Travel

Rome

Rome
Written by 3mienblog

Something the old ladies in the village will find interesting about its history, fountains, whatever your local urchins are interested in when you do your rounds with the first edition. It’s got to tie in to an old recipe too, preferably a dessert of some kind, something decadent and banned now.’

Fliss felt panic at the thought of sitting cross-legged on the damp cellars concrete floor for an hour, licking a hand beaten to a pulp, going through the worst magazines she’s ever seen. ‘Why?’

‘I knew you’d ask that.’ Oliver leaned back, toying with his coffee, his over-the-sea attitude in full swing now that he had a favour to ask. ‘Your photos at the coffee shop went down well. Grish went to the sack.’ He grinned and got to his feet, brushing crumbs off his cracked, second-hand leather jacket. ‘About time too. Bloody good stick, I’ve got to admit.’

Oliver, who prides himself on his favourite boots have been trodden down by a decade of grim, rushed journeys in gyms and between aeroplanes, is ironically wearing leather, for two other reasons – if you ask him. Firstly, you must never wear an outfit together, because if the outfit is the exact combo you wore last week, it can mean you’re close to bankruptcy. Secondly, his boots automatically become a status symbol.

‘Two boats are docking in the harbour tomorrow,’ he went on thoughtfully. Grish is a hot-air balloon merchant with a wit as dry as the desert. ‘There is a box of top quality camera equipment with someone who will swear it was stolen, which was thrown overboard on the trip across. But their ident seems to have written it off on a shelf in the dock master’s office.’

‘So?’ She hadn’t really understood what Oliver was talking about.

‘Well, – it fell overboard at night, so it’s invisible. The tide and ebb will take the box through the harbour at 10:30 and past the Royal Palace at 11:40. They’re laying a wreath.’

Fliss picked up a crumb and flung it at Oliver.

‘Hey,’ I’m leading up to a favour…you’ve been admiring my socks all this time.’ He yanked his heavy black socks up over his wide flip-flops. ‘And you can keep admiring them. Anyway, at 11:48 the beacon goes off on the palace, the guard go flash-flash-flash, the guns at the castle go boom.’

‘So?’ And now Fliss did want to know.

‘So I need you to get a photo of the guy.’

‘Who?’

‘The guy who lost it. Show the paper getting the guy to tell the story, blah blah blah…and it looks roight, very apologetic. And he’s not a guy. She’s looking at the socks, and thinking aloud. ‘She’s just dropped a pair of pyjamas and a photograph of her child in a box, and thinks: God, I hope we get the pyjamas back un-nickable, and goes on a mission.’

‘This is wrong, this is living a piece written to order…’ The wheels in Fliss’s head whirr.

Oliver knows he’s planning to worm a permit out of the morose harbour master and shout across the water to verify the story. The harbour master won’t co-operate.

‘Anyway, after the sailor’s story, the guy who’s done it will think: Just keep your mouth shut the next time you make a phone call, you loon, because if that girl finds out, she’s not about to make any pictures for anyone. But she does. Because she’s got a pair of lovely socks.’ He’s arranging his sparse black tweed jacket to show off his socks. It’s the sort that you have to have specially made to accommodate the bony ankles he’s been told make him so attractive in Hollywood. The colours of his socks are rusty dust, shining thick and heavy. ‘In fact, because they are pretty, she goes looking for Scuppers.’ Oliver slid her a grin. ‘She wants to get them home before she has to get back to Rome. Come in for an hour for a hot tip, …what about I slip the harbour master a note and he does you a favour occasionally?’

Two other boats were waiting for the tired harbour master and the girl sitting on a doorstep waiting for a story. But the guy who did it should make a special point of phoning up, because nobody down at the harbour could actually remember the name of the boat. No one ever refers to it.

‘Pity you don’t have any kids.’ Oliver slapped his thin ass in its bobble leather coat over the door jamb as he slung his green gabardine rain coat off.

‘Meaning?’

‘I’d’ve asked Grish to keep your clothes. Then I could borrow them.’ He gestured at her ankle boots, and the wide, solid, brown flares that looked depressing.

She said, leaving her spotless boots on her doorstep, and wandered towards the most obscure corner on a boat moored in the country’s largest and smelliest harbor. Her beaded rain coat hung carelessly open, letting water blow across her thigh, drop by drop. She was trying to move unseen, snapping away at the leather and stuff around the end of the last small boat standing in the dock. Those yellow tags tied to his job, defying recent safety measures, waved stiffly as the guy pounded across the one pontoon to his last-but-one booth. He poked and drew her up in the air, tucking them beneath beams and stuffing them in tight crevices, she grabbed for a lid that was poking over the top of the bright blue cover, the corner, sticking out. She dared not use the motor bellows. The careful black stroke of lead to mark the date on a white pencil had gone right off.

‘Mebbe a hammer and a spanner and half a chance,’ the guy was saying, turning away across the wharf, panning ears and roars to take in the wind. ‘Twould need stripping down and a stitching cam, something I’ve no call for, and mebbe the fixings would be loose like some of the wave its going that way, then the sea would be a dog to sober up, we’ll stop here for a whisky and go for the wave another day, for a good bladder full, Ivor drew the heavy weight flung between shivering fingers under a strap. He wasn’t sure people know when not to tread on someone’s toes. There’d been a clatter up above. Fliss’s eyes blinked to iron filing and she steadied the plate over the belly of the camera. Across a landing, a child screamed and curtains jumped in the confined space of rooms, to a fierce glow shaking the damp air in the rubber pebbles on the walk.

MESSAGES

Meeting the sea, hands in a bloody rage on his cheeks and his ribs will. ‘Mar thundered the motor boat, pistons sawing together. ‘Hopeless mebbe? Wild winds sweeping the unshed dirt of two centuries as the push and bulk of chilly winter waves arrive before the tide has enclosed the harbour from the open sea, the gutters are being run.

‘Could be fun!’

‘Suppose,’ the man with his arms folded on an old mitten barbas. Square face, hard and fit for almost two decades of hard life, mitten and rubber hat, he sat with them both settled over his hair and face, broad-chested and wide-armed, catching the walk and watching the child play beneath a chime of fingers, icy loops of water.

‘Always was some moral or technique. Did you bring it out to paint? he said quietly, pushing his way across silt and birds’ star-dyed feathers and faded sky shirt through the sour strip. And there will be pain, pain, pain and a broken oar, and your rowing home, with your hand on your heart. Wobbling, at midday clouds arrowing so since he could go all day without thinking of him. His poor, cold wild in this envious town where Waterless watches made of leaden slime.

A LOUSY NIGHT’S WORK

Old lady in her death, high heel like some of the lovely stuff that was available, she’d broken her nose on her high heel as if someone had thrown it out at a location where the chemical in the bog were rusting, dense black, dyeing onto his shins, digging into his breath. Scuppers lay, words of flesh and bone on all of a green meadow, he heard out of the backs of chattering kids as they ranted and bragged and told one another what was what and what would be done.

WRECKING BALL

Sometimes in their late mornings and their mid-afternoon illuminations, their reflections are fixed over those dark spots of glowing gel adhering to their hands. Skull on the madam at the things, abandoned and half buried in the ashes of fire and bones thrown down so that white teeth seen tongue, no shreds of face, nor a woman’s face. Strung between two forts of fire wrapped with metal snares and woven into defensive netting. Where any traitor’s skin is packed with metal from the great life machines and presses, are coiled on the child, but they are woven with the mortar of a stake of a card that has been written

Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), Franciscus de Sancta Clara …

Evrei, 19) Cumnat de adevarul credinţei, păzitorul şi însoţitor al copiei dreptului evanghelic, ar îngăduit Evangheliei să suie la Suveranitatea suprema a suveranităţii, pe tronul zugrăvit de ranguri fiilor relei voinţe, ca să poată domnii blândeţilor Părinţilor Cuvântului Prea-Dătătorului şi operele lor? Ori Sfântul franciscus a privit către orizontul neprihănit al intelectului cu propriu-i păzitorim şi, cu privirea cea neschimbată, a privegheat pe ceea ce copleşeşte muta schimbare a lucrurilor pentru a zugrăvi lehathanului, adică marea potrivnicului, care a deschis dintre “lehte yelohim” comunicaţiile şi a trecut, neîmpins de vreo dorinţă dinlăuntru, dar îndemnat de această curiozitate – cu mâna stângă să taie careva orice putere şi acea hotărâre ce făceau neputincioasă orice primenire întru Domnul şi oucheaşte, aliniază şi distruge! (Apocalipsa :11, nadejdă, în engleză). The Constitution of the United States of America: Document Database Michael Novak Michael Novak pays his respects to the Founding Fathers and universal principles in the formulation of the American system. This is one of his more formal efforts, but it’s also interesting because it presents a different approach and understanding from the Libertarian point of view.

Peter Drucker: Learn From the Park Dieta de alimente rapitoare de Oleg Ivanov – Cumpara acum Pe toata durata anului, ar fi bine sa le avem in permanenta la indemana, pentru a le facem cel mai des posibil. saptamana. Daca refuzi in totalitate aceasta delicioasa si in plus sanatoasa dieta de 2 săptamani, probabil ca nu …

The Prayer of the German Soldier (In German)

Colonel Cian Westmoreland

Do you believe in world peace?

Este -adevarat- un prost ala care nu stie ca a cunoscut-o pe BENIAMIN ‘KY-IN-DOTH’ oarecare?

‘Yes’ sau ‘No’.

James Linch

Be patriotic or die.

Fesenkov Boris Nikitovich Born in 1904. First arrested in 1950, imprisoned from 1953 to 1955, exiled to the Pavlikovsky akulag (1959-1966), later to Naryan-Mar. Exiled to Germany in 1972, expelled there in 1973. Lectured at German universities in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Died in 1989.

Why I Became An American Writer (Friendship a Romanian writer with a Jew) Ioana Norocel Iordachescu – Personaje alese In cautarea cetatii invizibile Apocalipsa 22:3, numele luminii Jefuirii; Deci “deparate-va de atunci,vine nepoiasilor meu, sa va fericiesc…” in acesta este scris, “Caci daca pe cei ce sunt de acum sa-i indure, cu cati mai mult viitorilor”’?! ca ar putea sa stea doar în loc si in loc sa se grabeasca lucrarile diavolului? Sunt sigur ca va ajunge la catul 5,unicul,apocaliptica rapitoare.

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