Running Shoes Pokemon Shiny Gold

Remember Renato To resist is to exist

On September 30 Renato Zero has turned 60. Celebrated and loved by all repute. Needless to add praise to the many who now come to him even by those who had always fought against and marginalized. The offer, if anything, these memories. Ours and yours. So that, beyond some recent statements, which appear to have tarnished a career built struggle and sacrifice, do not forget anything, in glory and anonymity, in their origins. We started 2010 with a post about him: he is right to end it the same way.

The first: a transistor. Music, a bit 'scratchy, dragged and gave body to my childhood dreams and grown up already scribbled out of life. I did not even twelve. And I was so curious. Too. I wore Mon ghi disheveled hair. The song was called Madame . A thought: "It's about sex" . Picture: I saw a sailor, a pre- Querelle its time. It was not a song from the album Keystone after all? As the film of '56 with Tony Curtis, Burt Lancaster and Gina Lollobrigida. The first of a series of titles circus, film, poetry, "stolen" from other works, even by prayers from The Best Years of Our Lives to after Love love to Life is a gift ...

Then the course of my city. Estate. But that course was always gray. Grey like the words of the song. The frantic race to find his record: it was not easy then. I surmounted a condominium. Compact. High. High. A cathedral of suffering. A monument to the margins. In there, I imagined lives, silences mezzofumo, kids rooms, or rooms without children in unhealthy promiscuity, pillows, words unspoken, unspeakable truth and unacknowledged. There had never voice. Who cares about lives cheesy? We love you ate, perhaps secret loves. Maybe ill. Perhaps, in those parts could abitare non tanto un marinaio, quanto uno sterratore, muratore, travestita, drogato, un anonimo senza futuro. Era un universo chiuso, casalingo, dalle luci fredde. Se si apriva un pianeta, era dentro una stanza perché solo dal pertugio delle moquette stinte potevano nascere trovate, ribellioni, fantasie...

Poi il mare, l'apertura ariosa degli azzurri sconfinati. In quell'occasione lo vidi per la prima volta. Ma lui era sempre cittadino, sempre grigio. I colori, erano la lotta su quel grigio. Come Pasolini, incarnava "una realtà talmente concretizzabile che, sfogliando le pagine, mi sfregai le dita più volte per togliere la sporcizia" . Questo mi avrebbe confidato, Many years later, a young friend. I did not rubbed his fingers, but the dirty Izia there. If man can not withstand too much reality, that was really unbearable. Yet I liked it. Because, despite everything, not only to be that hard concrete. Tragic samba. There was a dark interior, a "family" with incestuous brother, a sister too casual, passing by abortion in abortion. And this sad figure of the lover who asked not to kill himself, because there were so many beautiful things on TV. It was not ironic, it was a dream, very petty, but still a spark of humanity that was suffocating in cynicism. (As the last scene of Salò: when the two teenagers Republicans, after witnessing the worst massacres impassive, get together to talk of their passions simple: "You have a girlfriend?" , "Yes" . "What's his name?" , "Margherita" .)

quest'intruglio to sing, these (or) family scenes, a cross between Freddie Mercury and Basquiat. Another photo shows him with tights and boots with a skimpy coat beside the man resigned, reading a newspaper, the newspaper said. That was the incarnation of Mario Mieli, who went on strike at the factory with high heels. It was the shrill and elegiac Romanina amorality. The transfer to the new old man, non senza sofferenza e con un cerchio alla testa, reduce da nottate. Che confusione, ma il mondo così com'era non reggeva più.

Un mondo di uomini, comunque. Quasi e totalmente uomini. Non è che prima m'interessassero molto, anzi, li temevo, così rigidi ed esterni e vincenti. Io amavo la cavità profonde e in loro mi pareva non ci fosse nulla da scoprire. Sbagliavo. Gli uomini diventavano viscere, come quelle pareti anonime. Diventavano corpi, erano nudi, spogliati, seducenti e inermi. Erano maschi totali, perché non temevano la loro femminilità. Forse per questo, malgrado quelle note che women described negative, or pupae of the boss, I did not feel more hurt, I was fine, with an infusion of calm, tepid as tea, and good, good. I was out of the temple, and I found myself in bad company Jesus or Jesus of Montreal . Still cinema and literature.

Then, behold, there was also a man and trucks. Evocation, after listening to the tales of E., born in 1951, where I was staying at his house and offered hot chocolate: Renato and music always in the background, one tube of mascara and newspapers, magazines alternative Out , magazines . Rag. E. recounted his adventures. Come on, jump up. And the truck driver accompanied the strange boy and then, after drinking e donne, magari una carezza scivolava anche sul giovane, così con una vena di malinconia e senza attese. E, dopo... le rande perfette dei due profili si stagliavano nel nero dell'abitacolo, soddisfatti e rilassati, e "tutto sommato è bello anche così... Gli uomini so' più generosi" . Non c'era da aspettarsi alcuna durata da quegli incontri, eppure quanta passione ci si metteva, quanto grido d'amore, quasi infantile.

Il resto? Ma il resto, le madri, i figli, le amicizie, i bambini, la fede, erano già racchiusi in quelle storie, in quegli squarci di volti, in quelle note secche come fuoco, in quella sfronzolata e sghemba follia.

Let

Perhaps you have lost your flight paths

hell avenues

of losers on sidewalks

incurable beggar lying abandoned in the case

Love You maybe

you've lost yourself

entrance of a tunnel

adorned with gold and too many laurels

Your house of false walls death

secrets raffled

And everything is perfect but boring

As a nose that can not sniff

The humble life's mysteries

But here are still your call

Di straziata bestia in mezzo ai rovi

Dove storie disgraziate vivi

Che l'anima lacerano a sangue

Qui si ringhia, si soffre davvero

Qui si spezza l'ostia del dolore

E una stilla d'affetto è una stella

Che risplende su un falò distrutto

Sulle ombre di ciò che rimane

Prendi tutto adesso, fatti avanti

Se hai tracce del tuo vecchio coraggio

Se non sei ridotto al tuo mestiere

Ecco noi col sapore di vetro

Nel sorriso di chi non ha altro

Bianche candide garze del mondo

Che di vivide mancanze mente

E ci manda

naked below the limit of existence that make us

broken

downloaded here as the spitting

We waiting for you so low

Tender blackmail, your luck

desperate hope

insane to millions, saints background

the canvas with your portrait

If we deny yourself drown rats

We damned close in a row

We are your destiny, after all

We are your sailing. Come on come

Massimo Del Papa