at times from those ruins to come up to me and uttered with a sort of unspoken language Morse and his intermittent melancholy message (the fruit, the latter, the effect of impression on the film product of dreams? Who knows, maybe a quiet prayer to remember).
I learned later, snatching part of a speech delivered by my grandmother to one of his old friend, that the cause of death was due to the excessive increase in the levels of bilirubin in the blood, or to put it more prosaically that the old lady suffered from time jaundice and that this, causing a leakage of body fluids solidificatisi after death, had adorned the face of the corpse as a spring day may, interpolated to the plane of the seasons, knocking at the gates of autumn in disguise.

Sciarlselisé

Where Can I Get A Fake Ontario License

Meltin 'pot

Talking is, write sometimes. In this blog I write about what 'I'm talking about. So it 's a bit like psychoanalysis of psychoanalysis. As the dream of the dream cruel Abbot.

Sometimes I tell myself that I should write more often and that I should do it as often as I speak. But 'never talk ... so I never write ...

Best Fuel Economy Pick Up

Family Melampus

Or Sonata for impaired mental Collegno "

The first pictures I have of Melampus family are stranded in the seabed of my memory, between the coral translucent afternoons spent in epic squash tournaments chamber (always sided with the weaker nations, provided to me from those expressed, among them, had the names or the most exotic and bizarre as the flag over the opioid Bhutan or St. Vincent & the Grenadines, the latter real-candy pink and able to withstand the winds of whipping Faroe Islands icy or rain out of the tennis metaphor Bushmen Botswana).
and left the house, dressed like a pack of divers who pass through the waves, the flyover and seahorses with two wheels C.so France, here to peep the Family Melampus, so named for one of those inscrutable reasons esotericomiche childhood identical to the ones you're singing a pleasant melody on an object without an apparent causal relationship with it, chess, something like "living my cat purple, burgundy living my cat" to the tune of Robin Hood & Little John SS Walt Disney rather than Glenn Miller.
remembered later that Melampus was a dog that appears - appears as if the deceased person referred to by the puppet master before replacing it to ensure the chicken coop - the adventures of Pinocchio.
In short, the three divers who plowed the sidewalks to and fro, seemed to come out a table of some crazy mid-nineteenth century phrenologist: Dad Melampus, blacks with his hair wild around to fertilize the skull of some trace of life that was not the grin ebetitudine onanist of a global ("On your left Dad Melampus, the king of lefty saw the Laceno masturbation garden, still unbeaten champion and three-sborrocategorie! "- Applause from the right wing, a hiss of disapproval immediately laid to rest in the left wing);
Mamma Melampus, dressed as a witch Magò piemontarda, an apotheosis of green, light green, beige and greenish caòda framing a wet head big, square, sturdy as a safe that contains within the combination to open it and nothing more, and finally my one true idol and indisputable: the Younger Melampus.
This was nothing more than a lanky individual of age unspecified (as could be eighteen thirty-two years) with red cheeks, a look at hidden sidereal distances from their sockets in a blue and brown hair, glued to the skull as if it were a piece of carpet of a dilapidated two-star hotel, the kind that are found along the provincial wetlands of the Po Valley. Both
three - Mom and Dad Melampus were unique, one-celled organism, a stolid cytoplasm that had de-generated the kind of tin soldier who was their son - walked jerkily, accurate and thorough as the parade of an elusive Kim Jong II Leumann, loyal to the delivery of a mechanical army the magazine from nothing.
Ohibò! And to think that the first time I imagined they were Jehovah's Witnesses view of the similarity with those movements and discrete method, the gait of millenarian who leads with the nonchalance of those who knows that if the bakery is closed, you can always find a meteorite or a winged serpent.
I confess that I was afraid, afraid of a bloody cross and when they felt their nonsguardo him to the point that I fantasized scenarios Grand Guignol in the suburbs, expanded enormously from 'disturbing and macabre reading of a story that appeared in the Tex Willer which relate the deeds, it really happened, a family of innkeepers murderers of the old West.
Some time ago I happened to meet them, hunched with age, like the statues of the parks oxidized exposed to weather, the young no longer that Melampus to sniff the air of course France with his profile tenacious hound who drags his companions now graying adventures in mysterious and inaccessible to the post office.

Sciarlselisé

ps: I hope one day to attach a photo, a testimony of what is written above.

Creative Vf 0040 Drivers Vista

Jimmy Compton


Perhaps one of the most incandescent literary cases of recent years.
This picture of 1920 we project an image to Jack London, a jumble of mixed colony superomismo Nietzche water and whiskey archeopugilato misty taverns in the North West, except that our James D. Compton was suffering from a heart disease that prevented him guncotton to ascend to the heights of American fiction sbrilluccicanti primonovecentesca.
Although he has a style, so to speak, softly earthquake (and here peeps Faulkner) combined with a touching tone that makes him a forerunner of Kerouac, he left us on our pages where there is an irreducible identity writing as in the few but emblematic lines to follow:

[...]" If Rose had called Beth Louise or I could love her, because after all, since childhood, I had loved the unrealized potentials in the giant fence and grazing of a contingency that began between Lawrence Ave to end before the cobbler's shop next to his uncle Ralph "[...]

from" Never leave a hat on the bed, "Simon and Schuster, forthcoming.

Magma Compton's narrative is fascinating and often autobiographical though oblivious to lessons or vanguard of a strong cultural heritage (the only affinity with London martinediana of memory), if you grant me the chance that his is a world view embraces a poignant and naive solipsism lit / nte that the unites all 'Idiot Dostoevsky.
Curious is also the site of his departure, the shroud from Baltimore who had ravaged the body of Poe and the date thereof (October 23, 1929), a day before the stock market crash.

E 'therefore a great pity that, in addition to being died in the prime of life, never existed.

Sciarlselisé