Carbon Taste In Mouth

Subject: RE: Are you still there?

friendships-friendships there and there (for me at least) friendships-fuse. Friendships are the low-fuse the literary work, arguably, slightly overestimating the role of literature, in fact are low, period. Although not happen to coincide with the opening of a new topic in a new book. Friendships-fuse, as its name suggests, are those who jump into pieces so they do not jump on pieces back. It is always new friends. For some reason it seems that it is easier to tell certain things to a stranger, someone who knows a little time, a friend of several years or a lifetime. And there are strange and foreign. Some friends recently the care. Care means that you never, ever going to tell me something disturbing and find the edge of syncope. Whom to talk then when anxiety increases, and neither therapy nor the writing or the blog achieved? Certain things have the kind of voltage that blows up everything. And, of course, one counts them and jump around. Let me clarify: it is to jump into pieces the other, which is shatter friendship. But it is not easy to unscrew and throw away a friendship like a fuse. That moment when a funeral is discovered too late that this stranger was no stranger. There were images, words, complicity, love, beauty of signs that had been knotting, and one is left alone with all this, as if a loved one had died. And the relief at having survived the pain expressing itself and thereby sacrificing a friendship, then diluted to understand that the cost was too high. And the relief was still mourning. The end starts with a silence (one justifiable very justifiable) in the email. Silence that threatens to become permanent: there was no time to ask for a phone number, and if there had been, at some point the disintegration of the link is no guarantee that a call will fix things. A marriage can fall apart in fifteen years, a friendship fuse, in fifteen days, five, in a particularly bad weekend in fifteen minutes. At the onset of pain followed by the even more painful struggle not to mourn, and most likely at that time you have someone close enough to destroy a link crying more and trigger an unstoppable chain reaction, a snowball effect snow. At least the crying content, such as physical emotion, it is interesting to observe. Have to put up and join forces to take note, always useful. I have been through this many times and I know that the most fucking are the first 48 hours. Support the happy scenes film parading one after another like a montage of scenes mersa silent with soundtrack of the Oscar-nominated song. Helpful to think of friends who are, friendships-friendships that just at the same time affirm and deepen, their papers and thinking in their kisses and the joy of their reunion (if they knew if they knew!) Hope it helps to think new friendships (if you know!), but alas abandoned passwords, and from the look of eyes forever lost, broken complicity ay, ay nicknames again not pronounce. Best
not entirely lose hope that maybe tomorrow in the box Email displayed something. A miracle, " Subject: RE: Are you still there? ." I used to think it was better not to open the mail until we have full confidence that he would be able to withstand not find the email miraculous. Now I prefer to just open and weather the shocks, and get me the question ... No, it is not in doubt: the certainty that there will be nothing and WHILE waiting for the miracle. Another is to keep sending emails that no longer are confident that will be open, but that can backfire, destroying the last remnant of that friendship so short and fragile and that was crushed by his own anxiety as a seedling which passes by a steamroller above.
It is best to leave with dignity: a good-bye email, but that seems to bounce, because that would be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Apologize, just in case, but with height. And repeated that phrase to an end of that novel that Chandler's "Farewell, friend. Do not say goodbye."

UPDATE 30/11: ¡¡¡¡¡ WROTE ME !!!!!!!!!!!!!
I replied and now I'm going to breakfast.

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Men, horses, tigers, trees and sea

Men. As a child I was always fascinated by these strange creatures great and reconcentrated lively and intense, strong and silent as horses or tigers or trees, but more beautiful even than the horses and tigers and the trees. The men of my childhood were quietly sad and were always tired and always had something to do with my father. I liked the hand to lead them to places, talk to them and make them laugh. My mother feared them. My father uninvited whiskey. I was happy if he could play chess with them or touch their songs on the piano. I liked their deep voices and the smell of their bodies. I saw them sweating under the weight of a load or greased in unequal combat with a motor, and admired. A man is serious. I liked and I like men almost as much as I disliked and I dislike children. But get too involved with the first may generate the second, so I have a problem.
I'm afraid a little in that famous issue of pride. My mother insisted it too much. Maybe too much. But then to me, nothing pleases me as much as the admiration of the proud men, when they find in me qualities that they believed unique. Then I feel I'm a bit them, and that makes me happy, because I like as much as you can get close to them, even if I get close enough to bear children, I find it insufficient. I like to feel engulfed by the look of admiration of a proud man. And later I realize that this view puts too much distance. And I want to be closer, I want to lead them out to a place. I want to feel close to their odors. And watch his eyes closely. Would suffice one, one in particular. A strong man who has sweated under a load and has endured and admire me for having endured while not as strong.
Men are like songs. Every man, for me, has its shape and color and song. Men give advice. English I do not forget that one night in Mar del Plata told me that we must stand and fight, stand up and fight. " And we take forty beers, we at dawn. Neither the merchant marine who told me "You and I are brave: I'll get on the high seas, you you mess with the word" and the next day introduced me to his mother. Men have saved my life. Always a man saves me from dying from despair by another man. And everything is a drama serene and civilized as a novel by Somerset Maugham.
I love men.
Not all, but some love them.
And others just loved them.

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Day against violence against women MONTENEGRO

Today, November 25, I dedicate this post to a subtle form of violence against women: mobbing, bullying in the professional field or in the workplace. Mobbing is often the continuation of sexual harassment. Or a sex malformed and misunderstood, by some men (and many still, unfortunately), as conquest and / or destruction of the woman and not as an equal dialogue with their own needs and rights. So dear sir colleague, boss, colleague, were that "Minita" that dresses stand shoulder to shoulder with you and whom you perceived perhaps as an illegitimate "invasion" of "your" space, but you did not give you hot or hour (or because neither the question, gil! or why not), you would not you have absolutely no right to "revenge" by using your right or wrong portion gained power to adversely affect not only against him, destroying or attempting to destroy his career, not for me! call him a paranoid if it detect and report your foul play. You're a MAN, a mere mortal, and do not pretend to act like a pagan god who throws thunderbolts your child resists whim, because what you end up being a RAT.
dedicate these reflections to all readers but especially to my "ex? friend, fellow poet and former long section chief, Prof. MP, with charity and compassion you deserve to be a SICK (curable) and the remains of the great love anything tiny that he once had.
And in honor of the great love that could not be.
And that could not be, in large part also because my self-esteem had been weakened by years and years of domestic violence, emotional abuse and discrimination.
The latter is the party of which I deal itself, it has to do with my story, and (with help) try to reverse.
So I provide on this day for happiness and respect that women deserve. We are not masochists, not want to suffer. Patiently endured the missiles to pull us because we defend our land with dignity, that with effort and struggle of just three or four generations of liberated women have won.
But patience is over.
So, dude, FUCK NO MORE.

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Warriors were out of nowhere, our logo
a tear of cloud
entrenched in a fold of the expected wind
time, while only inexhaustible
almost eternal lovers and pale wavering candle

in the useless pen indigo light.

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War of the Saints

let me reach. For all a blast
to wind a strip of light.

This lightning hit from as far
can only be part of something.

All wreck waiting.
This will not last.