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roots

scrvenn by students of computer scassat fuck, mall not 'in there proprj !!!!!!!!!!... ago, megghj niend d (d z'marià stoc CAS).
ops! ... After last night I can not write in dialect.
Sometimes I think you really want to bad luck not to be born more than 20 km away ... AH .... LA PUGLIA!! AS MIRAGE ...... (But these are my usual cynical thoughts and I have to agree with the presumption of the people). Sometimes I think we would really like a sociologist (or an anthropologist?) Argutissimo and shiny, I'd pay for a day and carry around with me when I land here, and I would explain in scientific language what they already know.
I know everything already, I know I should be able to distinguish memory space and real space as they once said in an interview with Sergio Rubini, I know you do not need to be attached to these roots to feel fucking place with oneself (vision, to name a random !!!!!, a Cagliari could not even conceive of any way), I know that Milan is from this village and passes 1000 km, but most do not know how many degrees of latitude, money, opportunities, history, infrastructure.
have the same thoughts that are repeated each time, the same considerations that you just you in your little head buggy and that they go to hell when you then return to earth practicality. There is the usual
people my age that seems to be content to live in these beautiful mansions and houses in a village so sad and connected to the rest of the world as if it were still 1989 to study at university of this region fucking, universities that have arisen only as a political tool, and that eventually they will give you just a shit of paper on which it will say you did the university in this region of the cock and you have no chance but no ; to spend your degree even in Bari, is the usual way of my peers to speak in dialect the whole time as if they had the fuckin 'age as my grandfather or my aunt slut whore eva, there , the usual total lack of prospects in town on Saturday and Sunday evenings, which makes you drink at least two negroni grappa or two for local, they do all sti local shit, and all are found there room by room. The same faces experienced. A modern nightlife, it seems. There is the usual way, typically southern-province, with 100,000 € to dress him, even if you are unemployed or just a bricklayer, and Andrew tells me that whenever I dress frumpy and I do not care enough. There is the usual patron saint fucking each summer arrives on time and sublimates all this shit together, with the addition of other shit that comes from "professoroni" who work or study outside but have not yet figured out what the fuck we should all be in crisis because of our poor land, no hope, no job, no shit. The usual Boccalon you are talking about the beauty of nature, unspoilt region, the wild animals and fucking that you can still find the streets at night, food, beautiful girls, enchanted landscapes and their asses virgins, who moved with her eyes watching the streets of their beautiful village hope that will never change. You make me sick as much as it sucks still see the skeletons of these buildings were never built for 20 years in the road, these transport routes from north Africa, having to be forced to go to find work in Milan, this machismo ruling that leaves my peers with the mindset that even my mother, it sucks your safety and your apparent satisfaction of all.
need to build roads, using dynamite to blow your centers of power, reduce days of festivities (instrumentum religious realms, "said the good cynical Machiavelli) kill your conservatism that makes me throw up, put on a diet, bring the state railways in this strip of land bordering the puglia, force you to speak in Italian, put a book and record store in every town instead of yet another store brand clothes, lynch your "political loaf" , who did nothing but make you so fucking short-sighted in their own image and likeness, to invest money in projects instead of seeing far-sighted, always start for the Northern people who otherwise would be unemployed for life.

The truth is that it's painful to see that nothing ever changes, and perhaps never will change, as this means that every time you return here to make you always and forever into the past. and for people like me who, with their past, we argue these dips are always painful.
The truth is that a blast from the past is fine, but make two, three, four in a row no. I want to come back to my house, reminding me of my father, looking at these landscapes lit a splendid light, eat a smoked cheese of a dairy, a sweet flower and a pizza for one, stay at home, out the first night, remind me of my father again, then go home and stay there until the day of departure to Milan. Perhaps this is the only way to enjoy the space of memory, and do not get angry because the real one is so highly polluting.