Baby Has Rash All Over

For socialism toward mimicry

are becoming popular videos where so supposedly spontaneous people come together in a ritual of mimesis that opens the hearts of staff to the emotion of caring, empathy and the group. We are not alone, we like them and excite us the same things, our things. It is thought only led the group choreography. Not bad, you're like them, like everyone else, like us, like him, like her, even in your times ungrouped deceive your husband and your two sons swear by, but disregard it and weep at the indicated days, as the rule ( that other rule), even if you sneak into the subway or defraud a farm (which we dance we all) or give to charity all you've stolen your cleaning lady. It's nice to join and participate in the rite, make the same step, believing that we are better to be together and give us ceremonies we hold hands when crossing the ethical conscience and the wants.

We have not reached socialism, but we, together, reaching the republic of mimicry.

Subscribe to my feed

Jesse Jane Free Movies Vids

The day we dreamed of Hilary Hahn On a train

Ros My name is Geoffrey and from the day I left in a container, just newborn, I have always had a special attraction for music. At first, in the long days seen as children, any street noise I sank into a kind of trance in which I tore my inner senses and melancholy flooded with unshed tears choked me until I see or know. At such times life hurt with another kind of pain, so intense and so vivid that it made me feel good. It was a paradox.

felt great love for the honking of cars and when I escaped from the orphanage my agency a clean box and made sure to cross streets with more traffic in Lisbon. Without thinking he had joined two activities that would take me all over the world in search of that pain that made me happy. I learned to distinguish tones and notes, times and silence, between the noises that were formed by coupling tunes and laughter of people passing and each of the faces of passers-by was an eighth or a sixteenth note, every mouth filled vocalized my melancholy silences and over piles of dropouts and many forgotten. I also learned to look at people from top to bottom.

One day in many cities later I heard a speaker that I tore the heart and tickled me from neck to toe, until I leave the box and a shoe with his foot in the medium clean. We were in the plaza of the old city of Prague and that wonderful noise came from a street behind some centuries before stretching endlessly air and while the world with a sound that I suddenly saw through my entire existence, a thread of gold that came from the future and tied me, I turned and for a moment I knew the melancholy gone when the saw Male Namesti square.

The woman was wearing brown suede boots. Half calf emerged a narrow jeans and a thick white wool jersey hugged her hips and her body and neck as I have dreamed forever from that moment. In the square there were no cars, no noise, just the music on his violin lying on his cheek. Her face and hair and eyes made me happy just to see them. So happy I could hardly bear the pain. It was another paradox.

Several days later I knew that the wonderful sound that was a girl radiated such a Bach composition. I also learned that music is another kind of noise, good family, and she called Hilary and sweet and unhurried kiss or through tickets. I knew that if I closed my eyes and saw that if he thought it spoke to me and there was sadness because she and her fans packed every day and months living together in a small room Retezova Street, right next to the coffee Mommartre, where she played her violin at night for people to fall in love and forget for a while that love is never to listen. I drank becherovka until everything is blurred me about your music and your body.

When he finished his work we strolled through the old city. Numb with cold, we embraced each other until the heat and came back to us quickly dampened the room to fuck slowly and tell old stories believed impossible that the two wet eyes laughing and hooked us again that perhaps the future they could be.

In the morning she practiced the violin and I stayed in a corner, clutching my box clean, with closed eyes and asking you please do not end up the music not to let that violin sound ever, that love. I was so afraid that everything is a delusion that I dared not open his eyes until his hand was not there to help me, to caress, to bring me into the world of dreams.

One day the music stopped.

More information:

http://www.hilaryhahn.com/

http:// es.wikipedia.org / wiki / Hilary_Hahn

http://www.lastfm.es/music/Hilary+Hahn

http://www.classissima.com/spa/people/Hilary_Hahn

Subscribe to my feed

Kitchen Under Unit Tv

North Station Valencia is also a little secessionist , modern and beautiful. P is waiting for the train to Vinaroz and a woman, too young for him, approaches him and asks if that is the path of the train to Barcelona and if necessary cancel the ticket somewhere. P is bored and tired and sad, but the smile of the girl is like a movie and he says he thinks so because he will Vinaroz and there is no need to validate it because he has not made and she looks still smiling and says thanks and he still looks and a boy approached him and very formal, distance, also says thanks and walks away with the girl a few yards and she with her beautiful smile and beautiful eyes farewell silent.

P can not avoid sitting in the car just behind the couple. The girl has blond hair must know crescent and gray blue eyes that seem to sizzle when you look, your ass is a slide where little black shorts and holding his left nipple seems to stretch after your shirt also black. AP painful thoughts and pulls out his black rubber pad to write a poem that you hide from memory.

The train starts and the girl and boy talk and laugh and seem to want to like and be very friendly and resourceful. The principles always are, and P is happy, what stupidity, noting that the couple has been known for little when he sees how the boy looks at the ass of the girl who has risen to take something from his backpack and takes out some photos and start to teach the boy and P that spies from the back seat. The girl, in one of those, look and see the look of P and smile again as before and P hurts life again and is glad to be alive again.

landscapes photos and go out the window and P stands for the toilet and then approaches the Marc bar and orders a stiff target of those that tears in the throat and try not to remember that remembers every second that was when a shadow next to her blonde starts and is the blonde asking fire and he, trembling at his age, he smoke, but the secure server, and she, her smile, thanks, what are you drinking?, Marc, what?, Marc, is brandy, do it in Galicia, ah, Galicia, next year will go to Galicia, " you French?, yes, I am from Lille, Lille did?, how far and how so nice accent you have, you speak English well, is that I always I have boyfriends and English and learn a lot, haha, and his eyes and parted lips and P living again, poor fool.

and spend five minutes and seem to have spent two months and she is very close and smells really good and you know what you do each one, reading, in an editorial, it; official prison, he, as young, she, as most, he. So nice to be talking as well go the fields and almost touching the water from his eyes and almost touching his lips with his fingers and all those years seem zombies rising from their graves and clinging to the ankles of P for your dream does not become in another lie.

music Words seem that no matter what they say, the gestures are becoming closer and wool ball and like to be close, almost touching, and what they think it is always two seconds behind what they feel, like a double image of what they wanted to feel. She talks and laughs and has a smile and suddenly freezes and the gray is a little black eyes and his voice a little serious, a little hollow, completely new to tell you something that has never had that one day a guy died for her, just a railroad, because the boy loved her, but she does not, the long history of the train, adolescence, the road death. YP silent that does not care about the story, but seeing so serious and so sad and has won in both the death penalty any, of any life, that P can not avoid feel a little hypocritical when you put your hand on it and feel the touch of his life and feels closer to her than himself and he knows it all a lie, anything, and would have died right there to kiss her, but death has never been easier, and can only accompany the slip of the girl's tear down his cheek, how many lies, and whisper a not your fault you know that's not true, that everyone always to blame, even though write poems to deceive.

P's hand is lying on the girl. The rattle of the train divides life into pieces and the time seems like a straight line away from itself. It is already dark and P and the girl are talking. You may never get fucked, but forty-five minutes have been removed together and each of its flows, the rest is pure event. P asks for another pomace and she accompanies, P tells his story, he speaks of his wife, his love from the sixteen, his daughter, his only love, his mistress, the jealousy of his wife's madness his wife, the death of his daughter drowned by his wife, his loneliness, his guilt, his ennui, his anything. The train arrives at Vinaroz.

Subscribe to my feed

Motorola Phone Tools Descargar

Home Project

Yann Arthus-Bertrand, the French photographer highly valued, especially since specialized in making aerial photographs around the world, presented last June HOME his documentary, another of the projects to achieve sustainable development as the only way to preserve our environment, nature.

HOME But is not any project, it is an impressive work of art that joins the photographs taken by Yann turning them into a spectacular animated movie complete with a superb soundtrack of Armand Amar and a text explaining that goes off a very graphic way how human action is destroying allowing our lives.

The project was funded with 10 million euros by the French group PPR, which owns brands like Gucci , Fnac or Puma. We have created an interesting debate about the fact that the logos of these luxury brands appear in the credits of the film: superfluous brands sponsoring the responsible consumption?, "Another of the twists of capitalism?

Although lasts an hour and a half, I suggest you set yourself comfortable and you see carefully. Worthwhile. I can not put full here, but you put the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWRHxh6XepM

(you know, full screen)

More information:

http://www.yannarthusbertrand.org/v2/home_es. htm

http://www.davidporcel.com/

http://www.scoremagacine.com/Compositores_det.php?Codigo=1564

http://mpmv2.foroactivo.net/europa-f14/armand-amar-discografia-t36 . htm

Subscribe to my feed

Levonelle Side Effects Bleeding

FIRST Robotics at the Congress of Educational Achievement Fair

On Saturday 10 October, graduate students showed their achieving the wit FIRST the project ECOBOTS , a robot for agriculture.

Ecobots Our young people worked, where robotics using a method proposed alternate ending hunger and caring for the environment.

project Ecobots , a robot of 480 pieces:

Through robotics working on improving crop conditions, hunger and make the environment sustainable. The robot has 480 pieces of track design and is scheduled to prepare the ground for planting and care of farm.

In the event included several schools, both public and private, who competed on the basis of healthy competition through integration projects curriculum between the academic content of the subjects of the national curriculum with robotics.

This discipline develops thinking, analysis and reasoning. It also causes the use of technology and learning through trial. The description of the projects was broadcast circuit.

It had the participation of 6 jurors who are nationally recognized professionals in the areas of education, information technology, mechanics, electronics, etc. Those who had the difficult task of selecting the three best projects in order to reward them.

Getting Rid Of Stains On Vinyl Floor

The monster and the polaroid

Ten seconds to auto shot.

At nine o'clock Amadeo Moreno finished his fourth barrechat a drink and get the cup and does not quiver in his hand as he chokes on the next drag on his cigarette and runs away to the bathroom to spit on the sink another red viscous sputum. Let the water run to clear the blood and fear. Look in the mirror and not feel like smiling. Is alive and can still walk. Wears his tattered dark suit and blue tie to go to sell counterfeit brand cologne. I always liked your smile, but also false.

goes out and sees him. Long time no see, but every so often meet him again. Since he can remember. I remember looking almost by stealth as other children played, paragraph, and without the right to look ugly and deformed from his face. It reminds himself staring too flighty, fearful that their eyes met and that it was just a monster to become a person. Always had been ashamed of the ugliness of that child who was becoming boy while he in the same neighborhood. Never exchanged a single word and Amadeo got used to it just forget about changing direction to avoid seeing too close. Then

also inadvertently forgot his childhood and things went well. Found a good job with big car included. He bought a flat in one of the best areas of the city and a boat blonde woman who bore him a son and a gorgeous girl. It was on the right and began to hear the Cope and hold the rows of blonde to stay with the boss to take a beer on Fridays. One day he was without work and soon found his boat blonde fucks another in his bed. He could only hear the cries of her daughter in the crib and his wife moaning: "Dame cane, cane dame." He left without luggage or children. Now he walk down the street selling the colonies and with them trying to hide the smell of putrefaction that shows your liver.

Five seconds self-timer.

He does not remember who else has had the monster. Just remember that once it has been more ashamed of himself that's horrible and has been approached. Is much more deformed and monsters, but at one point has become in person. They talked and talked sitting on a park bench. He has discovered that the monster is a cultured and sensitive person with a sense of humor and irony that he has lost long ago. Eagerly have recovered all the friendship that they had not have been looked into his eyes without fear and forgiveness Amadeo lost without telling him. He shunned untouchable to everyone is embracing it in the bank and feel Amadeo love tickle in the throat and clears his throat and says he will think we are bundled and Tito, so called, laughs and says that somehow bundled to the childhood people for life. They say many things. They get up and walk and tells him that Tito is very happy since I accepted be as it is, he is glad to have lived so long and have felt love and the sun and all these things that some people delude themselves to not suffer so much.

Tito Amadeo persuaded to go home and he is surprised to see so carefully decorated. The walls are filled with pictures of the skyline of many cities. All done Tito. There is also a box with a white cat black eclipsed by a moon. It's called "Eclipse" cat, but that's another story, says the narrator. Amadeo is a little uncomfortable, nervous, in a strange house, and appreciates the twelve year old Cardhu offered by the host.

Three seconds self-timer.

Tito is charming and knows it. He talks of his travels, how he liked to watch other children playing football because, as he did, he imagined himself playing with them. Amadeo dares to ask for his deformity and laughs as Tito in and out of the room to return immediately with two albums. Are snapshots taken with a Polaroid. In the first picture that shows two identical babies in an incubator. Babies do not come back together in any photography, but each of the following pages of the album are two photos, each of a child. Amadeo few pages later is recognized and then recognizes him as well. In each picture the child was shown Amadeo best looking, every photograph Tito appears deformed. With the heart to point helársele, Amadeo turn the page after page, all his life and Tito are joined by the photographs.

-The Picture of Dorian Gray.

-No. Tito is our portrait has lost his kindness. Every time I made you a picture of how bad it wore you came to me. Since we were born has. You carried the evil within you, I have taken out of me. Now we only have the last picture. Amadeo

made to feel a little relief. Is ready. Tito prepares the polaroid, take the cable release and sits next to Amadeo. Both smile.

Self-timer.

Subscribe to my feed

My Infant's Nose Is Running

Good family

Marta closes the eyelids and recorded with a dark force in his desire. And then blow the candle goes out and they all sing and clap at fifteen for a moment seem happy but the cake has found his father in a container. Open your eyes and look distorted by a tear crosses the lines of his mother, alcoholic stains the cheeks of her father's nose sniffing glue his little brother. He was happy and very sad to know that just a moment.

The cake is fantastic and they eat in a hurry, sir mother sighs, and all post with mismatched cups and drink and belch brother and father's cheek caressing Marta, my beautiful blonde, and dance that pasodoble from when I was small and the peeling of the walls are ashamed of not being able to remain as they were then, but nothing is the same y el padre se va al bar, a buscar trabajo dice él, y la madre sigue cosiendo los remiendos de la familia y Marta recoge la mesa, el mantel de hule agujereado por los cigarrillos, y se encierra en su cuarto a imaginar en su diario el primer día de sus quince años.

Ya es el segundo día y en el desayuno su madre le confirma lo que ya sabía: va a irse a casa de la condesa. Las dos lloran, se abrazan. Marta piensa en el chico que va a dejar, su madre se odia por lo que va a hacer. A su padre no lo volverá a ver, su hermano es como si no existiera ya. Su familia recibirá un dinero que se gastará pronto, como todo. Su madre balbucea un sinfín de excusas para taparse silencios que la acusen, Marta smiles and kisses her gently, do not worry I'll be fine.

The Countess lives in a very elegant country house, surrounded by orchards and gardens and a river where a beach have been built for private use. Marta plays the doorbell of service and after a few seconds the door opens and a rocky-looking man with boyish in his smile and she receives hello, I'm Marta. He takes her small suitcase and accompanied deteriorated to the girls room. There is nobody there and he said one of the four beds, there's only one more girl, Isa, Carmen sleeps in another room, the lady who takes care of everything, and Jane, the cook comes every day. The man is nice and makes Marta shaking stops before leaving her alone to suit. Soon Isa appears and everything seems to go better than expected, be friends, he thinks, and comes with the kitchen to introduce you to Jane and Carmen. Marta

carried away by the spirits that give the two women and Carmen, a woman shiny and pink, give the clothes to be used, pinched his cheek and makes you feel good, very good. Isa takes her hand and will teach the whole house, do not worry, the countess will not come until tomorrow, and tells the story of the house, the countess, Carmen, Juana, his family, his boyfriend, and you have a boyfriend?, Martha and makes a hole in the stomach and mumbling yeah, I think, was, no, no. Isa hugs her and whispers in your ear, you'll see the gardener.

is the next day and has not seen the countess has only been spying from the kitchen window while she was bathing in that river. From a distance you think of a beautiful woman. He begins to shake just thinking about the time the call. It has already put the clothes gave Carmen because at any moment must be available. You can not help but feel shame, you feel naked with tiny white thong that leaves her labia into the air, her nipples painted with lipstick, with the very short and transparent white gauze gown. Carmen takes up to a mirror, asked: "Have you ever been so precious as today?

At last the bell rings and Carmen gives her a kiss on the cheek and attached to the bedroom of the Countess, do not talk if she does not ask, do everything you say without making a sound, do not look ever eyes. The Countess is wearing a black robe, approaches her and making her chin, look at her face with compliance and leave the room while Carmen kisses her on the lips, very gently, put to bed, the grave, opens the legs and kiss her vagina, her English, her clitoris, with a love that never felt Marta, with pleasure that her boyfriend had not yet found, and remember that you can not moan, while the Countess makes two fingers into her vagina and feels pain, and remember that you can not complain, and the Countess with her sweet smile rises and draws a heart on her forehead with her fingers red with blood.

More information:

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erzs% C3% A9bet_B% C3% A1thory

http://www.isabelmonzon.com.ar/condesa.htm

http://condesabathory.blogspot.com/

http://www.apocatastasis.com/alejandra-pizarnik-condesa-sangrienta.php

Subscribe to my feed

How Much Is The New Polaroid Camera 2009

The death of God

The bedroom door was closed and all was to dark silence broken only by the breath of Max, his fear, and the echoes of the Our Father who had just prayed.

God was everywhere, he was told, and that fear was what gave him. You could not get away from him and that night would be sure to come and take him away so he could not again see the sun or playing possum because he would be dead. Max

dipped his head into the fold of the bed and was until 2000 holding on to each new issue as if it depended not fall into the precipice that would give their bones in hell. But the fear of God went there. Mentally ran over the face of their ten best friends trying to guess which of them would take God first in this sad world where games had no arms or legs. He went without sleep and the sound of her heart began to beat him to compose words that every thought of trying to keep calm and dignity of that night not to succumb to panic.

But again which was won panic and knew he was going to die because I could not breathe and sweat covered his blood and felt God's fingers squeezing his neck and tried to get rid of it with a jump that he threw the bed with a crash to leave gasping in become ground fish caught by the cruel God that made the fish and everything he played in standard and punishment, death and fear.

That night he died. Or the next or the many who came later and without Fathers or gods stalkers. The fear did not die, but managed to hide in the closet of secrets impossible to say. There was also getting new fears and new hopes lost. Left naming God with leather case and changed several times, also from home, work, and being female. Be stopped and returned to be several times that nothing else had to do with the child or the young man nor the man who had been. He bought and forgotten memories to forget everything else, but every night the fear aroused in her closet.

got used to live with him and enjoy a little forward to your visit. Little by little away from everything else. Found a job as a night watchman in a factory. I no longer had anxiety attacks, no longer gasping on the ground, and never think of God, but I could not live without the fear wet that he grabbed her neck and echoed in every step of the night or day. Max was old and tired to expect to live, waiting to die without knowing if life had passed or if God had taken him in one of those nights with Lord's Prayer. Found a book left at the port from which watched. It was a science fiction novel entitled "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" . Took all night to read it and, as he did, something he again began to change, but this time it was he who changed, something more intimate than his own ego began to change, fear slowly left of squeezing the neck, air entered his lungs with a purity that hurt him and he was aware at that moment that God, that being terrifying, had died, or rather never knew existed and felt cheated, robbed in all those years had lost in fear.

When he left the job would not go to his pension to sleep. He walked aimlessly along at dawn and was pulling up each of their fears, each of the past years and the delegates to fear being without being. Bought a packet of snuff and smoked for the first time in his life, choked to tears and laughed happy to keep breathing, walked past a church and went inside. For more than fifty years that did not come at a time. The ship was in darkness and deserted, with only light of the side altars and stained glass. He reached the first bench in front of the altar and sat down. The altarpiece was a chilling sculpture of a crucified Christ. He knew that Christ was God and hated it so much fear and suffering, so much punishment, so much damage, so much violence. It felt good. It was a little cold, but it was not difficult to fall asleep on the bench, also had no fear, nor even notice when God took him.

Subscribe to my feed

Bowel Incontinence Swimware

Perpetuum mobile

On the beach at night showed my eyes
sirens impunity
playing with my penis with the phallus
in the stinking bed
dreams undone and the stone falls to the ground
thought.
(Leopoldo María Panero, Dawn on the grave, in "Poetry" 1970 - 1985)

"I'll kill you tomorrow when the moon rises ... Leopoldo

he kept repeating his litany an and again and again while, as if it were part of the poem, shaking his head in itself is not eternal and sucked his cigarette choking with laughter and drool hanging from idiot who knows everything.

The sun warmed the day to make it boil and lines that drew trees, benches and roses floating in the breathless air. All was quiet and kept moving in a repetitive rhythm that denied the possibility of the same movement.

"I'll kill you tomorrow when the moon rises ... and Prime loon tell me your word.

"I'll kill you tomorrow when the moon rises ...

Jacinto came again to ask a blond Leopold.

"Fuck you up the ass, you big bastard. Crazy, I berated his balls between laughter and mumbling and gave umpteenth cigarette immediately returned ceremoniously Jacinto thanking him with a respectful nod.

This scene, as anything that happened in that kind of prison garden, he had repeated monotonous millimeter throughout the morning: Leopoldo with his poem, Jacinto with your ceremony, Israel with its small weeping and disconsolate, Ramon becoming its eternal straw, Toni "Insane" with its leaden speech denying his madness, Miguel asking the sky every three seconds: "Will it rain?" And answered every six: "No, no rain" ... The great symphony of madness was timed and tested each of their movements in perfect perpetual motion than any sane viewer would have remembered a clockwork.

The time of the visit came and automata were surrounded by people dressed in street with smiles embedded in his desire to leave this pathetic parody of broken beings. The lunatics had the same desire for visitors to leave, but they always preferred to ignore them and take them for fools. Leopoldo touched a woman's ass ass stiff and without claiming to be the mother of Toni, but he denied it, and the nurse scolded her fat ass, more by envy than by conviction. Leopold laughed; is Descojonado, rather, and continued his insults without rhyme or reason, then approached me and said he felt proud that we were the only ones that we visited one since the two were actually dead from the moment we killed our mothers.

I said yes, yes, and I turned from him to see if they kept quiet the music was ringing in my right ear. It was an aria from an opera by Puccini, "O Mio Babbino Caro", which spoke of a river and a ring and a sadness that I did not remember having ever felt, but the music washed over me and I could not think of anything , could only hope in my head the next note of the melody without end that I had tied to the patio and sun and those crazy people around who much annoyed. Sometimes I was angry and tried to break his face look so put them to not see the soul, but then the nurses grabbed me and I sedaban and then the music washed over me completely and I just wanted to stop, that stop, but it sounded louder and louder and turned into things I saw and then burst and panic and sweat to drown again.

PO all sitting on a bench at the other end of the garden, was John. I went to him and sat beside him in silence. John was reading the same book I read forever. Do not really read because John could not read or even turned the pages, but it sucked the hours lost watching and reciting lines from the book what he thought I was reading. I liked to stay with him and hear him because what he said was always very nice, never the same, and I thought that was the letter that was missing from my music.

John continued to read for a long time and I almost freaked out when he suddenly stopped reading and looking at the book and was looking at me intently. He smiled with a gesture that could be confused with friendship and asked if I could read. When I answered yes, he asked me to read it because I wanted to know if what he read was what was in the book. I took the book and started reading, but did not say a single word to put there, but let all come out of deep inside me, where it was so that I could no longer get in and out slowly those other recesses of my childhood, those eager to believe, that love without love and the music stopped for a moment of torture and let me see her face and saw John smiling happy to see that what I read was what same as he read the book and rang the bell at the end of recess and we all went to our rooms happy to lose sight of visitors and live our lives.

More information:

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leopoldo_Mar% C3% ADa_Panero

http://www.letras.s5.com/fv161005.htm

http://www.flickr.com/photos/yeyo1/3915531994/

Subscribe to my feed

How Long Will Titanium Last

The voiceover

The first line said that a tear flowed from my eyes and began to mourn without knowing why or knowing it did not matter to know why and soon the bar was full of elbows and smoke and drink with my tears were grooves that drew a flashback in which I was talking to her in the alley and his smile and dialogue:

"When I think of you all full of love.

And the statement continued smiles and complicity, lunches and tours, desires and whys, boredom and farewells.

"Each does what he thinks you have to do.

And then there were more days and she chose that city to let go and I did not listen to his love, but he felt every second until once again the voices of the bar and the noise and a voice in third person told me what he had to say.

The waiter asked if I wanted another and I looked at him and understand his English and told him of course but what I wanted was to walk out, voice-overs, but the night was cold in Prague and wanted to take a little longer before they feel that even the cold was already completely mine.

A blue-eyed Slav licked me with his eyes and smiled, "English?, And I smiled," Erasmus?, And she laughed and drank my drink and licked my tongue and I said yes in Barcelona and I said, you speak very well, and I said, the nipple better, and the two laughed and laughed with voiceover and the waiter brought two glasses more or maybe three and we all lamimos and talked and laughed. Maybe it was a trio.

The bar closed and the three walked through the streets of Prague and arrived at the Hradcany and there between the two beat me up and took away all the money and I was huddled under a tree and wanted to die, but I just fell asleep and woke up in a hospital bed without remembering exactly what had past. With great effort I got up and found my clothes in the closet. I found that the sheet of paper with the poem was in the back pocket of my jeans and dressed as I could. After five minutes of travel corridors was on the street without anyone asking me anything.

In the fourth paragraph had been six months and the seventh nearly two years. I was living again in Barcelona and I made a living painting could street portraits in El Borne. One September afternoon those eyes turned to lick me and asked me, I do not remember, I smiled and licked her tongue, she stroked my cheek, "I did a lot of damage?, We sat in silence while drawing on the canvas the traces of their hours and the voice got a few clouds and a few drops and some umbrella opened. One of the drops fell on his cheek and I drew well.

- How do you wish to call? He had collected the hair to fuck and I liked to see her resting on every minute between my fingers caressing and rhythm of a clock that reminded us that time is an invention.

- Do you want to call Elba? "His face was that of a boy resting before the next prank, and I wanted to love it and the voice told me and I call it Elba Sara had wanted to call but I called and drew Elba Elba name on her thighs with my saliva .

- Why did you go to Prague? "I asked him as if he knew the answer perfectly, as if it were a finding that was not going to lie.

"I was looking for something, I lied.

- What?

"A dream with both hands grabbed my head and pulled his eyes to mine until it turned into four.

"You're lying. You wanted to stick you. Were you looking for death because you know she died of grief for you, "His voice was so sweet, so fingers caress her breath as my life, I thought for a moment that no line imprisoned us.

"I just did what the voice told me, licked my eyes with a smile, tickled with his tongue, pinched my lips with his teeth and he recited the poem in a whisper.

Then the voice began to narrate in his deep voice and unhurried, confident, and the walls became night and stars and Sara and I were walking down the alley of gold and we kissed and talked of a girl who had a birthday and I wrote a story that talked about a girl who had lost his name to read it someday when I grew up and his mother kissed me softly on the lips and asked me to close my eyes and look like when we met with her long brown hair, and to cogiera hand, to hug strong, very strong, because he was afraid of that voice-overs.

And the voice Sara went on talking off and Elba was gone and got her tongue in my ear and I laughed while crying and she said she was not afraid of death, you're just a character, and the voice said and put a final FIN.

Have we ever discussed Vetusta Morla ? We will.

Subscribe to my feed

Wots Good For Gall Attacks

Lala Martin

Some time ago I found the photographs of Martin Lala on the network. I could not avoid the surprise and immediate captive by images that I had as textures, landscapes and portraits of an identity that is folded upon itself in a fragmented space where the horizon is reached only by choosing the proper angle, a density still where the presence of model and photographer was as hard as all that remained to complete.

Do - Her Eyes Are Closed (I am)

images Lala are maps that mark us all that no glimpse of their world, their terra incognita, are roads themselves arrested in a turn of the road, waiting for someone to pass and stop to watch and stay stuck there, watching, as a part of the portrayed.

In the Faceless Crowd / No Name Face (I am)

What is portrayed Lala, her face, insert body become fragmented and that map is not his body or his face or his portrait, but an earthy landscape that makes us lattice and we entered our own strangeness of looking so deep, so far, so need to catch that absentee sounds like the sea shell in our eyes.

Your identity is banished, exiled from itself and only emerges as a drowned man's hand marks a milestone in his absence, a gesture that becomes a sign, in language so tenuous, but firm, points out the frontiers between two folds of his physicality, his stay in the picture on the map in the world.

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End (Colorless Tiara)

His photographs are crossed by lines are plowed land in which the traces of a collapsed time seem to beat, seem to want to rescue him, wanting to wake up and make it walk. Are textures that form a gauze veil entremuestra the remaining distance to reach a certainty.

Disparate (I am)

Lala's photographs are landscapes a wait.

Lala Interview with Martin :

Who's Lala Martin?

Lala Martin is a girl who began writing and then moved to photography.

is a person who was always clear that what it was going through some branch of art and in fact tried them all. Is someone who can do any job offered, the only explanation that it is only going to be completely happy with a pen or a camera in hand.

Remember the first time you thought the composition of a photo before it?

I am not someone think of the compositions before taking the pictures, not I plan what I want, let it be presented alone. I work a lot with space and that what they usually do is take a good look at the place that I have available and see what I can do with it, but I am a firm believer that the best composition is that surprises you liking it without you need to do anything, the surprise in the end result is a factor not resign in the hands of some advance planning. If we talk about fashion sessions made for companies or individuals, and here we are talking in other words, for there you have a production at your disposal that will simplify many things - like the location, costumes, and there is a conceptual idea campaign you have to respect - of course with their freedoms.

Can you See my Vision

What material resources do you use for your photos?

Everything is close at hand adds, if known choices. For more than not to plan my compositions I can tell very well in the environment those elements that were not in the picture and try to work on it but I'm not picky, anything will do. No tripod work, I like to use what has available at the time to work the different heights and distances, I always saw the tripod as an element that helps but I do not like being subject to it.

Would telling us the whole process that leads from your idea of \u200b\u200ban image to that vision?

Very occasionally I have ideas before conception of a picture. What I most often happens is to have a concept in mind and do not know which image to take to capture it. That's what I like, part of the challenge and decision, of course, trial and error. And always take more than a different image that can be covered by the original concept - The decision on what show and does not respond to several criteria, but I always try to consolidate what the public expects to see with what I actually want to show. In that sense, let alone earn me what people want to see my work, but knowing. We take the image digitally currently working with my home camera, a HP Photosmart M627 (it's a personal matter, I know that at some point I'll have to use a reflex for the same work demands and their issues, but the now I see no reason to change my camera) and then are selected which are and which are not ends in the subsequent edition is usually done in Photoshop or as say my recent work in Lightroom.

Follow You

A very important part of your work has to do with editing in photoshop, with the creation of textures. Could you explain that conceptual impact these interventions have after the shot? Do you use other tools besides photoshop?

I think the picture has two interrelated moments quite independent of each other - making the image and post-production thereof. When using programs like Photoshop or Lightroom, to name the ones I use, one can get as good a picture not look much better but is just that, one can not sell the spirit of his work. The contribution it can make a Photoshop action is merely a matter of colorization, a Lightroom preset can solve issues such as light exposure, a texture may emphasize a composition or add an extra element to assist in the matter of aesthetics but the sense the image, its meaning and if significant can not ever come of post-processing. And I strongly believe that because you can do a cut and choose which part of reality is going to communicate or can merge two images, but this fusion going from the concept of the image as a whole, can not depend merely stylistic issues, aesthetics have to reinforce something that has existence independent of it. To put it more concretely: the touch is a great tool that can give us many possibilities - it is able to improve an image if used properly or create an aesthetic aberration if used indiscriminately, but if an image says nothing, if it is unable to transmit anything per se, change the tone or apply a texture will not do the miracle.

In one comment you make to the caption, you talk about the many ways you can take the same image, just combining with others or editing it. In fact, in your series Fusionary Imaginary play with this idea using the photo collage. Do you think we can still use the term goal refers to the reproduction of an image by the photographic apparatus?

Of course, if you do not believe it would not take pictures! I think, as I said before, an image can be meaningful in itself or can generate a whole new meaning by applying another image (that is what Imaginary Fusionary my series of photographs to achieve a union of whether leaflets, brochures, etc. generating a new concept that arises from the union of these images metonymically working, part of the whole). Many times I see that some people may use this technique to generate Leopard (which it seems that everything changes and everything is renewed so that in reality everything remains the same), are mere personal choice, me personally I like to have something to say.

As to the multiplicity of the photo message, it is best and is perhaps the magic of it all: a text can be interpreted in many ways but the possibility is lower and we are always in the dilemma of whether we understand what we have said or not. Instead the image is an anchor in itself, and everyone chooses where to anchor and how - Feelings can be aroused by the image itself may be a phenomenon fully evocative and it is a projection that makes the person on a moment of your life or experience that the picture reminds him, is a wonderful process of empathy. And the camera is always there, the camera is the pair of eyes that are choosing what shows you - is you can discover why it is showing you.

Share a Little Piece of your Blue

Has passed away analog photography?

I think not, but be very careful when talking about these issues. I personally feel in debt to analog photography because I so far I've only worked in digital form, and I think you have to get to the very essence of this art that only you can give the analogy. In this last period I have purchased several analog cameras and I'm actually looking forward to a trip I have planned for October to try. But she said we must be very careful about these issues because, as yet there is genuine interest fashion, and lately has had a good analogy of a genuine interest, but also being used as a fad by many.

Many of your favorite photos yourself meddle as a model. What function does this intervention? Are you the one that is within the fragmented body?

always me who is inside the body fragmented, it is evident from the case, even though some of my pictures of myself using other women's names are merely stylistic issues - but could not never deny my own person in what I do.

I often use myself as a model for the need for urgency: many times I feel the urge to take pictures for me is a particular concept and obviously, I have a staff of models in my house so I ended up being posing because I know if I postpone the case then you will not have the same meaning. Also many times it is a matter of fidelity to the original idea: even if it is the work of the photographer to guide the model to achieve the pose you want, many times the model is close but does not achieve 100% by the simple reason you can not see the images that one has on the brain then, in those cases where I know nobody would be able to do that I need, I do.

The Voice Unheard

Contemplating your work gives the impression that the treatment of space in your images is very specific: no limits and, simultaneously, perhaps for the density gives with your textures, takes on a personality, a kind of identity which overlaps with the identity, in turn diluted by the fragmentation and the glimpses of your figure. Are we talking about a landscape or a portrait?

A landscape. I like to think that everything is a landscape, portrait or even a macro, everything is subject to change, and everything has a story, even the pores in skin. That's why for me everything is landscape, even the most elaborate ideas. Everything that I tell a story from the picture drawn to a close-up of an eye shows me a field of things that are there for a reason, a reason, and that I can consider beautiful or not. Everything is a large sign that unfolds before our eyes, we like what we see or not.

Your images, that kind of push your body in an area that seems to have been settled yet, give a sensation of tenderness sheltered weak to be protected to avoid being trampled. There is a kind of fragility strengthened, the dignity of what is shown. Lala, how what we are talking about your photos? If his intention to tell us about something, of course. And, if it were not, what is so silent your photographs?

mine not only the images that give us most of the people living on this count and keep quiet. Photography, painting, drawing, whatever it tells us something. And if they are empty images, images that the creator did not say anything, the good thing is that maybe someone else if they can be saying something. In the case of my pictures I did not explain or talk about what I say or what to tell because I think it's like grab some scissors and cut them into pieces, and if I did that not only would be limiting my work but would also fail, and not allow them to take their own life according to the aspect with which they look. All I can say is that my pictures tell you what you want to tell you, and to be silent so that you do not want to hear.

More information:

http://kumulonimbus.blogspot.com/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lalamartin

Subscribe to my feed

Difference Between Thermocol And Polystyrene

The insert body dissector

's father Juan entire life had rolled around souls. First, by vocation, sponsored children in their childhood infidels to gain salvation of their souls, then, by profession, was ordained to ensure that souls could be saved or not, meet every Sunday with his parishioner status, then passion , lost his reason and his own soul for the soul of eyes, and finally up to the present, his obsession was to steal, dissect and collect souls.

extract it to a living body, his soul is not as difficult as it may seem, but it does require a certain degree of skill and, above all, a sufficient perseverance. It is true that sometimes someone without the slightest intention preparation or even the soul and brings you no longer see them again, nor the thief or the stolen, but this only happens on rare occasions.

That morning was one more in May and Juan walked losing steps and other days also some thought lost and distracted. Always walking up the two and the two took the wine in the tavern and joked and talked about football and bloody abortion and times in general were no longer faiths or beliefs. The bar was full of souls, but none of those interested. Souls were second or third that looked at him without wanting to see him, unwilling to speak only of those things you always said with a laugh without saying anything and waivers to feel the laughter or sorrow. Nor was his soul and he lived, but had learned to live with her the days the same and molded to feel almost feel the absence of his soul stolen.

wine After two blocks and a first floor with sunny little street noise seeping through windows and not close properly or fully opened to let out the smell of books walled numbing afternoon for fear that one of those noises again be a gypsy song or that any full moon mocked from the window. Ate the stew yesterday and put on latex gloves before entering the room of souls.

had more than five thousand souls perfectly classified and documented. His collection was the result of over ten years of work, ten years ago that he had stolen the soul for the last time was ten years since that night when walking without a soul looking for his soul was faced a man who after kissing a woman walked into a portal with all your soul made smile and dream and tomorrow in his face and John was so easy to feel envy and anger and pain and love that soul to be the hollow gourd loss.

turned on the powerful, white light in the room of souls and approached the table where dissected. It squeezed both temples with their index fingers in his mouth until he began to opt for a rectangular white gelatinous porridge. When he stopped throwing lumps that remained engrossed watching thick liquid that was solidifying while its surface succeeded in thousands of pictures narrating the story of the soul. After five minutes he wrote in a tab all the data identifying their latest dissection and, whenever a new soul added to his collection, took the photograph of the woman's face as he took the soul was ten years ago. It was a woman's face with his eyes looking as knowing and surprised at once, with blue clouds that seemed to background, darkroom where reality ceases to be a woman stretched and learn to play the game. He went back to his latest acquisition and compared the picture with the image showing the mold with the soul. Proved once again that soul could not be that of the woman and put it in the cabinet he belongs. He closed his eyes and all images of women were screened in his heart. He knew that one day I would find her soul, her soul, did not matter that I had to dissect one hundred thousand souls.

Thinking it shivered in a cold sweat. What soul would find it? Souls are being replaced each other and each lost forever to the last. People do not realize it, but then his young soul has been stolen and another substitute, one that is not so spontaneous, so vivid, and so on until one day the old soul who has been living with he no longer wants anyone and not stolen because it has no life or excitement and the people that called maturity. The souls are of a being to another in an endless carousel until stiff one day in the sternum of some being that is almost, but John took these thoughts in mind and rinsed his face before the cassock and go to church to officiate Mass at seven.

Subscribe to my feed

Metalic Taste In Mouth Hydrocortizone

souls and days Dreams

I passed on the same street of the canal, the abandoned factory with three piles closing the road, with its noise at night and it sank stoned lantern in the darkness around it, in the dark just ran over that the same streets of that child one day and not wake up.

saw nothing and saw it all mixed up with the future humiliated past, the past perverted by his not wanting to be or have been wanting to play in the future. The weather was hiding in doorways and stick his tongue out at me every step. A coated tongue teasing and long as life. I walked in the shadows and crevices of that old neighborhood. I was not afraid or if I had and that was fear. Your smile.

factory complained and were with her cats. It was a sweet noise factory grandmother, life retracted backwards, as if waiting for what came lingered. Were black cats with their tails tread life and bruised around the rubble of the industrial chimney. The factory had long since been demolished. In its place was now a community center, a cultural container called him to not call anything.

The channel was not already, but I followed her, balancing, playing to tread the line not to fall, not to think about themselves or not. My friends were in the usual place with his teeth pressing talks and believe blindly groping want, understand the thousands. They played the tobacco and put names to things. I approached them and wanted to chat, play games, but each of them looked at me and said one word of those who swim underwater without hearing anything, without saying anything, and each of them turned, smiled, left, left me with the word submerged in the water and came up to my neck and my head swam in their words Boobies fish, blind and dumb, tickling me in the eyes and swallowed hard not to mourn. They all went. I felt cold and anxiety and an arcade all the fishes rose out of my mouth. Fell into the ditch and remained there without saying anything. They were just words.

After the canal was a wall of medium height and the wall behind the railroad tracks. The wall was full of Masons and requetés painted. Also one that said: "Bartolo Carmen fucks the "and another saying," Why I can not be with the one I want? "and I thought it was a very sad and full sentence of west, which is to say that" or " mate and son. I jumped the ditch and I climbed the wall to get right to "or" me. I touched it with his knuckles and the little one opened. Come in.

Within the "o" was still darker than outside, so that the second bump on the head I decided to kneel and crawl with the utmost care. Smelled hollow buzzing or echoing everywhere. Was in a tunnel too narrow and very long. In the background loomed a trickle of light. I changed in that second position and spent more than three hours of crawling as the light grew larger until it was light and the "o" or the tunnel no longer existed and I fell into a very white light and sticky to me covered up to swallow a kind of porridge with a strange taste of vanilla. In the bottom of that huge gap as a platform jutting land. I swam with great difficulty over there and when I got to it. It was as infinite as the white lagoon, as black as the infinite and so full of words like love to come. Words clitoris licking each other, piled intertwined and lascivious moans of pleasure calling to accompany their fake orgasms. I realized I had to bathe in semen of letters and felt a little sick.

I started kicking the words, to trample until their pain and moaned moans one, burst on the inside, he said: "Literature can not be distracted," and I gave him reason and I kept kicking until stopped moaning and continued making my way to the platform, kicking and reading a book upside down, where I could read: "The allomorph in my view is reflected in yours" and took a misstep and fell through a hole of blue eyes cliff and fell with the book is tightly holding the flaps and dropped all my life falling down and moaning and begged not know who to wake up when it reaches the bottom, you wake up and I woke up and kept falling to the book grabbed by the lapels, I kept falling and I woke up and kept falling down and the bottom there was nothing, just over the ditch, my friends back to me, the factory in ruins, life upside down. I wanted to wake up. Sleep. Power to dream again.

I begged a few grams
shadows of darkness.
And the crowd
borrowed a bit more solitude. Shouting
asked quietly,
calm to the city. Calling by name
sleep,
it came quickly.

had seventeen broken mirrors above the altar. Reflecting

that part of ourselves we try to hide.
was an imaginary map,
a book without end.
The path was already traced
and something kept us from walking. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams.
on ashes and broken promises
stained dawn.
My sorrows and my bones float
between paper airplanes. Seventeen

teddy bears are looking for something to believe.
graves Seventeen Seventeen clouds
try, but I can not run. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams.

(091: "I just dreams")

Subscribe to feed me

How Do You Wire A Subwoofer To A Hifi

Pinkanta

You can see one of our cabins inside and some of the pictures already posted on this blog.

The Pinkanta opening night.

Music: Alfredo "Tiki" Gomez

Video Editing: Marcelo Gomez

Allergy Headache Symptoms

28529 Farewell John Schobinger

Farewell John Schobinger

Last Monday we received the sad news of death of Dr. John Schobinger in Argentina, this is a story that has a powerful impact on the international academic world and among Peruvian intellectuals. We had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Shobinger personally purpose of the 2nd National Rock Art Symposium to be held in Trujillo in 2006, and had the privilege of hearing some of his lectures and converse with him on a field trip to Viru Valley. Dr. Schobinger was an exceptional person and a very remarkable career, a kind man and affordable.

This is a farewell note to a great teacher, and a person who always encouraged us. The last words I received from Dr. Shobinger was "getting on with their studies" when we said goodbye to him in the main square of Trujillo, we believe that the best tribute that we have to do is to be consistent these studies, and encouraging as he did with us, younger students to the start. Farewell

Schobinger

Professor Gori Tumi Echevarria Lopez

President APAR

Victor Corcuera Cueva
President GSF

Juan Schobinger in Trujillo 2006 SINAR II

Note: All photos are attached by Victor Corcuera Cueva