Two thousand times that a pair of eyes were resting on something I posted on the bulletin board is a kind of thrill for me. It seems to me an impressive number for a project in a thousand misgivings, and with little hope of surviving in the long run.
In truth, my first blog is not "literary rooms" but: http://www.pariscestmonpari.blogspot.com / started as a diary. It means "Paris is my goal," but for a nice game comes out a nice phonetic pronunciation, very "possessive" is mine! Yes!
E 'on this blog that I first experienced. At first I often attacks the nerves, for I the technology we are not so friendly, then over time we became friends, and I google, and I really enjoyed choosing the photos, settings, background colors, fonts, or see how they put the counters, even if I chose one that any day I was gone, and now you see only one clicks on it, but never mind, I need only a guideline. All in one blog in my opinion, speaks of the writer, and I tried to make these pages look a bit 'to me and a little' argument that section.
design presentation of the rooms is an enlargement and a review of one of my drawings in pencil, made during the Paris period, twenty 'years ago. Everything comes back to Paris and I always come back often and willingly. Write
in public, it feels a bit 'set, I confess, but perhaps this is a good exercise because you get used to come out of the shell. The idea that anyone can read what I write a little 'embarrassed me, especially in the beginning. The point is that I like to write, I do always, and I do not ranking "writer" but fans of the genre, and then, the beauty of blogs is that democracy is a means, not force anyone, and no one pays anything.
Paris said. It was the summer of two years ago. A very special of my life. My father had been dead for less than a month, and I had not ever happened before losing a father. I have lost friends, more than one, too young, and I suffered, but if you lose a father, that is the door through which you entered the world, the earth under your feet you begin to tremble, the impression is that eddies you too, and if one is lucky enough to have deep roots well, then suffered a strong blow, but manageable, for others, for those with thinner roots, one begins to stagger violently, and lasts more than a minute. I stagger again, after two years. And this post is yet another test. Should I talk about anything and here I am, usually only off topic. We always think of every day because that is the kind of greeting that is done only once in a lifetime. You are never prepared enough and sencondo below, is the remorse for things done and not said, the company to which you get used more, and indeed broken promises, and perhaps is not as painless as it may seem . When you lose a father, it stirs up mechanisms that go beyond any logical reasoning. Common sense goes to fuck off and the primary emotions s' hold of you. Explodes a nature that seemed well guarded, hidden, and which hardly suspected its existence. We are exposed to more because it is weaker. As with the virus in the winter, it seems that everything will stick on you, there is no shelter safe and there is no vaccine or cure. Basic needs, basic needs that will explode in your face, and fuck logic. Forward-Yes, I went to Paris. Wobble too much to stay here. I felt very lonely and in distress. I left without energy. Without turning a blind eye the night before the flight. I spent the night packing and unpacking the suitcase, unable to determine what I needed and what is not. After twenty years' past to dream of returning to Paris, to go in this state, with this mood, I was scared. I was afraid I would not have liked it more, maybe in the years I had idealized, perhaps I found that nothing was as I remembered it. Maybe I did not want to go there in the end, not so. Maybe I spend days to vegetate on my bed and spend time staring at a book all of which I understood nothing. But I went. For the second time in Paris. Only once.
My first blog was born one evening in August, Rue de Rodier, near Montmartre, in a small room with two inches to two, where I lived alone, all alone, on the 5th floor of an old building without lift, therefore 450 steps (the same number for the return). Very bohemian. It was what I needed. I looked so much room, because only a situation so I could bear. Be alone in Paris without socializing with anyone. Like a wolf in the den. I felt so. A wild animal that roamed free and unprotected for the city. The blog has been my biggest Compage. Much of the time it took me to figure out how Darge life. Funny if you look back. I chose to talk about some events, not all but a few. And do not ever re-read, because I am sure that the change in so many points, but I do not like. What remains as it was born. In memory.
For the rest, in Paris, I put away the books, I have only touched upon, as if they were fetishes. I walked from morning till night for a month in a row. All of the Seine, in both directions. The center, Montmartre, I do not know how I walked. I spent afternoons watching the passers-by, I noticed that Paris is full of couples and I felt alone, but did not last long. I spent hours sitting on the Nikerson steps of Montmartre to listen, a guy who played in the Caribbean, Paris and watching the other, just behind his shoulder. No local revelers, only museums, streets and cemeteries. Very often I have chosen to sail in sight, without a map. A random. You discover things otherwise be lost forever. E 'was magical, despite everything. One day, one who worked at a stall asked me if I was tired, then I realized that I had a very healthy, so I called home, to hang two roots.
Sometimes I told the things that happened to me on the blog. I remember how impressed I was with a group of policemen beating a black boy in front of the Pompidou Center. Everybody scream to stop, but they were gassed and climbed on in 5, including two women, nice evolution! I must say.
At the time I was already registered on Facebook, but I gave him weight, there was very little. I did not have TV so I was free from it all. Just me and the blog.
When the Parisian experience ended, the blog has stopped, at which point I started to create other, perhaps too many. Those are certainly continue to live "rooms literary" and the blog dedicated to Truffaut. " The others are still long, because they are specific topics for which takes a long time. Maybe I'll end with suppressing some, but I know that will not stop write because I like, and you have got to read the post until this line, it means "Do you like me" even when, as tonight, I feel heavy in the head, and for that I thank you for the friends, the saying goes , are seen in their time of need. I read it with other shades of this rule, but there does not seem the case. Personally I trust more than someone who always shows a very "close" to what you feel in that moment of templates. So as I behave.
the avoidance of doubt, I can be funny and ironic. See "half apple" or "Bend It Like Dr. House," or even "The fate of such" or "the world, instructions for use"
For the most dramatic, there are other writings, beginning with the word "I" in the labels. But I leave the choice is yours.
Thanks for your company! I hope we do not lose sight!
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