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I apologize to those who pass by here, has had the 'hideous surprise of going to watch the latest comments published my post (which I cmq proceeded to take off immediately, because I could not remove the comment which I will talk later) ... In short, guys, be aware that a Japanese user has seen fit to put in my memory as a comment for the day of remembrance of the porn links, taking advantage of the fact that I had not done so to bring moderation to comments, which I immediately done ... a kiss to all, and you are alert ... =^-^=

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The world is beautiful because various

So does the man who eventually disappears (cited Raymond Queneau)

I think it's important to talk about biodiversity, even for this sometimes point out new discoveries in world of fishing, because I think it represents the soul of the earth, its future and its evolution (making short, very short, short).

Thunnus thynnus (Linnaeus, 1758) - source readersdigest.com

I think it's only right, therefore, indicate an interesting relationship of ' European Environment Agency, where we deal with the increasingly urgent problem of biodersività or Biodiversity - 10 for 2010 messages . Specifically, it examined the situation of the European ecosystems and changes, causes and effects. The report is divided into 10 points, four of which are already public, while others will be on web soon. Linked to the question of the blog is the Message 3, freshwater ecosystem, but recommend reading the entire report and future messages.

is always drawn by 'EEA and signposted on the seas and a publication on the causes impoverishment of the fish to them. The full report can be found here . The
2010 is still a year of reflection, more or less credible by the institutions on this issue, it is interesting in this regard the relation of ' European Commission on fisheries, established at the end last year, which is quoted at the end of the relationship of ' EEA (but in the Italian version is a bit' hidden), I refer you to link .

Finally, just as I write, is the annual online EEA Signals , entitled Biodiversity, climate change and you , I have yet to read of course, would be interesting to comment on it together.

Painter Barbara Weber

The tightrope size fingers

Today I thought that at times there is more love in letting go that in wanting to retain at all costs. I write sometimes because you can let go of even indifference, and there's love, there is very little.

You try to see a strange feeling to go away knowing that a person is the right thing in spite of the suffering endured by turning away from her is infinite.

I am reminded of the parent-child relationship, for example ...

I am reminded of Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)

Your children are not your children.

are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They do not come from you, but through you,

And though they are with you do not belong there.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you can not visit, not even in dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward, and does not waste time with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are launched.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let the hand be striving with joy;

Because if he loves the arrow that flies, also loves the bow that is balance.

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The love between the ugly people

Until the last second that this life will give me think that poets are the only ones who are allowed to talk about love and lovers are not alone in never having to try. So since I'm not one of the first but, alas, not even among the latter, I try to do love to defile the value of beauty.

If there is something that shuns the love for this definition is the aesthetic form. But I think a mistake has been committed over the centuries, or at least a suggestion came from the pen of the poets that love, strengthened by their poets, but blinded by love, have seen the high in feeling like a blind man, considering only the definition of their languid droop or their desire, despite being triggered by the aesthetic desire.

I am therefore saying that beauty is always a link in the chain of love? Not me, but at seventeen Leopardi wrote his well-cousin Gertrude Cassi Lazzari: "was nice and high, delicate face, simple and graceful manners, without affectation" . The examples are endless in the literature world. So those who say that love has no face, what can you say?

What a mind!

In our daily lives, the concept has taken a path that I would compare to a mule rather than a steep trail and sweet, because although we live in one of the greatest periods in all walks of aesthetic exaltation social, we are confronted with the dubious supernatural self-styled oracles tell us that you can even fall in love with the municipal bureau of waste, which the agency is to empty on Wednesday.

belittle the importance of beauty only serves to confuse love.

I'll never love a garbage bin even though there is someone to tell me rather than I should and could do it, but if I love him I love him present as a chest full of jewels.

So he always loves the beauty and love itself, but it is love that transforms the rules of absolute beauty, giving her subjectivity.

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meteoropathy

hate astrology and meteorology. The first because it bothers me to see people believe it. The second because he believed the time will not change. But if astrology is a pastime of waiting rooms or salons and is easily controlled in its interference, meteorology tires you everywhere, especially in summer, when the Giuliacci Galbraith and there are a bunch in the office in the house and even the gas station. If I go somewhere I do that there is rain there is sun. You also can not decide their holidays based on the forecast, as the rental office are so embedded that the trip to London you part two minutes after the last stamped card. There was one person in my life that could make me wait for the weather as if they were Christmas presents unwrapped under the tree: My grandfather.

waiting to come back from the bathroom. The door opened, leaving soapy vapors free to cross the hall to my room. It was the signal odor. Quickly escaped the grip of the soft sheet rolled up and barefoot on the tile floor, I ran toward the great room of their grandparents. The timid head stretched over the frame of blond wood to peer into the room. I found my grandfather lying supine on the left side of the huge bed of brown wood carved. He wore a T-shirt usually white sleeves and a pair of cotton shorts by very old design. No sheet covered him, but the gray and black plastic radio was resting on her stomach and already singing the jingle advertising RadioUno. My grandmother, usually asleep, it was far from his side just enough to let the little body of a child fill in the blank. Thus, the wave of the hand of the grandfather or the sound of his "hello," which began slipping on the floor and I dive in the middle of the bed. Smile, a kiss and the smell of clean cotton of his shirt, aftershave and cologne water wash and dry the skin, the sight of his face and shaved perfectly clean, the swaying the radio on his stomach with every breath.

That plastic box rallied from that moment my carelessness. Voices, silly sounds and songs that defined the rest of the day, minutes next to my grandfather acquired an immeasurable value. And I was listening to the radio and newspaper services. News and sport. Even politics. Then at the end, after the publicity, the weather forecast that begins with a ring of bells in the middle between the mysterious and happiness. And my grandfather would get up the volume. Clouds, cumulonimbus, sirocco and north-east wind, weather in the morning and afternoon and grandfather commented. I explained the reasons behind making me fly over Italy. He said the low pressure coming from the France and the Alps, perhaps we would have fixed it. He said that Africa would bring rain and sand and that the car would be dirty. He said that in Foggia in summer at the time of the bombing rose the land from roads because of high winds.

My grandfather is gone. And I hate the weather.

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we are the world for Polverini