A sleepless night thanks (to good friends)
Sometimes one is immersed in an alley Sunday, June 28, 2009
Brazilian Waxing Brooksville
dark, narrow, landlocked
who are not sure how he got
which is not very clear how to escape. Find
doors locked behind the scenes looks elusive
foul sewers and walls too high. Listen
light and useless advice
windblown as newspapers on wet cobblestones.
But then I could see a light
feel strength and hope and know will not be difficult to return
with a little help from his friends ...
Today was a very special day, guys. To me, more than you can imagine.
All - you know-who - thanks for being who you are. Thanks for being there: Thanks for your friendship.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Coach Puse Albertvill Outlet
Before going to sleep
Today, however, I wanted to stay and write at night.
As I think I said in the previous entry, or at least pointed out, had planned to park the novel that was working, The Ballad of Sam, that I had led, among other things, get my love for the six strings. I had to leave a couple of months ago to dress up the book I hope to see published in the fall, the mystery novel The Feast of Orpheus . And two months is too long, at least for me and for this story.
Regulars to the blog you know that worked for impulse-based setting, de clima, y cuando el feeling se rompe, como diría el amigo Frankie (Sinatra, of course), la cosa se fastidia.
Así que me planteé aplazar esta novela. Dejarla ahí, en reposo, en una carpeta del ordenador, mientras me dedicaba a alguna otra historia más ágil y entretenida, pues La balada de Sam comenzó como eso que llaman "obra de madurez" y llegué a alcanzar un punto en el que me asustaba madurar tanto.
Pero en los últimos días de retiro y reflexión retomé el texto Releí algunos pasajes y no pude resistirme a continuar escribiendo. Eso es bueno, dirá alguno. Tal vez. Más me vale. En este momento of the plot I'm in a Mexican hacienda, east of the city of Chihuahua, recalling an old man with eighty-five years a crime that occurred in the same place thirty-two years ago, during the filming of the movie's most famous Sam Lonergan (aka Sam Peckinpah, or is it vice versa?). The evening wind blows and brings the scent of juniper and other shrubs of the plain. The old man wants me to stay and hear you, but I have a dream, I'm tired.
the other side of the screen, sempie sleeps with the little light on my side of the bed on, waiting for me. Some mosquitoes crackle when approaching Lamap bulb at my back, and liquor was Sierra Tequila watered down by the ice earlier in the almost empty glass next to my keyboard.
It's time to rest.
I leave with Sam Peckinpah and the trailer for Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia , a story that has nothing to do with my novel, a film that is their spiritual source.
spend a few minutes of the two-thirty in the morning. I do not usually write at night. I know that seems most appropriate, most picturesque, but after working all day, not only am I tired of being at the computer, but also the evening is the only time I have to be with sempie to comment on our journey and, ultimately, to share a little of life.
As I think I said in the previous entry, or at least pointed out, had planned to park the novel that was working, The Ballad of Sam, that I had led, among other things, get my love for the six strings. I had to leave a couple of months ago to dress up the book I hope to see published in the fall, the mystery novel The Feast of Orpheus . And two months is too long, at least for me and for this story. Regulars to the blog you know that worked for impulse-based setting, de clima, y cuando el feeling se rompe, como diría el amigo Frankie (Sinatra, of course), la cosa se fastidia.
Así que me planteé aplazar esta novela. Dejarla ahí, en reposo, en una carpeta del ordenador, mientras me dedicaba a alguna otra historia más ágil y entretenida, pues La balada de Sam comenzó como eso que llaman "obra de madurez" y llegué a alcanzar un punto en el que me asustaba madurar tanto.
Pero en los últimos días de retiro y reflexión retomé el texto Releí algunos pasajes y no pude resistirme a continuar escribiendo. Eso es bueno, dirá alguno. Tal vez. Más me vale. En este momento of the plot I'm in a Mexican hacienda, east of the city of Chihuahua, recalling an old man with eighty-five years a crime that occurred in the same place thirty-two years ago, during the filming of the movie's most famous Sam Lonergan (aka Sam Peckinpah, or is it vice versa?). The evening wind blows and brings the scent of juniper and other shrubs of the plain. The old man wants me to stay and hear you, but I have a dream, I'm tired. the other side of the screen, sempie sleeps with the little light on my side of the bed on, waiting for me. Some mosquitoes crackle when approaching Lamap bulb at my back, and liquor was Sierra Tequila watered down by the ice earlier in the almost empty glass next to my keyboard.
It's time to rest.
I leave with Sam Peckinpah and the trailer for Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia , a story that has nothing to do with my novel, a film that is their spiritual source.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Roulette System Forums
Story: I do not give flowers
Pecadillos youth. Everyone has their own. Here's another of mine: one of several stories I wrote when I was sixteen or seventeen songs that inspired me were suggestive. In this case involves an issue of Neil Diamond, You do not bring me flowers . In it, a couple reproach all the things you already do, consumed a passion for the routine. In my story, a couple reviews those memories forever before leaving home they created together. It's a terribly ornate prose, of exaggerated melancholy but what can we do? Is it about sixteen, right?
used to be wonderful. "Forever" was the most significant words in the world for them. So.
Today the house is dark, just a few glimpses of the February sun seep between the cells of the shade of the room. He moves between tables, chairs, doors and shelves, confused in the shadows, with the same precision as a blind man in his home. Too much time living with they, too old to get them. But are not his, or her, belong to that house, which is in the hands of the past, a past evocative and sweet, in which they learned to laugh and mourn. A past that has become bitterness on his lips. The wind sweeps their hearts as destination deciduous falls on the wet pavement.
"I'm not talking the way home," he says. She listens to you and close your eyes. "We were saying we do not love you," he responds.
The bed is cold. Grande. Huge. She recently lost on those sheets. Shortness of breath and needs to be built in the middle of the night. Yet it is the same bed then, in that was not enough space to unleash the expression of her love, the love they received, which was equal to the love you gave.
pad on the pillow, the pillow under the bear. Photography, small jewelry, watch this French antiques market. She wipes a drop of nostalgia that burns my cheek. And look at the picture hanging over the head. Painting that cost them so much ... But, how much they wanted! And yet it was one more experience, but one of the wonders of this adventure that was supposed to love each day. As travel to Paris and New York as weekend ghosts, like the guitar signed by their most admired artists: Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon ... There is, supported by the dandy, who remains silent in the mirror so many kisses, so touching, so many words, so many silences. Its strings, no doubt, would not issue more than sad sounds.
"I do not sing love songs," she says.
He enters the bedroom, but not responding. And then she looks, but does not say anything. Lower your eyes and go to his side, toward the lobby. He can not resist the attraction of the bed. One admires the change in their attitude. In recent times, as he left her, did nothing but kiss her cheek, turn on your pillow and turn off the light. Not sure who to hurt more than that. Of course, now that memory haunts him, especially when compared to those days of passion and fantasy, between the silence of the forbidden and the expression of the unspeakable. So I never turned off the light. In fact, they needed even on. Cross
the house, retracing a lifetime, cracking what seemed unbreakable, and come to the entrance. The clarity that filters through the shelves of the kitchen blind cut into several lines on her face. For the first time in a long time their eyes connect, and converse, and console. But then they turn back, because they understand that it can only hurt.
"Did you think I could learn to say goodbye?" I question the approach.
She closes her eyes and tries to stop the rotation of the Earth, the expansion of the universe, and again when he could not wait to love when hated to leave. He walks over and gently lifted her chin until she returns to look into his eyes. And the eyes are broken, question is begging. But the two already known all the answers, all the alternatives.
"I did not tell me you needed me," she explains.
becomes then to the front door and opens it. You are about to cross, but stops at the threshold. And tour. And shorten the two steps separate you from him to give him a last kiss, he feels like the gentle breeze of any of those walks on the beach at sunset.
And she is gone. And they both think. For he is now the point of no return, the end of the story. And nobody wants that to happen. But both are aware of reality.
"I do not give flowers," she says, breaking into tears, before closing the door behind him.
I do not give flowers
used to be wonderful. "Forever" was the most significant words in the world for them. So.
Today the house is dark, just a few glimpses of the February sun seep between the cells of the shade of the room. He moves between tables, chairs, doors and shelves, confused in the shadows, with the same precision as a blind man in his home. Too much time living with they, too old to get them. But are not his, or her, belong to that house, which is in the hands of the past, a past evocative and sweet, in which they learned to laugh and mourn. A past that has become bitterness on his lips. The wind sweeps their hearts as destination deciduous falls on the wet pavement.
"I'm not talking the way home," he says. She listens to you and close your eyes. "We were saying we do not love you," he responds.
The bed is cold. Grande. Huge. She recently lost on those sheets. Shortness of breath and needs to be built in the middle of the night. Yet it is the same bed then, in that was not enough space to unleash the expression of her love, the love they received, which was equal to the love you gave.
pad on the pillow, the pillow under the bear. Photography, small jewelry, watch this French antiques market. She wipes a drop of nostalgia that burns my cheek. And look at the picture hanging over the head. Painting that cost them so much ... But, how much they wanted! And yet it was one more experience, but one of the wonders of this adventure that was supposed to love each day. As travel to Paris and New York as weekend ghosts, like the guitar signed by their most admired artists: Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon ... There is, supported by the dandy, who remains silent in the mirror so many kisses, so touching, so many words, so many silences. Its strings, no doubt, would not issue more than sad sounds.
"I do not sing love songs," she says.
He enters the bedroom, but not responding. And then she looks, but does not say anything. Lower your eyes and go to his side, toward the lobby. He can not resist the attraction of the bed. One admires the change in their attitude. In recent times, as he left her, did nothing but kiss her cheek, turn on your pillow and turn off the light. Not sure who to hurt more than that. Of course, now that memory haunts him, especially when compared to those days of passion and fantasy, between the silence of the forbidden and the expression of the unspeakable. So I never turned off the light. In fact, they needed even on. Cross
the house, retracing a lifetime, cracking what seemed unbreakable, and come to the entrance. The clarity that filters through the shelves of the kitchen blind cut into several lines on her face. For the first time in a long time their eyes connect, and converse, and console. But then they turn back, because they understand that it can only hurt.
"Did you think I could learn to say goodbye?" I question the approach.
She closes her eyes and tries to stop the rotation of the Earth, the expansion of the universe, and again when he could not wait to love when hated to leave. He walks over and gently lifted her chin until she returns to look into his eyes. And the eyes are broken, question is begging. But the two already known all the answers, all the alternatives.
"I did not tell me you needed me," she explains.
becomes then to the front door and opens it. You are about to cross, but stops at the threshold. And tour. And shorten the two steps separate you from him to give him a last kiss, he feels like the gentle breeze of any of those walks on the beach at sunset.
And she is gone. And they both think. For he is now the point of no return, the end of the story. And nobody wants that to happen. But both are aware of reality.
"I do not give flowers," she says, breaking into tears, before closing the door behind him.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
How To Find Legendary Pokemon In Pokemon Deluge
Story: A finger nothing
was a finger, nothing else. What face or profile? What did it matter? It was a finger, nothing else. Could it really be that bad? I knew that if he was aware that he could be really terrible. And yet, one finger seemed to have you hypnotized. Appeal to him as few women had managed to do throughout his life. Clear that few women had the color, the smell, the texture. Few women had made him feel as good as I could get one finger.
Only one finger of bourbon.
it really could be so bad?
took the small glass, thick glass bottom and carved, and lifted him place very slowly up to eye level. Movement so carefully concealed that some fear, as if only one drop of that elixir could make blowing up the room, but also foreshadowed an impulse of desire content of morbid curiosity about the properties that could bring.
knew exactly what it was capable of bourbon. Too well. So managed to win and forced to leave that hint of a spell. The image of her daughters scared while watching the fights with his wife, or when it caused him to stumble around the house to throw him into the street, after presenting it at dawn, almost unconscious, boasting of having drunk what they had to live that month ... Those pathetic pictures of his past life side by side crossed his mind like a sharp knife, immediately freeing him from the attraction of that glass of bourbon.
But, only one finger ...
Those around him knew nothing of his last days. New city, new job, the same family. It was not easy, but managed to recover in full. Promised much and accomplished almost everything. It was a matter of days, rather a number of years. Much time fighting as he had never imagined I'd have to do, to feel disgusted by everything and everyone, and true self-repulsion; time to learn again to live without having to start each day with a drink as invigorating as lethal, from which was connecting up one after another until he was hurrying down the round.
was astonished to think how much things had changed, how they now respected themselves and how this situation was reflected in the love and understanding she received from those around him. Now I just need it to live, the love of his family, the presence of his friends, an occasional cigarette, something harmless and enjoyable sex a weekend, maybe an interesting journey ... It was nice to live well.
And that was before the finger of bourbon, she might be calling him with seduction infallible. Could not know, would not rather, because he had learned not to listen to your voice. There was not much mystery, only had to disarm it of course had charm. Neither appealed to him and his copper-colored syrupy, and his laconic movement to turn the glass gently from side to side, or the peaceful and evocative scent that seemed to escape from those tiny waves of water from Tennessee. How was it possible that none of those present were drinking? Those lawyers were vulgar people. The firm itself was pretty scrawny, with nearly all workers piled in this room. At least he had his small office.
was barely nine o'clock at night but this was a party at after all, right? However, all went back and forth with beer bottles and glasses of wine, drinks as boring and ordinary as a sip of water. He, however, had opted for the juice, pineapple or apricot flavors with some personality, with poise. Was not that, at the end of the day?
was only a finger of bourbon, apparently so insignificant that no one seemed to notice him. A while ago that no one spoke, since he shook hands with the fellow who was retiring and apologized before going to the bathroom. On leaving went to his office, where he saw the whole movement of the evening. He sat at his table and rummaged in her drawers. I wanted a folder that kept some old jokes with which one partner and he had joked a few weeks ago. The folder was not there. Have you saved really those jokes? Then ran his fingers with something pleasant to the touch, it seemed leather. Grasped the object and slowly pulled the drawer. As was found to have revealed it was an old trunk, its trunk, crowned by the shot glass she had been given in the "Lost Weekend", a local who was a regular for some time.
had watched the clip with a strange sense of unease, as if a small child and that object, a noise coming from his closet at night. Who put it there? Perhaps himself? Of course it was him! Who else? But when?
course, was the gift. I was going to give it to the partner he was leaving. He must have saved there days ago, weeks maybe, when he got the idea. It had been a hectic time at the law which certainly was of the head. Would give an instant, of course, but first wanted to check it was OK ... Yes ... it was not broken ... and stained ... Great! and would be empty, of course, had to check.
took the cup and placed it on the table. It was beautiful, very beautiful, and elegant, with a figure carved in the shape and a firm footing, as must be the type of vessels. There, amid the desk covered with papers, seemed to be something special. Then unscrewed the cap and carefully, leaned to the pouch. He felt his heart racing. Began to feel warm. Gasped.
and the liquid began to fall.
seemed to be the slow motion, or maybe it was up to them, it was pouring with adequate precision to perpetuate the moment. He saw the last drop down and breathed deeply. Yes
remained something in the flask. Not much.
One finger, nothing else.
A colleague approached him to ask if she wanted to dance. "Dancing him? No, thank you very much, he was a klutz. The chief secretary offered a sandwich soon after. That girl was beautiful. He refused the offer and watched her go. Yes, of course was a good guy.
He looked down and watched the bourbon in the glass, then returned to fetch the Secretary among the people. I had nice legs, tall and shapely. Was it mandatory that all secretaries will be wearing skirts? His bust was the most erotic, but the best, no doubt, smile.
was a girl so nice! I felt like one of ... He shook his head and thought of his wife. For a few seconds remembered the last time they made love and said to himself that he was a lucky man. What nonsense to think? There were many dangers in the world, many ways to shatter the lives. If there was something mean in life was being unfaithful to his wife. Anything but that. I knew many families torn apart by a moment of awkward lust. He, ever. It was a good man.
sighed and felt proud of it.
He then turned decisively and picked up the glass, this time without much ceremony. Liquid looked and smiled. A finger of bourbon. God, just one finger! And there are so many horrible things in this world ... He opened his mouth as much as he could and emptied the contents of the glass in it.
As the drink touched his throat, closed his eyes and sat down with both hands on the table. The liquor went all the way to the stomach like a snake crawling swiftly stalking its prey, and upon arrival, felt curled inside.
had the sudden urge to mourn, seemed an internal struggle. He thought of his wife and their daughters, the fellow who was retiring and could not suppress angry tears.
There are so many horrible things in this world ...
struck the table with his fist as hard as he could and bade farewell to those present before leaving. I needed a drink. The shot had warmed the tongue. Look for a bar, ask another bourbon and would be back quickly to cover up their flavor with pineapple juice.
Only a drink and it's over.
One finger, nothing else.
was a finger, nothing else. What face or profile? What did it matter? It was a finger, nothing else. Could it really be that bad? I knew that if he was aware that he could be really terrible. And yet, one finger seemed to have you hypnotized. Appeal to him as few women had managed to do throughout his life. Clear that few women had the color, the smell, the texture. Few women had made him feel as good as I could get one finger. Only one finger of bourbon.
it really could be so bad?
took the small glass, thick glass bottom and carved, and lifted him place very slowly up to eye level. Movement so carefully concealed that some fear, as if only one drop of that elixir could make blowing up the room, but also foreshadowed an impulse of desire content of morbid curiosity about the properties that could bring.
knew exactly what it was capable of bourbon. Too well. So managed to win and forced to leave that hint of a spell. The image of her daughters scared while watching the fights with his wife, or when it caused him to stumble around the house to throw him into the street, after presenting it at dawn, almost unconscious, boasting of having drunk what they had to live that month ... Those pathetic pictures of his past life side by side crossed his mind like a sharp knife, immediately freeing him from the attraction of that glass of bourbon.
But, only one finger ...
Those around him knew nothing of his last days. New city, new job, the same family. It was not easy, but managed to recover in full. Promised much and accomplished almost everything. It was a matter of days, rather a number of years. Much time fighting as he had never imagined I'd have to do, to feel disgusted by everything and everyone, and true self-repulsion; time to learn again to live without having to start each day with a drink as invigorating as lethal, from which was connecting up one after another until he was hurrying down the round.
was astonished to think how much things had changed, how they now respected themselves and how this situation was reflected in the love and understanding she received from those around him. Now I just need it to live, the love of his family, the presence of his friends, an occasional cigarette, something harmless and enjoyable sex a weekend, maybe an interesting journey ... It was nice to live well.
And that was before the finger of bourbon, she might be calling him with seduction infallible. Could not know, would not rather, because he had learned not to listen to your voice. There was not much mystery, only had to disarm it of course had charm. Neither appealed to him and his copper-colored syrupy, and his laconic movement to turn the glass gently from side to side, or the peaceful and evocative scent that seemed to escape from those tiny waves of water from Tennessee. How was it possible that none of those present were drinking? Those lawyers were vulgar people. The firm itself was pretty scrawny, with nearly all workers piled in this room. At least he had his small office.
was barely nine o'clock at night but this was a party at after all, right? However, all went back and forth with beer bottles and glasses of wine, drinks as boring and ordinary as a sip of water. He, however, had opted for the juice, pineapple or apricot flavors with some personality, with poise. Was not that, at the end of the day?
was only a finger of bourbon, apparently so insignificant that no one seemed to notice him. A while ago that no one spoke, since he shook hands with the fellow who was retiring and apologized before going to the bathroom. On leaving went to his office, where he saw the whole movement of the evening. He sat at his table and rummaged in her drawers. I wanted a folder that kept some old jokes with which one partner and he had joked a few weeks ago. The folder was not there. Have you saved really those jokes? Then ran his fingers with something pleasant to the touch, it seemed leather. Grasped the object and slowly pulled the drawer. As was found to have revealed it was an old trunk, its trunk, crowned by the shot glass she had been given in the "Lost Weekend", a local who was a regular for some time.
had watched the clip with a strange sense of unease, as if a small child and that object, a noise coming from his closet at night. Who put it there? Perhaps himself? Of course it was him! Who else? But when?
course, was the gift. I was going to give it to the partner he was leaving. He must have saved there days ago, weeks maybe, when he got the idea. It had been a hectic time at the law which certainly was of the head. Would give an instant, of course, but first wanted to check it was OK ... Yes ... it was not broken ... and stained ... Great! and would be empty, of course, had to check.
took the cup and placed it on the table. It was beautiful, very beautiful, and elegant, with a figure carved in the shape and a firm footing, as must be the type of vessels. There, amid the desk covered with papers, seemed to be something special. Then unscrewed the cap and carefully, leaned to the pouch. He felt his heart racing. Began to feel warm. Gasped.
and the liquid began to fall.
seemed to be the slow motion, or maybe it was up to them, it was pouring with adequate precision to perpetuate the moment. He saw the last drop down and breathed deeply. Yes
remained something in the flask. Not much.
One finger, nothing else.
A colleague approached him to ask if she wanted to dance. "Dancing him? No, thank you very much, he was a klutz. The chief secretary offered a sandwich soon after. That girl was beautiful. He refused the offer and watched her go. Yes, of course was a good guy.
He looked down and watched the bourbon in the glass, then returned to fetch the Secretary among the people. I had nice legs, tall and shapely. Was it mandatory that all secretaries will be wearing skirts? His bust was the most erotic, but the best, no doubt, smile.
was a girl so nice! I felt like one of ... He shook his head and thought of his wife. For a few seconds remembered the last time they made love and said to himself that he was a lucky man. What nonsense to think? There were many dangers in the world, many ways to shatter the lives. If there was something mean in life was being unfaithful to his wife. Anything but that. I knew many families torn apart by a moment of awkward lust. He, ever. It was a good man.
sighed and felt proud of it.
He then turned decisively and picked up the glass, this time without much ceremony. Liquid looked and smiled. A finger of bourbon. God, just one finger! And there are so many horrible things in this world ... He opened his mouth as much as he could and emptied the contents of the glass in it.
As the drink touched his throat, closed his eyes and sat down with both hands on the table. The liquor went all the way to the stomach like a snake crawling swiftly stalking its prey, and upon arrival, felt curled inside.
had the sudden urge to mourn, seemed an internal struggle. He thought of his wife and their daughters, the fellow who was retiring and could not suppress angry tears.
There are so many horrible things in this world ...
struck the table with his fist as hard as he could and bade farewell to those present before leaving. I needed a drink. The shot had warmed the tongue. Look for a bar, ask another bourbon and would be back quickly to cover up their flavor with pineapple juice.
Only a drink and it's over.
One finger, nothing else.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Can I Reduce Swollen Knuckles
was not ... parrandaaaaaa that was!
Well, that ... I'm not dead ... I binge ... and a encimaaaa vagrancy. It is that I do not want anything to write, or update or answer (but I read every day ... yes.)
As long ago that we "saw" as you put some pictures of the last wedding (on 23 May) so you can see my "feathers" ...
jajajajaa
My "dear" always gets me "great" in the pictures ... pose observe what femininity .... if anything I used a tripod ....
Here again like that ... In short, thank goodness that at least you see the whole ... because the model is that makes you want to practice shooting at the boor ... (Have seen that position of legs? Why anyone tells you that you're looking like that before you take a picture?: S)
And here the detail of the feathers. Cutest I would go with my feathers ... (Although I could have removed the bowling alley to see something more vestidín Right?).
God! Gill is mine Is that ?.... : Or did the pictures fat double chin? joer ... I need a diet now! : S
Well, here you have good taste (or view ...) after disastrous here's my photos of this cute little thing to cheer.
Besinosssss! 
Well, that ... I'm not dead ... I binge ... and a encimaaaa vagrancy. It is that I do not want anything to write, or update or answer (but I read every day ... yes.)
As long ago that we "saw" as you put some pictures of the last wedding (on 23 May) so you can see my "feathers" ...
jajajajaa
My "dear" always gets me "great" in the pictures ... pose observe what femininity .... if anything I used a tripod ....
Here again like that ... In short, thank goodness that at least you see the whole ... because the model is that makes you want to practice shooting at the boor ... (Have seen that position of legs? Why anyone tells you that you're looking like that before you take a picture?: S)
And here the detail of the feathers. Cutest I would go with my feathers ... (Although I could have removed the bowling alley to see something more vestidín Right?).
God! Gill is mine Is that ?.... : Or did the pictures fat double chin? joer ... I need a diet now! : S
Well, here you have good taste (or view ...) after disastrous here's my photos of this cute little thing to cheer.
Besinosssss!
Friday, June 12, 2009
What Helps Itchiness After Brazilian Wax
Story: The shower
Have you ever been in bed and started to leak any tap, making noise a blind or have you noticed a light burning forgot? The immediate impulse is to get up to fix the problem but is that always a wise decision?
A drop. Another drop. Another. Ana stretched the sheet as he could to go beyond your ear. What time was it? She fell asleep just lying, but something had awakened. Germain had not yet arrived. Another drop. That shower's go crazy any day. Why exactly dripping insisted night that her husband took to return from his shift? Every drop of water slammed into the bottom of the tub on her head sounded like someone pulling the wall with a large hammer. Could rise to close the tap. Would make sense. But I was so scared.
always had happened, as a child, and since then his father told him that those horror films were going to eat the head. Germain also laughed at her for that reason. "What you see if after you hold no fear?" But could help it, he loved. And every time the damn shower began to leak, she saw the scene with clarity: the young half naked go to pull the tap, unaware that a psychopath defaced with a rusty butcher knife looks close ... Well, that metiesen with it whatever they wanted, he never expected to rise.
Another drop. Another
more.
comes a time in which his anxiety made him imagine that the psycho out of his hiding place and headed down the aisle, slowly, slowly, toward the bedroom. What was that? Have you heard a noise, a door perhaps? Another drop again, and saw in his mind a large figure, somewhat stooped, dragging one leg as he walked. Passed by the bathroom door y. .. Are not leaking shower? Suddenly he stopped. I was so immersed in their fears had not been aware of ... No, again. It was only an illusion. Left to drip for a while, just in time to ... that this be deflected pass along your imagination to the bathroom.
backs to the door, Ana pulled the sheet further, as if thereby establish an insurmountable barrier to the creation of his mind. And yet you did not hear anything? Anything beyond the drops in the shower and the ticking of the clock the room, something beyond imperturbable silence of the night? A shiver ran down his back. I hated that feeling, so common it yet. It was like bathing in a beach where they would not touch the bottom. It was the fear of what lurked in the shadows, beyond the gap. Would it have already entered the bedroom? Perhaps it was watching ... Well, enough! Anne gave a slap on the bed to strengthen his sudden outbreak of value. Or she would or would not be able to sleep all night. "Let's go for that shower!" Finally exclaimed while sitting up in bed.
First was the smell of putrefaction, and moments later the hot breath landfall in his neck. He turned instinctively to find its origin and came upon a heap of flesh, skin and nails of metal, perhaps once was a face. Barely had time to be horrified before a dirty and rusty machete across his stomach. With an almost animal roar, the figure in the shadows drew the weapon from the body of Ana with the ease with which they had gutted a rag doll. In his last breath, the girl came to see a large yellow eyes and smiling. Was he smiling? The machete sailed the dark before removing the head of Anne of your body with a blunt blow.
Silence took over the night. Only survived the rotten breath executioner and the slight friction against the dying flesh. Shortly thereafter, the backlit silhouette moved down the hall with steps as heavy as punch drunk. Between his fingers held tough and rough hair of Ana, a broken toy, the doll was unseated.
on the floor behind him, were the dreams become dark slimy trails. Reached the bathroom and raised the head to attach the strands with clumsy knots lumpy around the curtain rod shower. There
head hung and Hermann a dark and filthy mess.
Ana Del severed neck one drop.
Another drop. Another
more.
I'll be a few days "off the grid", and that it is not very stopped, I decided to dust off some old stories and plan their subsequent publication. I hope not to take too long to return to the routine, so long dismissed as accurate and longing. Meanwhile, I hope that these stories do not be bored too.
Have you ever been in bed and started to leak any tap, making noise a blind or have you noticed a light burning forgot? The immediate impulse is to get up to fix the problem but is that always a wise decision?
Shower
A drop. Another drop. Another. Ana stretched the sheet as he could to go beyond your ear. What time was it? She fell asleep just lying, but something had awakened. Germain had not yet arrived. Another drop. That shower's go crazy any day. Why exactly dripping insisted night that her husband took to return from his shift? Every drop of water slammed into the bottom of the tub on her head sounded like someone pulling the wall with a large hammer. Could rise to close the tap. Would make sense. But I was so scared.
always had happened, as a child, and since then his father told him that those horror films were going to eat the head. Germain also laughed at her for that reason. "What you see if after you hold no fear?" But could help it, he loved. And every time the damn shower began to leak, she saw the scene with clarity: the young half naked go to pull the tap, unaware that a psychopath defaced with a rusty butcher knife looks close ... Well, that metiesen with it whatever they wanted, he never expected to rise.
Another drop. Another
more.
comes a time in which his anxiety made him imagine that the psycho out of his hiding place and headed down the aisle, slowly, slowly, toward the bedroom. What was that? Have you heard a noise, a door perhaps? Another drop again, and saw in his mind a large figure, somewhat stooped, dragging one leg as he walked. Passed by the bathroom door y. .. Are not leaking shower? Suddenly he stopped. I was so immersed in their fears had not been aware of ... No, again. It was only an illusion. Left to drip for a while, just in time to ... that this be deflected pass along your imagination to the bathroom.
backs to the door, Ana pulled the sheet further, as if thereby establish an insurmountable barrier to the creation of his mind. And yet you did not hear anything? Anything beyond the drops in the shower and the ticking of the clock the room, something beyond imperturbable silence of the night? A shiver ran down his back. I hated that feeling, so common it yet. It was like bathing in a beach where they would not touch the bottom. It was the fear of what lurked in the shadows, beyond the gap. Would it have already entered the bedroom? Perhaps it was watching ... Well, enough! Anne gave a slap on the bed to strengthen his sudden outbreak of value. Or she would or would not be able to sleep all night. "Let's go for that shower!" Finally exclaimed while sitting up in bed.
First was the smell of putrefaction, and moments later the hot breath landfall in his neck. He turned instinctively to find its origin and came upon a heap of flesh, skin and nails of metal, perhaps once was a face. Barely had time to be horrified before a dirty and rusty machete across his stomach. With an almost animal roar, the figure in the shadows drew the weapon from the body of Ana with the ease with which they had gutted a rag doll. In his last breath, the girl came to see a large yellow eyes and smiling. Was he smiling? The machete sailed the dark before removing the head of Anne of your body with a blunt blow.
Silence took over the night. Only survived the rotten breath executioner and the slight friction against the dying flesh. Shortly thereafter, the backlit silhouette moved down the hall with steps as heavy as punch drunk. Between his fingers held tough and rough hair of Ana, a broken toy, the doll was unseated.
on the floor behind him, were the dreams become dark slimy trails. Reached the bathroom and raised the head to attach the strands with clumsy knots lumpy around the curtain rod shower. There
head hung and Hermann a dark and filthy mess.
Ana Del severed neck one drop.
Another drop. Another
more.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Red Bumps On The Back Of The Tongue
30 years without John Duke Wayne
So, why repeat myself? Here I leave the article on the was, is and will always be my favorite actor. And not because they are better than others., But simply because my memories and my nostalgia on its side, and that is something so powerful that no Al Pacino is simply skip it.
The owner of the report, published in the June issue of the magazine with Christian Bale on the cover, entitled John Wayne, an American hero (click on image to read it ... if want).
Left here also my heartfelt tribute to Duke, one of those magical players continue to enjoy us with dozens of stories that made it great film when it was first and foremost, the greatest show on earth. Wayne died but I still remember. Let's do it now more than ever with the most beautiful farewell few have been shot in the history of cinema, shot, of course, by John Ford.
The June 11, 1979, that is, a day like today 30 years ago, died Marion Michael Morrison, aka John Wayne. Since I fell in holding that date he had in mind to pay tribute in some way in this blog, but it crossed my path guys Esquire magazine , and I'm done writing for them an article about Duke, about her life and the unique circumstances of his death.
So, why repeat myself? Here I leave the article on the was, is and will always be my favorite actor. And not because they are better than others., But simply because my memories and my nostalgia on its side, and that is something so powerful that no Al Pacino is simply skip it. The owner of the report, published in the June issue of the magazine with Christian Bale on the cover, entitled John Wayne, an American hero (click on image to read it ... if want).
Left here also my heartfelt tribute to Duke, one of those magical players continue to enjoy us with dozens of stories that made it great film when it was first and foremost, the greatest show on earth. Wayne died but I still remember. Let's do it now more than ever with the most beautiful farewell few have been shot in the history of cinema, shot, of course, by John Ford. Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Medical Mutual Of Ohio Iud
My songs: Congratulations
is seen that lately I'm not as active or writing or my posts have the same interest as above, so we will have change of pace. Today I can think of things to write about, but I have no desire, for which no one-trick I am inspired. So when in doubt, a little music.
I do not know if I talked about the recording equipment that I bought recently, to able to record my new songs with more quality-without exaggerating either, technique and sound. Well, this has been one of the first tests. It is a composition of mine, but of Paul Simon. Congratulations is entitled, and belongs to his first solo album. Although almost nobody knows, I speak of the general public, not the faithful, the theme is wonderful, very exciting. I've always loved. Talk about the difficulty of communication that occurs many times in the couple, and the need to take really serious relationship. Anyway, since the instrumentation was previously recorded by a friend, I decided to put to a voice. If you dislike
much to stop playing and go away in haste to another blog. Thus, as you will forget the bad experience and you turn around here soon ... Hello everyone!
I do not know if I talked about the recording equipment that I bought recently, to able to record my new songs with more quality-without exaggerating either, technique and sound. Well, this has been one of the first tests. It is a composition of mine, but of Paul Simon. Congratulations is entitled, and belongs to his first solo album. Although almost nobody knows, I speak of the general public, not the faithful, the theme is wonderful, very exciting. I've always loved. Talk about the difficulty of communication that occurs many times in the couple, and the need to take really serious relationship. Anyway, since the instrumentation was previously recorded by a friend, I decided to put to a voice. If you dislike
much to stop playing and go away in haste to another blog. Thus, as you will forget the bad experience and you turn around here soon ... Hello everyone!
Congratulations
Congratulations
apparently has done it again
and I have not felt so miserable
in my life.
Oh, and do not know when it happened, I do not know when it happened.
I realize that many people
get over it, but
Far more than just queuing
in court today.
Love is not a game.
Love is not a toy.
Love is not a romance.
love feel it deep inside.
And love will leave you exhausted
and speechless.
will not break you will not give you relief.
'm willing to learn.
Can you answer me please?
Can a man and a woman
live together in peace?
Oh, live together in peace.
Congratulations
apparently has done it again
and I have not felt so miserable
in my life.
Oh, and do not know when it happened, I do not know when it happened.
I realize that many people
get over it, but
Far more than just queuing
in court today.
Love is not a game.
Love is not a toy.
Love is not a romance.
love feel it deep inside.
And love will leave you exhausted
and speechless.
will not break you will not give you relief.
'm willing to learn.
Can you answer me please?
Can a man and a woman
live together in peace?
Oh, live together in peace.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Do Polyps In Gallbladder Hurt
A dreadful humiliation capacity
put 44 bullets in the body.
How many shots are needed to steal a man's life? How many downloads require hatred and injustice to be satiated? In the case of Chilean singer Victor Jara, 44 missiles were received. An endless humiliation of man, speak of the executioners themselves, in their pursuit of pain beyond the death of the enemy that wanted to suffer the worst way and above any consideration. The horror. The terror.
It happened on September 15, 1973 in the Estadio Chile, sports center room transmuted into killers. The singer and theater director, author of letters The right to live in peace or Te recuerdo Amanda, had become a bitter enemy of the most reactionary right - do not it always? - And had done gala better than anyone else of that legend Woody Guthrie hit his guitar: This machine kills fascists . The elected president, Salvador Allende, Jara found in one of his top aides (because when society needs a change, the artists also must be involved), and so, when Pinochet and his men seized power, put their names at the top of the list.
A Allende committed suicide as . A Victor did go through hours of unspeakable torture, causing the tongue, grinding the toes with the butts of their rifles, in short, the weapons used to fight against fascism. But as someone said years before the imposition of violence is up, but not convinced. Thus, thirty-six years later, Victor Jara is continually remembered and honored, while the names of the perpetrators is masked with fear and shame.
But the case has taken a radical turn in recent days. Chilean Justice is prosecuting several soldiers involved in the savage murder. Al same time, in order to shed more light on the case and to carry out a detailed investigation, yesterday conducted the exhumation of the artist.
Yes, no doubt, I am sure that the same people who applauded his death, today menearán head to read the news in the media, sigh and say, "Why not let the poor man rest in peace? What be gained by digging up the past? Why will not quiet as the dead? " Oops, I think that I have not left the Chilean accent. Maybe it's because I thought they were españolitos the speakers. Because, after all, there in Chile, and Spain, I believe that should be a lot of cynical and much son ... her parents, rest easy every night, with their dead either in roofs and peace, care less what happened to those thousands of dead and missing and their families.
Forgetting is never good, ever. It is important to remember, know, know. And then, with the truth in hand, is judged, he is pardoned, it is similar ... But you can not bury the past. Because one of these days we sit at the table the ghost of terrorism requires the dish of revenge.
put 44 bullets in the body. How many shots are needed to steal a man's life? How many downloads require hatred and injustice to be satiated? In the case of Chilean singer Victor Jara, 44 missiles were received. An endless humiliation of man, speak of the executioners themselves, in their pursuit of pain beyond the death of the enemy that wanted to suffer the worst way and above any consideration. The horror. The terror.
It happened on September 15, 1973 in the Estadio Chile, sports center room transmuted into killers. The singer and theater director, author of letters The right to live in peace or Te recuerdo Amanda, had become a bitter enemy of the most reactionary right - do not it always? - And had done gala better than anyone else of that legend Woody Guthrie hit his guitar: This machine kills fascists . The elected president, Salvador Allende, Jara found in one of his top aides (because when society needs a change, the artists also must be involved), and so, when Pinochet and his men seized power, put their names at the top of the list.
A Allende committed suicide as . A Victor did go through hours of unspeakable torture, causing the tongue, grinding the toes with the butts of their rifles, in short, the weapons used to fight against fascism. But as someone said years before the imposition of violence is up, but not convinced. Thus, thirty-six years later, Victor Jara is continually remembered and honored, while the names of the perpetrators is masked with fear and shame.
But the case has taken a radical turn in recent days. Chilean Justice is prosecuting several soldiers involved in the savage murder. Al same time, in order to shed more light on the case and to carry out a detailed investigation, yesterday conducted the exhumation of the artist. Yes, no doubt, I am sure that the same people who applauded his death, today menearán head to read the news in the media, sigh and say, "Why not let the poor man rest in peace? What be gained by digging up the past? Why will not quiet as the dead? " Oops, I think that I have not left the Chilean accent. Maybe it's because I thought they were españolitos the speakers. Because, after all, there in Chile, and Spain, I believe that should be a lot of cynical and much son ... her parents, rest easy every night, with their dead either in roofs and peace, care less what happened to those thousands of dead and missing and their families.
Forgetting is never good, ever. It is important to remember, know, know. And then, with the truth in hand, is judged, he is pardoned, it is similar ... But you can not bury the past. Because one of these days we sit at the table the ghost of terrorism requires the dish of revenge.
Things That Represent Canada
Estepona, the heart of Tennessee
Great news for fans to good music, especially that accent Suner, and not just the Guadalquivir, but Mississippi. Has just announced the conclusion of the American Gathering I Costa del Sol. What is it's American? Well, baking is a musical genre in the nineties would become the country's most innovative new generation. A combination of rock, country and folk that has little to do with traditional country artists dress with frills and sequins
According to organizers, "the meeting was created with the aim of becoming one of the international benchmarks in This large and versatile musical style. This festival was held in Estepona between 10 and 15 August, during which combine the best groups, bands and international artists and local course, performances and cultural activities, in short, a show which will be an integral music festival and coexistence. "
The poster is not bad to be a modest first year and match point. There is much national name, including some large native country and rock: the historic guns and butter, The rebels, The Silverstone, Martin & Garcia ... And among the most popular international Pete and Danni Leigh Anderson.
You can be
daily news about this meeting in the blog enabled for the occasion.
Great news for fans to good music, especially that accent Suner, and not just the Guadalquivir, but Mississippi. Has just announced the conclusion of the American Gathering I Costa del Sol. What is it's American? Well, baking is a musical genre in the nineties would become the country's most innovative new generation. A combination of rock, country and folk that has little to do with traditional country artists dress with frills and sequins According to organizers, "the meeting was created with the aim of becoming one of the international benchmarks in This large and versatile musical style. This festival was held in Estepona between 10 and 15 August, during which combine the best groups, bands and international artists and local course, performances and cultural activities, in short, a show which will be an integral music festival and coexistence. "
The poster is not bad to be a modest first year and match point. There is much national name, including some large native country and rock: the historic guns and butter, The rebels, The Silverstone, Martin & Garcia ... And among the most popular international Pete and Danni Leigh Anderson.
You can be
daily news about this meeting in the blog enabled for the occasion.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Fotos De Prancer De Ilove Money
'm happy because I have returned to mourn
I've finally found it! For years I bug for movie sites, videos loose, emule ... And no, there was no way. In any case, did not know quite how to define the object of my quest, so it was not easy. It was a special assembly, at a ceremony at the Oscars in the late nineties. I recorded it on VHS from pirated signal Canal Plus we had at home. The signal was poor, black and white as well. But none of that prevented time and again saw this video for years. The resto de la ceremonia -la de 1998, cuando los premios celebraban sus 70 años- me trajo sin cuidado.
¿De qué trataba el vídeo? Pues eran alrededor de cuatro minutos sobre los grandes momentos de la historia de los Oscars, momentos en los que, como no podía ser menos, había sonrisas y lágrimas. La carrera de Sinatra para recoger su premio, la chica india rechazando el de Marlon Brando, las pletóricas sonrisas de Burt Lancaster y Kirk Douglas, el ¡Merci beaucoup! de François Truffaut, el nudista corriendo por detrás de David Niven, el discurso de Richard Pryor, el tartamudeo de Jonathan Demme... Un repaso a los trajes de las estrellas, a los rostros a la espera de llevarse o no the award, the first ceremonies ... The video has four segments, two animated musical background and two with melancholy themes, including, of course , that infallible Pachelbel's Canon, "and with each segment, the excitement is growing.
I recommend you see him whole, but if your life is too busy, and yet you keep cinephile some love in your heart, do not fail to see the last part (starting at the point 3:40). Elton John sings "not everything would be perfect," and the first image is an old Kirk Douglas collected an honorary Oscar (such as those to come later) and announcing proudly: "I can see my four children. They were born in this old. "Suma y sigue: Henry Fonda, with that majestic gait and honored as if he had been the nation on his shoulders, and Laurence Olivier, John Wayne and a few months after the death, enduring the heat of the suit neoprene under the tux, because the cancer had eaten to the bone, and Cary Grant in tears, and Christopher Reeve in his chair, and Charles Chaplin at last! recognized ... Close James Stewart, with his unmistakable voice, "I you gave a wonderful life. God blesses you. "
assembly may be bullshit you, may you steal a smile, perhaps a tear. I, now that I finally found, I will keep it as gold cloth. I have never seen this morning and I was excited again, as he supposed, as expected. I would have cried if the video does not mourn as I have done then! Because I've changed a lot in the last ten years, I know, but hoped not to have come to much.
Fortunately, it does have excited me as much as then, much as I am sure the next time I see him. Because all these people, these actors, actresses, directors, not my family, not my friends, do not know me personally and probably go down well with many of them. But all, or most, are an inescapable part of my memory sentimental nostalgia of my most intimate, and that's why I keep them all a very special affection.
All through his films have made me spend a lot of good times, and I'm sure many more in store. I have learned with them, laughed with them, I cried with them, I traveled with them. With them, people in the film, as is its dark side, life is always a little nicer. And that is great.
PD: Mr. X, do not know if you got to watch this video in your day. In any case, it is dedicated specially to you. ¿De qué trataba el vídeo? Pues eran alrededor de cuatro minutos sobre los grandes momentos de la historia de los Oscars, momentos en los que, como no podía ser menos, había sonrisas y lágrimas. La carrera de Sinatra para recoger su premio, la chica india rechazando el de Marlon Brando, las pletóricas sonrisas de Burt Lancaster y Kirk Douglas, el ¡Merci beaucoup! de François Truffaut, el nudista corriendo por detrás de David Niven, el discurso de Richard Pryor, el tartamudeo de Jonathan Demme... Un repaso a los trajes de las estrellas, a los rostros a la espera de llevarse o no the award, the first ceremonies ... The video has four segments, two animated musical background and two with melancholy themes, including, of course , that infallible Pachelbel's Canon, "and with each segment, the excitement is growing.
I recommend you see him whole, but if your life is too busy, and yet you keep cinephile some love in your heart, do not fail to see the last part (starting at the point 3:40). Elton John sings "not everything would be perfect," and the first image is an old Kirk Douglas collected an honorary Oscar (such as those to come later) and announcing proudly: "I can see my four children. They were born in this old. "Suma y sigue: Henry Fonda, with that majestic gait and honored as if he had been the nation on his shoulders, and Laurence Olivier, John Wayne and a few months after the death, enduring the heat of the suit neoprene under the tux, because the cancer had eaten to the bone, and Cary Grant in tears, and Christopher Reeve in his chair, and Charles Chaplin at last! recognized ... Close James Stewart, with his unmistakable voice, "I you gave a wonderful life. God blesses you. "
assembly may be bullshit you, may you steal a smile, perhaps a tear. I, now that I finally found, I will keep it as gold cloth. I have never seen this morning and I was excited again, as he supposed, as expected. I would have cried if the video does not mourn as I have done then! Because I've changed a lot in the last ten years, I know, but hoped not to have come to much.
Fortunately, it does have excited me as much as then, much as I am sure the next time I see him. Because all these people, these actors, actresses, directors, not my family, not my friends, do not know me personally and probably go down well with many of them. But all, or most, are an inescapable part of my memory sentimental nostalgia of my most intimate, and that's why I keep them all a very special affection.
All through his films have made me spend a lot of good times, and I'm sure many more in store. I have learned with them, laughed with them, I cried with them, I traveled with them. With them, people in the film, as is its dark side, life is always a little nicer. And that is great.
God bless you
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Ringing In A Quiet Room
Presentation of 'Lost Angel Chronicles'
Oh dear, with the seriousness with which I had raised a good rhythm to resume publication on the blog, and the shock of last week the thing is screwed up.
Today I write to announce the presentation on Thursday, at eight o'clock in the afternoon, the book Lost Angel Chronicles. The ruins of Liencarel . It is unusual to see on this blog titles of these features, but what interests me is not so much a work and its author, a young Seville Laura Grau name.
On Thursday I'll be at La Casa del Libro de Sevilla to accompany the presentation Laura of his first novel, and will be happy then take some time together with who decides to stop by.
Not being the type of readings to know that I like, I was surprised by the maturity of the text, in addition to its correctness, well under the author's youth. so it will be a pleasure to support it in his first "coming-out" in literature. I know people-Ali, Violeta ...- the novel that I think will love it, but it is just a guess ... Here you have the synopsis and I invite you also to go to his blog .
Oh dear, with the seriousness with which I had raised a good rhythm to resume publication on the blog, and the shock of last week the thing is screwed up. Today I write to announce the presentation on Thursday, at eight o'clock in the afternoon, the book Lost Angel Chronicles. The ruins of Liencarel . It is unusual to see on this blog titles of these features, but what interests me is not so much a work and its author, a young Seville Laura Grau name.
On Thursday I'll be at La Casa del Libro de Sevilla to accompany the presentation Laura of his first novel, and will be happy then take some time together with who decides to stop by.
Not being the type of readings to know that I like, I was surprised by the maturity of the text, in addition to its correctness, well under the author's youth. so it will be a pleasure to support it in his first "coming-out" in literature. I know people-Ali, Violeta ...- the novel that I think will love it, but it is just a guess ... Here you have the synopsis and I invite you also to go to his blog .
When Althea discovered the great secret, never imagined that their world would change completely. If previously only pupil a magician, is now the heir to the angels. Destined to be the queen of a clan that only knew of its existence, must deal with their newfound powers while trying to survive in a war that was not part. A land inhabited by angels. Angels without wings ... Not good.
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