Informative Speech Motorcycle Safety

Across: Leo, live, sleep

Wednesday, December 15
CROSSING A BRIDGE

Always write down the days for the first time crossed a bridge, any bridge. Which opens today, newborn, has a special value for me. He raises his strange handwriting on the stage of my adolescence: stop in the middle of would, as a springboard for suicide trembling, I can watch the whole street was ("Jovellanos, 3" was his direction and so I called a poem) that for so many years was my true home and my country is the Public Library Avilés, and the pristine whiteness of the Niemeyer Center on a background of cranes, smokestacks and scattered remains of the old Ensidesa ... With so many comings and goings between yesterday and today, this new bridge I leave to another bridge.
is truly and steel and is only a symbol of that other bridge that I cross every day, "his fragile frame insecure moments / To see the water, deep, silent, waiting."



Thursday, December 16 POOR DEVILS


There are nights when one accepts any company, albeit of the devil. I leaned as he could in the bar when I was approached to invite me to another drink. Iban to close, we were the last customers. The waiter served us very bad wins. Soon we both tumbling to the street to another casino. Farfullábamos at once, without listening, happy with the company. Occasionally we stopped to give us a hug shaky. Although my companion, red, shorter than me, bizqueante and badly dressed, looked like a poor devil was really the devil himself. Sobered suddenly, as if until then had been pretending, pulled clothes from a gun and said, "I know you want to kill, but do not dare. I'm here to help. " Supported the barrel against my chest. Me too, I suddenly became sober. We were on the streets of the Moon, opposite the school. It was about four or five in the morning. Not a soul in the street, except that mine and heartless. "Hey," I said, I do not want to die yet. Points to another party. " With one hand pointed at me and the other fumbled through my pockets. I took his wallet, phone, keys. "In hell you will not need any of this." A lone figure appeared then at the top of the street. Tall, lanky, dressed in black, had a vague resemblance to Jean Cocteau. I seem to recognize. "Do not flatter yourself," said the robber, "is another devil." Luis Cruz-I thought it was him, came to our side to walk haltingly, without seeing, or pretending not to see us. My companion kept the gun, he handed me my things, and went after him. "It was a joke," he shouted and laughed. "But when you want to sell your soul to the devil, remember me." I also follow philharmonic my friend (if it was him). Anywhere, even hell, it seemed preferable to my house. But back to my house and my life. "Tomorrow I will not remember anything," she thought as she tried to put the key in the lock. I fell on the bed as if I had taken a blow. I woke up fully clothed and bad taste in mouth and remembering everything.



Saturday, December 18
'M JUST SO

I can figure out what I'm relying on others, I've won in the same way is incalculable.

Everyone of my life appeared in my dreams before in my life.

I can look to the ground from the highest tower, without fear or trembling, but I feel dizzy if I look up at the starry night sky.

When asked by one of my books always say the same thing: "I do not know what to say. I wrote, but I have not read. " Nothing

I like to look through the world from different eyes of mine.

Those poets were all so unusual that there was no way to distinguish them from each other.

annoys me that I give the prizes that I would refuse.

enemies of man are threefold: past, present and future.

Smart and little read, was like an underfed dog breed.

Sometimes happiness too uncomfortable as a suit too big.

"Your logic is always overwhelming, 'says a friend, and that you are alone: \u200b\u200bno one likes to be crushed."



Tuesday, December 21 CUSTOMS RECOVERED


too bad is something good. For reasons of force majeure, in recent months all my habits have been altered. What a feeling of happiness when I chance to retrieve some. Going through the Library of Campillín, for example, and then sit on the Rosal to browse the findings. My
Favorite bookseller told me he did not like too much to tell about my stay in Rome, but gives me a book with the continuation of that story: Rome Revolution and the English expedition to Italy in 1849 . He wrote Lt. Gen. Fernando Fernández de Córdova, Marquis de Mendigorría, who was in command of the English troops. They arrived in nine vessels, including one frigate was a beautiful name: Mozart. On landing at Gaeta, was immediately presented to Cardinal Antonelli. Which character: "She wore, with supreme elegance, purple robe with lace trimmings and delicious Flanders. Carried in the chest and in the ring large, pure diamond, and a colorful head cap Cardinals, whose bright color brought out the black hair and deep eyes of a pupil that reflected the depth of thought. Still young, slim, slender figure and pleasant, spoke French with purity greater expression giving the action of the arms and the same motion of hands, hugging her knees crossed with the elegance of the most aristocratic salons. " Those were the days of the Pope-King, so admirably reflected by Valle-Inclán in Spring Sonata . As novices seductive, Antonelli could have been a good rival the Marquis de Bradomin. But he preferred to seduce Overall, bankers and politicians of various conditions.


many exact details in this chronicle of an adventure that happened to Narváez "one afternoon, walking through the deserted alleys of the Buen Retiro" and in the English-to let the French do not intervene in the crushing of the Roman republic, did nothing to follow Garibaldi in his move from one place to another until he embarked for America.


Wednesday, December 22
A Modest Proposal

I give my approval to the Baroque walkway that connects the historic center of Avilés with the voluptuous curves of Niemeyer, but not what they did with the old building of the Plaza del Pescado, on whose roof, as fallen from heaven, has landed the bridge.
I have painted all white, hiding the old doors, moldings and windows. Customers say they designed the bridge and the white anticipates Niemeyer, who will serve as a place of acceptance. Fortunately, the architect, its 103 years, is cured of ghosts because if not bring her hands to her head to see who intend to compare their crisp, caressing curves with a whitewashed mansion, and just because both are white.
"No reasons have attended," I said Ramon Rodriguez that is who else should the new image-Aviles, "including propellers have been removed to Saint-Nazaire not to damage the image you have stripped the place."


"I guess that aspect of whitewashed shed is temporary," I said to Roman, the councilman of Culture. "Just missing the goal architect in the house and tell the owners how to paint the rooms. Here are the avilesino owners and they must decide whether the building is left behind as they have to treat and mistreat, returns to its original appearance (in keeping with other buildings of the square), or is subjected a colorful and bold intervention that rhymes with the bridge of San Sebastian, a splendid rainbow of new Avilés. You only have to prepare computer graphics the other two possibilities, show them to the public, and citizens to vote. They can do over January and March, when it opens the Niemeyer, and the plinth of the rarest in the world would bridge as it should be. "



Friday, December 24
a Christmas present I've never known

distinguish between literature and life, between reality and dreams. I think I've told the story, but not behind it. An editor friend gave me the first book of a young poet. I flipped through and did not interest me much. Then the author appeared at the gathering and how little I talked to him all I remember is that I repeated my usual joke: do not write, you're calling. They spent a few weeks. Thought no more about the subject. And one night I had a dream. Some women were washing clothes in the river (as did the women in my village when I was a kid) and suddenly comes floating on the water a basket in which a baby cries. The younger woman picked him up, then I offered it to me. I left him on the floor and ran to the nearby forest, the baby had become a teenager. When I woke up I wrote sleep (since I always do, at fourteen or fifteen years, I read Freud) and that morning it occurred to me to ask José Ángel Gayol the direction of the young poet to tell you your book.
Since then I have talked a lot with Cristian, I've been slowly finding out its history and the Christian community which has grown, the people of God. He also, like Moses, was abandoned as a child, too, like Moses, he felt called to great things. He tells me stories of his childhood, and all of them are ancient and biblical flavor.
on Monday presented his first book, that I disdained and now see it as something more than a book: as part a story that writes straight with crooked lines. And I never know if I read, live or sleep.

Where Can I Donate My Mother's Hospital Bed

Across: Anonymous, discreet, provincial

Thursday, December 9
CUSTOM

do not get to a city, came out of habit. I descend the stairs of the Golden Mount, crossed the Piazza San Cosimato, with its huge tree that protects it from any misfortune and market stalls, ghost and alone at this hour of the night. To Santa Maria in Trastevere guide me the sound of the fountain on the terrace of the Caffè di Marzio a solitary drink and smoke, oblivious to the cold. I let my feet lead, with closed eyes could follow this route. A street with Christmas lights (and a magic shop that only sold hourglasses, "Il Tempo polvere) leaves me in the Piazza Trilussa, facing the Ponte Sisto. I crossed, I pause a moment to contemplate the Via Julia, I cross Piazza Farnese (in a corner, the cafe where I waited so many times who did not arrive, but arrive). Then Campo dei Fiori, with its dark and suffering Giordano Bruno.


Yes, with my eyes closed I can follow this path. To my left, St. Louis of the French and the wonder of Caravaggios, then the square of the Pantheon, with the front half hidden. In the eighteenth century Piazza San Ignacio to silence sounds like Mozart. Just so people at the Trevi Trevi, had rarely been able to admire so lonely. I climb up the hill from the Quirinale. Here are the Dioscuri, holding the bridle of the prancing horses. A long street, the San Andrés de San Carlos Bernini and Borromini's competing at both ends. I have days when I am inclined to the lavish baroque, all pomp and glitter, and other tortured by the geometry: in bad times always look for the cloister of San Carlino, it fits in the palm of a hand.

Via delle Quatro Fontane
, next to the gate storied palazzo Barberini, the other a small hotel I ever stayed (near the attack occurred that caused the mass killing of Ardeatine). The stairs to the plaza of Spain alone at this hour of the night. Via Lone Margutta also leads me to Piazza del Popolo and a night of twenty years ago ... A city is not a city, is a habit. Rome to me is a journey, always the same, on a winter night that never ends. A trip back in time to a time when I do not know if I was infinitely infinitely unhappy or miserable. I know that then, for the first time, I was alive. And since then I have the impression that only survive.



Friday, December 10
CRIME

wake me at seven bells of the church. Begins to dawn. Remember Alberti's verses: "The bells of Trastevere / van and come for my dreams." The garden of the Academy, little by little the sky is blue becoming the most intense between the Arcadian birds chirping early risers. Outside, a cold wind blows. I first walk around, alone with my ghosts. A plaque notes that the church of San Pietro in Montorio was one of the last pockets of resistance in the short-lived republic of 1849, it had its headquarters Garibaldi.


In November 1848, when the liberal revolutions shook Europe (48 storms Galdós titled one of its episodes), Count Rossi was strong man of the pontifical government: Minister of Interior, Minister of Police, Acting Minister of Finance and general commander of the police. Pius IX, who had begun his reign with liberal reforms, asks reconduzca the situation spiraling out of control. On day 15 of this month go to the palace of the Foreign Ministry to explain his agenda. Most MPs plan to vote against it, he hopes to convince. The revolutionary clubs waving the situation, calling the murder of the tyrant. Rossi had brought to Rome all police detachments that were in the Papal States. The previous afternoon reviewed. Was satisfied and sure to suppress any uprising. The police marched through the Via del Corso, in the midst of the surprised looks of the agitators, who did not have this unexpected obstacle. The next day, on every corner and the doors of churches and cafes in a form called on all good citizens to focus on the square of the Chancellery. Count Rossi
back to see the pope, alone in his car, accompanied by Deputy Finance Minister. Arriving at the plaza was greeted by shouts and whistles from the crowd that filled. Did whip the horses and the carriage went at a gallop in the portico of the palace. To either side of the staircase had also people. Rossi, serene, gets out of the car. Suddenly, someone struck him with a stick. When you return, you throw a stab to the neck that severs the left carotid artery. Blood floods the floor, walls and splashes his face and clothes of the bystanders. The minister drops dead instantly. Continued outside the whistles and screams. A tall man, long beard, comes to the door and shouted: "Tutto è fatto!". In his words the sudden silence happens. The soldiers had left their jobs there. The murderers were slowly away from the crowd. Some cry out: "Hanno fatto bene!". Inside the House was known at the time the news, it was business as usual had happened: they read the minutes of the previous meeting, the roll was called and as there were not enough deputies adjourned. The English ambassador, Francisco Martinez de la Rosa, ran immediately to the Quirinal to offer comfort to the Pope and the help of their government. At dusk, members of the Popular Circle, which was the one who organized the murder, leaving preceded by a tricolor flag, with lighted torches, shouting. They go to the police headquarters to thank them for not having fire on the murderers. Iban shouting: "Long live freedom! Blessed be the hand that killed Rossi! Viva the dagger of the new Brute! ".
- I I saw this group, which would barely a hundred people, walking the quiet streets of the capital of the world, go to the barracks, where he was received with great acclaim by the troops, and again followed by numerous soldiers, has Fabraquer Count, eyewitness to these events.
Cannons that ended French revolution started with the cowardly knife. The Gianicolo is full of memories of those days and bloody excited.
Rome is to me a habit and an endless library illustrated.



Saturday, December 11 LEAK


In one of the book stalls of Piazza I bought the Exedra, I do not know how many years ago, a curious book, which is then lost and that one of those rare coincidences that sometimes occur reappeared after looking for something to read during the trip. It's called Rome Revolution and wrote the Earl of Fabraquer, José Muñoz Maldonado, Member of Parliament. The caption says: "History of the temporal power of Pius IX, from his accession until his flight from Rome, and the convening of the National Assembly on December 30, 1848." It was published the following year, when it would be history was just journalism. While
walk the halls of the Quirinale Palace, I think that Pope flight lost twice its temporal power.


After the assassination of Count Rossi, the father locked himself in the Quirinal, disregarding the demands of the rebels. He fled the night of 24. Fabraquer was not there, but has first-hand: "The French ambassador arrived at the evening gala with his car, and asked to see the pope. Was added to the pontifical office, whose door was closed immediately. All conference believed the pope to the French ambassador, while the pope, changing clothing, dresses as a peasant, covering his head with a round hat with wide brim, and exits through a narrow corridor with a candle in his hand. A few moments later Ambassador of France, who was looking forward to the success of the plan, heard footsteps in the hall and thinks that the escape attempt was discovered and brought to the pope prisoner. But Pius IX had returned to her chamber, not because he had found no obstacle, but because he had forgotten his snuff. Soothe the ambassador, and this is still some time left in the cabinet, simulating a large audience. Lower then a secret staircase leading into the room by your butler. At the front door, for three nights a car sent by the French ambassador was stationed for about an hour or two and then taking away a person either, so get used to stop spies a car at that site, and if suspected to see that nothing discovery. The pope left without attention. Half an hour after leaving the ambassador, had left Rome. In one of the stops on the chaise in which he traveled, he met a squad of police. The sergeant who commanded them greeted him without recognizing him, and said: "Later you travel, father, but good weather, the road is safe, and you have nothing to fear until Terracina. Bon voyage! ". Pius IX greeted him with the greatest coolness. Martínez de la Rosa, whom the press accused of inspiring Roman drain, waiting at Civita-Vecchia the arrival of the steamer Lepanto, which was move the Pope to Spain, but bad weather caused the ship is delayed and the pope sought refuge in the kingdom of Naples.


Sunday, December 12
LIFE

No corner of this city that does not tell me a story. Walk through the Gianicolo, the city stretched out and offered to my feet, feeling lord of the universe, and suddenly I get a cold wind, a sudden blow, screaming and kicking. Yes, these domes and galleries are the Regina Coeli prison, where in 1943 locked up the Jews, where he died Leo Ginzburg. "That night-Natalia-account was in the infirmary. He had been beaten and had once again broken jaw. Asked the nurse to call the doctor, but she just give him some coffee. When he died, there was nobody with him. Sweeper was found dead at dawn. "


often think of the insignificance of my life, gray, routine, no big or small passions (except for wholly imaginary), with nothing to tell. I was born in a small town and then I lived in Aviles and Oviedo. In forty years only once I moved house and no work. I had neck partner. A writer with this biography, the life experience, I never would bother me of reading.
But how many lives fit into a life, any life.
I'm everything I know, everything I've dreamed of, everything that has shocked me. With Count Rossi have fallen into the treacherous dagger, in the silence of the city, I returned to find the snuff I had forgotten, though he risked my freedom and those who helped me on the run, and broke my heart and jaw Nazi boots in Regina Coeli prison.
seems that in my life nothing happened, but for me it has happened and happens the whole world history.

96.5 Temperature Body

the other side: Looks like I'm just

Friday, December 3
VI BLACK EYES

I'm very realistic, but I think the reality has cracks through which one can slip into another reality. Last night, tired of not sleeping, near and in the morning, I went for a walk. Walking at a rapid pace, to ward off cold, the park of San Julián de los Prados, which is next to my house when I was struck a light in the grass near one of the benches, as if someone had left a flashlight on the floor. It was a kind of trap door open by descending a ladder into a brightly lit interior. I did not think twice and began to descend. The spiral staircase and round spinning around itself. Seemed endless, as if stretching out as I descended. When it was decided to withdraw and start the arduous climb, before me appeared a garden. Not an underground garden: on our laurels and orange trees opened the bluest sky I've ever seen. In a bank very similar to the one above, where the ladder began, I found an open book and turned upside down, as if any readers have had to hurriedly leave it there. It was a volume in the Southern that I knew very well: arabigoandaluces Poems translated by Emilio Garcia Gomez. I sat down and started to reread those verses that, in many cases, I almost knew by heart: "When the day was dying away the night full of youth. " Then, do not know why, I remembered the end of a sonnet by Borges: "I also think that partner / I expected and maybe I expected."


He was good there. "Why do to be happy / you must not know?" Asked Pessoa. I've learned to be aware of the happiness in the present. I was happy in that garden so close to my house, in another world. I closed my eyes for a moment and, when opened, had my hand an elderly woman who had approached me without my noticing. He wore black skirts, white cap, like old stories, and his face I was vaguely familiar. "Would you please return my book?" He said. "It's my grandson, who is always reading. End insane, like Don Quixote. " "I have not finished crazy, grandma," I reply. He walked away with the book in their hands, smiling, and I followed in the midst of a strange silence could not be heard or the chirping of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the water in the marble source was in the middle of a roundabout. I do not know how I lost sight of. She and garden. I was in a dimly lit basement, in a corner, a wet staircase led up lost in the dark. I went for it, wearily, seemed that there was never finished. A memory came a note from Marilyn Monroe in his secret notebooks: "When all I want is to die." I lifted the hatch. He had begun to dawn. The skyline, with the tower of the cathedral at the top, was outlined in a milky sky. A dog started barking early riser. At the end of the string that held it was a soothing smile and very black eyes. Manuel Machado remembered: "Black eyes saw and from then the world / all black for me." "Too early to walk without a dog," he said. And I thought: "Too late for you to see for the first time." Leaving the dog at home and went to mine. I told him where he came from. He looked at me smiling, showing no surprise. "Nor do I know if you're for real or not," he said. Since then nothing in the world is black to me.


Saturday, December 4
BUT NEVER SAY

Among the phrases that I repeat always, are a few verses of Rafael Montesinos "I'm dying because I want / But I'll never tell." To me, however, I want matters little to me, I'm content with that, who I love, is left wanting.


Sunday, December 5
GOOD DISCIPLE

agree on the Sunday coffee and Fontan Cristian López-Vega. Martin, while handing me the last book of the editorial handling, broken glass, and I talk about its many multilingual projects, take the opportunity to disagree with everything I say. Cristian, however, listen to me as if I were the literature in person.
"Have you read your paper today," he says. I see you follow the same formula: first consider what someone tells you you're on the train or in the library of Avilés, then quotes a few paragraphs of the book you are reading and later leveraged to mess with a friend or the Gamoneda shift. Thus any written ten books a year! How the Renaissance anthology includes new poems? Although I fear not differ much from previous ones. Are not you tired and formulilla of dramatic monologue? ".
"Ten years ago, Martín López-Vega was like you, hopefully within ten years and it's you," I say then when we walk by Cristian Campillín. "I think that Lopez-Vega spoke in jest when he gets you," he says. "A little joke and something serious. When you return to the gathering always gives the impression that you want to be caliph instead of the caliph and, as it fails, we look a little over his shoulder. But I do not think bad of me to leave the case and is dedicated to rave on their own. Quite the contrary. Bad teacher who does not strive to get beyond his students. Of course I practice the double game: I do everything possible to get to where I am, but when they get there I try to stay one step further. Nor should we put it too easy. "


Monday, December 6 DEVOTIONS


Among the books in an editorial yesterday I went López-Vega is one of Clara Janes advertising, as a major complaint, including letters from Antonio Gamoneda. She indicated these poems are "the most irrational I've written." And the illustrious poet takes away his lucid theoretical vein: "Without full stop, urgently, I ask that you do not ever use the word 'irrational', awkwardly wedged in his day, Bousoño, I think. The antinomy 'rational-irrational' is strictly zoological. Another thing is the 'madness' that can be human and even divine. "
so lucky Gamoneda the good that only irrational behavior has been detected in the animal kingdom, not between politicians or between lovers, even between drivers in a traffic jam or a discussion of traffic. The
Hidden Variables poems "says Clara Janes" are the type of text "I do to calm myself when I can not write and tell me: is for me, so whatever happens. Then, as now, there is someone who asks you a book. " Fortunately, that someone was not Martín López-Vega, but Jeannette L. Clariond (owner of the publishing house that he does not run at all, unfortunately), who once said, "I want to make you a special book, as he did with Juan Carlos Mestre Gamoneda." And here's that special book, "From the beloved friend and froze at night and the whiteness was not to appear" (end quote and the poem.)
Clara Janes To me I like best is the least cottony. The Paths of Romania , for example, recounts a trip mixing verse prose, in the manner of Basho and Trails Oku. The trouble is that this trip was funded by Ceausescu and not get lost in the sheer lyricism says in the introductory note that he used the reports "objective and scientific" that Romanian institutions gave him. Even recounts an encounter with the great leader, wonderful in its simplicity, and expressed his amazement at the Romanian Humanist "and the ease with which one lives in the country and is well suited to the peculiar idiosyncrasies of the people."
But there is nothing to reproach to the poet, neither is the only one who admired Ceausescu nor the only one cops to Gamoneda. Since I read your Romania Trails I have been in memory Zaharia Stancu verses: "In me a star wound on with sadness / and the sorrel neighs from the dark night."



Tuesday, December 7 DATING


What reason is my friend López-Vega. Story always the same, always repeat the same dates. When things go wrong, some poems of Vincent Gaos: "Life is hard / and there is no consolation. / Take the handkerchief / literature. " And when I repent of being alone, Ibsen, "The strongest man is the one most alone." O Gaston Baquer: "It seems I'm alone, but I carry a world of ghosts."



Wednesday, December 8
STATION IN

Before seeing for the first time he had often dreamed of you. I always happens. Nothing ever happens in my life, nothing worth living, who has not lived first in dreams.
Getting off the train at that station which had never been, I was filled with a strange peace, even though I've never liked unknown places and that I never do anything for the first time, if I can help.
No one had come to meet me, despite what I had been announced. The few travelers who came down there, which had not been one to wait, disappeared quickly (one of them looked at me again). I went to the bar, ask for the phone to call a taxi. But it was closed. As there was nobody to ask, I walked down a street of low houses looked like the decor of some old movie. Doors and windows were closed, no one stepped on the sidewalks. No need to ask, I found the hotel I had reserved room. To be the only hotel, or only a certain category. It was near the station and its facade was chipped caryatids and other signs of fanciful architecture of the early twentieth century. I said my name at the reception. Indeed, had booked room and hall of Doric columns and ornate lamps were some gentlemen waiting for me. I went over to say hello, surprised to find them there and not at the station. But there had been some misunderstanding. They thought it would come by car. Years ago the trains did not stop in that town that had seen better times. The station was closed. "Well I was not the only one who got out." Smiled. "Things poet "must have thought.
morning I read my poems, I sparse crowd applauded politely, and after a boring dinner, I went to sleep. "I should not have accepted the invitation," he said. I soon fell asleep. When I awoke, I realized I was not alone. I do not know how I guessed that he would never be alone, very lonely he was.