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"Non cogli mai in flagrante la primavera"*

( Tree of Life Hannah Cohoon, 1854)

do not know if it's a question of evidence or things take shape before his eyes slowly, usually rather quietly, as if they were strong momentum of new reserves of courage (maybe you're just a step to do today and tomorrow then, who knows ...), or it is also a matter of get used to the idea of \u200b\u200b possibility, that strange principle that a thought of wind that ruffles, you are given a thought that instead filters the light (but the wind, even stormy, do you love the same and maybe more, and windy or bright, thoughts touch you protect them all).

A little 'as the seasons, I've always thought, and together they hoped, that there is some form of spring (and distracted perfect ) rose just as the summer is allowed to die.

* K. Capek, year the gardener (inspired by his library, a delightful little book.)

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Di ricordi, di carta, di braccia.

(image here, passing here )

I remember me I hear them all sitting on the bottom of the head and the fact that they want (and can) keep in mind special parts, details, pain and delight of my thoughts, helps me not to escape anything. There are memories that I browse through the eyes, and I wonder how many things remain in the eye, there are flavors of leather, there are no words, I have no idea that words are still hanging from the lobes and sometimes mix with the hair or stretch the neck, I protect the neck from the wind. I remember words. Spoken or written, are there for me.

And then. And then the other day fishing from the small library room of my bag of memories of a few years ago. Turquoise bag that reads Debenhams - Britain's Favourite Department Store. Shot on a letter dated September 29, 2003, my parents. A real letter, but the spots of ink are true. And the stamp from 41 cents. Write to me that maybe I'll have to fight with my shyness, with loneliness. My father adds a Be brave. I started recently and yes, perhaps far enough. And he also says that the feeling that something is missing, an arm to be exact. I remember in these days of sitting inside my head that sometimes help, help myself, covered her up and talk to them, I think of how beautiful and challenging to be the arm of someone. Be from afar. Be the arm of a hand drawing things. Courageous.

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una mattina

August 8, air in September, blue square glued to the window, the lazy mid-morning coffee suspended in the mouth and in her mouth still good. Look away from telling aspect eyes full of visions, places new eyes, eyes that say "and then ... and then ... and then ..." even without speaking.

The boot and the back. Being able to hear more in your words. And there, at home, know that you can come back.

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(La bontà di una giornata)

Today was not a good day maybe, but I left him to finish in the skin of David, who has a few more days a month old. What a gift it is to touch that skin, which is white and stir the senses and the wonder of the eyes, nose and hands? The faces of serenity satisfied by the mother's womb, the same skin in the breast milk of David blooming. I thought to myself, that gift is.