South Park Free Straming

Ennio Flaiano on the road to Pontremoli

Sunday morning, photo by Stefano Pessina

"So thinking, we came to the hill on the road Cisa, and Italian was here on Sunday afternoon in his splendor. Not only in paesi ma anche lungo la strada, nei tornanti che avviluppano i colli a guardia del Taro, il passeggio festivo era intenso, sbadato, animato di conversazioni e di giuochi, sicché sembrava che stessimo attraversando un’unica immensa città. Per buon tratto seguimmo a passo d’uomo una processione, anzi la nostra macchina che chiudeva il corteo dei fedeli, ne fu, a giudicare dagli sguardi delle Figlie di Maria, l’attrazione più vistosa.
Fermi davanti ai bar e alle osterie, gli uomini discutevano immobili come statue scese dai loro piedistalli, con quel peso che soltanto la gente di campagna riesce a far sentire nelle loro membra. Passavano i carabinieri di servizio, col sottogola e il moschetto, un cacciatore se ne andava Dog on a motorcycle with his paws on the handlebars too, the sudden seriousness of the dogs that make a man thing, or an ice cream man looked at us, chewing a blade of grass. In complete solitude
daring girls greeted us dressed up, walking laced telling their secrets of love, or talking about the new fashion, while young people followed the sly playing with a ball and pretending, as we passed, of losing ' balance and want to end up under the wheels of the machine. We came their merry laughter, the screams of aggressive more often admiration for the baroque architecture of the car. Stopping in the vast open spaces of curves to look at the distant city steeped in its blue haze heard the rustling of the trees, the cool breath of the valley that opened at our feet, with broad river gravel.
an Italy was so intimate in its rest to remove any wonder at all events that were to follow: the sudden rush of bicycles and announced that we passed towards Pontremoli, trudging in a festive color and shouts of encouragement, with those young eye off the effort of pedaling and the last who came without losing heart, but rather not to smile for their lag, or the carousel the outskirts of a village, four seats flying in the wind, a group of boys in waiting their turn, those guys on Sunday clothes and tidy as cairns, the hem of a handkerchief sticking out of his jacket pocket, or stop at a railroad crossing, where they continue coming and going, bowing under the bars, families are also dressed up, the girls with her purse, the mothers with a new coat, fathers taken by the just thought of a melancholy atmosphere.
Then, another unavoidable error quell'ormai lost day, pitting the road along the sea in Viareggio. "

's just a fragment from a story by Ennio Flaiano (introduction to" On Sunday the Italians' album Snapshot Lori Sammartino 1963, 2009 reissue )
One Sunday in April to late fifties and on the road to Pontremoli. In the same year Kerouac lived and wrote his "On the Road". I know it's just a coincidence and the comparison is rash. But this time, the landscape and now faded beyond recognition, that strange passion for travel, the desire to get out of intimate human mental borders leads to the same nostalgia. And to remove at least one night on television to concede to Flaiano.

Tiffany Notes Letter S Round Pendant

L 'Eccentric Newspapers Done

Montereggio, Friday, August 28, almost evening. Under the large crucifix of the apse of the ancient Church of St Apollinaris, three journalists in strict orange shirt tells the preparation of a new newspaper. Secular, not ideological self-described eccentric who does not seek public funding, which opens its doors to writers in search of freedom to write and inform, will be born only if readers wish to buy. A story in which bravery and courage, and chase each other constantly exchanging places. An adventure in contrast when the grinding of ideologies has brought the crushing of the ideas and passions and the desire to free information is like a rare syndrome which does not infect anyone. I think I look down on newsstands Wednesday, 23 of the least curious.

Brazilian Wax Bucks County, Pa

The school Another damper down hurts

"For a child to grow well,

need a whole village "

(African proverb)

We just left the outcome of the year 2008/09, with its dramatic increase of rejected, with or without 5 in the duct . Thousands of non-allowed (example? 70,000 boys between the first and second media repeat a year), in the name of rigor, severity of substance. Why repeat a lot? For too many absences? for misconduct? insufficient for profit? One thing to think about is that a large proportion of rejected is composed of children of immigrants, struggling with the difficulties of language and integration.
An interesting contribution to understanding the current state of our schools there is provided by Maurizio Parodi (*) with "The school that hurts" ed. Liberodiscrivere . It 's a path disenchanted and ruthless (but not resigned) through the ills that afflict a school that is a source of discomfort and maladjustment for thousands of children, that sentence (often the poorest) ignorance, who can not motivate, interest, involved. That divide, since the spaces and times, controlling, from the "pedagogical posture" (it seems that we can learn just by sitting).
And all this without that arise from a real project, rather Parodi identifies a number of "postulates pseudopedagogici" that sono fondamento di pratiche didattiche diffuse, in realtà privi di attendibilità. Uno per tutti: "L'insuccesso scolastico è dovuto all'inadeguatezza del soggetto". Facile, no? Così la scuola si autoassolve e si giustifica per i migliaia di bocciati.
Il ritratto emerso spiega il disagio e il malessere dei ragazzi, afflitti da malattie psicosomatiche e no, che escono dalla scuola"alfabetizzati" ma non lettori (anzi, il libro diventa, come per Pennac, un oggetto contundente), non scrittori, non autonomi, spesso incapaci di decidere e comunicare.
Se si fermasse qui, l'autore non farebbe altro che avallare e rafforzare quella diffusa percezione negativa, avvalorata da rapporti OCSE e quant'altro.
Parodi indicates, however, alternative routes, even if only sketched, not the "laissez faire", but "letting be" (the students given the opportunity to experiment, to dare, to risk), according to Maria Montessori's famous slogan "Help me to do it alone ". Keywords
, reception, exploration, discovery, movement, play. Not to mention that diversity is a value. It is no small thing at a time when the school is urged to report illegal immigrants, children of those who have no residence permit, which are what the school most in need.
yet. Yet I can not shake an uneasy feeling: such a disaster involves a merciless portrait of the teachers, because basically they are engaged in teaching apodictic, as control, judge, evaluate, impart tasks.
addition, the reading of this text becomes part of a "re-education campaign in schools teaching" entitled "Primum non nocere." Here, the school that still hurt. The teacher who harms. Where did I hear?
The risk is to contribute to the rhetoric of "shambles" which I think does not need more supporters. Indeed, the school produces untold damage? Really only distributes massive doses of motivation? Really just a place of discomfort and inadequacy?
I believe that the framework of parody, belongs to the disease rather than the physiological state of the Italian school, which is also space of dialogue and, often based on what Joseph Lombardo Radice called "positive contagion," the exchange between those who teach and learners, the only antidote to fear and school sanctions. Despite the cut in hours, funds, laboratories, copresences.
The real failure is to lose guys on the street, whatever nationality they belong. A
to Flaiano "Everything that I do not know I learned in school," I prefer a quote from Victor Hugo: "If you close a school, an open prison"

(*) Maurizio Parodi, Pontremoli of birth (1956 ) and earlier studies is the head teacher assigned Regional Institute for Educational Research in Liguria.
(by Annacarla)

Minocin More Drug_side_effects

la finestra Rossa , foto Giorgio Vianini

"...You came on your own
That's how you'll leave
With hope in your hands
And air to breathe

You lose everything
By the end
Still my broken limbs
You find time to mend

More and more people
I know are getting ill
Pull something good from
The ashes now be still..."
da: An end as a start ,Editors 2007

Qualcuno ha scritto una o più volte.
- e forse è servito a poco. O forse è servito a molto. Forse lo ha fatto per ripararsi dalla pioggia sotto un largo ombrello. O forse senza rendersi conto che così facendo si sarebbe bagnato ancora di più.

Qualcuno ha scritto troppo e troppe volte.
- Chi molto parla, spesso falla. Chi troppo parla, a pochi da consiglio.

Qualcuno ha deciso di ignorarli.
- perchè con Quelli Lì sono in guerra. Anche se gli avversari sarebbero Quelli Là. In molti non capiscono, ma loro adesso sono soddisfatti. Perchè la partecipazione spaventa. Meglio essere in pochi, i soliti di sempre, ad offrire la solita minestra riscaldata, prendere o lasciare.

Some merely read.
- Perhaps only in the vicinity of municipal elections. To see who is white and who's not. Or maybe steadily, quietly enjoying the space and getting an idea of \u200b\u200bcomparison.

Someone has never wanted to know.
- Why participate scares. And it costs. Who said "Who truly lives can not be a national" do not fare so well. Better not to expose themselves. After maybe the time will come, as he always the one in which "some whine piteously, others swear obscenely." But for now, Who will mind their own bell a hundred years, is not it?

Another shop has shot down the damper not to reopen it again. Rust stains closed. Too bad. A common area in less. Another. Looking at other shutters that rise every morning with increasing difficulty.
(by Ottavio)