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growingpains Mar 2019
Jigsaw,
Jigsaw,
All that there ever was
Was a stone cold face with a puzzled heart.
Very random one. As you can see, I'm definitely upset 'The Punisher' got canceled on Netflix.
Much love,
Nohémie.
judy smith Mar 2016
Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
judy smith May 2016
After Aishwarya Rai Bachchan gave us some impressive red carpet outings, all eyes were on Sonam Kapoor as she made her sixth Cannes appearance in a row. And boy, she lived up to our expectations in a whimsical Ralph and Russo sari-inspired gown with half cape. Her styling was bang on with pink lips, dewy makeup and middle-parted neat tresses.

Designers give thumbs up to the actor, without a second thought. “Sonam looks spectacular. I love the dramatic outfit. I loved the fact that Sonam wore no jewellery (except for a ring) and kept her hair straight with some interesting eye makeup,” says designer Manish Malhotra.

“I love this look. It is a great example of something experimentally grand and classic at the same time. I also like the jersey in the top portion, which adds a very modern and sporty vibe to a traditional embroidered half cape sari inspired gown. There is a duality I can sense here and it has surprising familiarity in terms of a classic Balenciaga vibe,” says designer Rahul Mishra.

Designer Rina Dhaka also loves her look, but believes that subtler looks can also work the same magic . “Sonam looks gorgeous. The outfit has a lot of volume, and yet it is controlled and figure hugging. I would call her a drape crusader,” she says, adding, “However, unlike Indian actors, international actors are going for understated, simpler looks. We guys tend to take on too much embroidery, making it look theatrical. These looks are bridal by western standards. But our audiences like this.”Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne
JJ Hutton  Sep 2014
A Sequel
JJ Hutton Sep 2014
He always wanted to be one of those people, the kind that can tell a sycamore from a birch, a lily from an orchid, all without having to google it. As he finger-and-thumbs her beige blouse, he knows it isn't satin, but what the hell is it? She kisses him again, this time longer than the greeting. He thinks the name of the material starts with an R. It’s a synthetic. She ruffles the back of his hair, glides down his neck before latching to his shoulders. Of course, he’s not certain it’s a synthetic and it may start with an M. No. It’s R. R-A. Her day was good, she says. Ian was down, and Nicole was happy.  It’s the kind of fabric you hand wash in cold water. He wants to know what it’s called because everything about this moment, every loose strand of hair, the brand of her black leather boots, each elation at the corner of the mouth, and each attempt to cover up elation, must be committed to memory.

Just a few minutes earlier, she knocked a soft cadence--a cadence timeless and familiar and forever nameless, yet a cadence all her own. Not all that different from her knock nearly three years ago. She was timid then, wearing a loose, primarily red plaid shirt and black tights. Slow to drink the wine on the table. Slow to lay in the bed.

Now she takes off her blouse without pause. She wears a supportless lace bra, what he thinks of as lace, anyway. He’s not sure if that’s right. “I don’t have ***** anymore,” she says. “When you don’t have ***** you can wear these.” These? Do these have a certain name? She kisses him hard, pressing her left leg against his center. Her hair is much longer. He burrows in it. He wishes he knew the fragrance of her shampoo. It’s not coconut. Coconut he recognizes. This is subtle, like vanilla, but it’s not vanilla. He knows vanilla, too.

Along her abdomen, his fingers fall into new grooves. Three years ago, she didn't have a gut. Now she’s got even less of one. She undoes the button on his pants. He blinks. He’s pressing her against the wall. He blinks. He yanks her ******* down, presses his face into her. He blinks. She’s straddling him on the couch, her hair falling around them both. In her eyes is a look he wants to be able to describe--to pause the transfer of energy between their bodies and relate to her. But what would he say? At first, he sees eternity, but what good is that if she doesn’t believe in eternity. Then he sees their past. She’s playing a piano at her parents’. He’s just hitting keys beside her, but she continues to play, both ignoring and not ignoring him. But that’s not exactly it.

She rests her palms on the recliner. They go from behind. It’s December. It’s 2011. It’s twenty degrees. They’re half-undressed beside his parent’s out-of-sight frozen pond. Desire off the rails, going over the hill. He takes in her body. His breath is visible. Their rhythms match.

“Don’t stop,” she says. “Don’t stop.” She clenches a fistful of the recliner as soundless noise ricochets off the corners of her brain then comes together, a coagulation of tension and pain and what may or may not be love. The noise reaches its crescendo. The line between present and past disappears. What’s happening is not wholly reality, not wholly fantasy. It’s like making--it’s like ******* a ghost--she thinks. One, two tremors echo through her body.

He’s bigger, softer. He doesn't talk so much. He just looks at her like he did before. She turns around. It’s the way he looked at her when they began years ago. It’s naive. It’s hopeful. It’s discovering a million dollars free of guilt or consequence. Is it possible to fake something like that?

“Relax,” she says, meaning sit down and let her do her thing. At even the slightest touch, his body twitches. His love sounds--those yelps--are new. He grabs the pillow and covers his face. She kisses the inside of his thigh. As she did the night after he drug her into the freezing Pacific. She felt like such a part of the world. That sounds stupid, but she can’t think of a better way to say it.

He pulls her onto the couch, trying to take control. “Relax.” She gets on top. She rolls her body against his. She kisses his neck. His ear. His chest. Playfully she bites him. His eyes are wet. She’s afraid she’s hurt him, but their body--or bodies, rather, still move.

“God,” he says.

“What?”

“Just this.”

She laces her fingers underneath his neck and, leaning down next to his ear, asks, “What about this?”

What he says next sounds a lot like I love you. She wants to ask what he said. But if she heard right, what then? What is she required to say? So she doesn't ask. She rests upon his chest. He smells like he did the first night she stayed over, like mandarin and cardamom and the sour smell of the afterward. She plants her lips on his chest, conveying what she doesn't want to say out loud.

All kisses are calibrated. That’s the line. He doesn't remember what book it’s from, nor the author. Saunders or Russo, he thinks, maybe Shteyngart. I love you just rattled out of him. He didn't mean to. He means it--but he didn't mean to. Instead of saying anything, she kisses his chest for a long time. He can feel the depth, the range of her affection, but not just affection, no it’s more than that. It’s womanly love. It’s tender love. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”
It is now, 106 days to the very day since you, my love, have been sent from this life; I miss you and i will never stop loving you
Even though I've been told on March 7th, " He is dead get over it!"
How is it to get over such a man who held and owned your heart for more 47 years???
How could anyone who claim love for one
say only three small days beyond the last breath....
"HE'S DEAD GET OVER IT!"
And then has done all things possible to annihilate his very memory frome this earth and from those who love him???
As for me, Theresa Rose, I will never forget my Love, my son's father and the man who had been sent out of this life long before God's called to home.
Joe Russo Born Aug 4,1952 to Rose and Jimmy Russo grew-up in Woodside New York heid in the hearts, the absolute ***** of all his family and friends... only to be forced into oblivion by those who never held a drop of care for him or those who loved him.
Joe Russo died 4am on March 5th. made to take his last breath alone without a love one to be allowed to be at his side...
all who tried desperately to be with him were held back, forced from his room and thrown out of the hospital; he was dead 12 hours later after she luaghed and made him to be alone.... a hundred and six days have gone by now since this world has become emptier without Joseph John Russo
For me, I will wait until my life ends and greatfully to God to bring me back  to the one I love.
💔♾️ Until we meet again my Love.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
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limit is dark for the year of Hadad's mother.
The mother of England's Mrs. Jane; Jane
is relaxing before the girl from Georgia,
a girl named Bella of the Ukraine's Violet
Russian-Hawaiian strippers; her footprints,
Jane Russo, gold female gold medal
of Golgotha jewelry woman's nanometer
Gothic white eyes of brown and gold, and
gold wants a girl to abuse your mother's
garden. It's wrong to find the gold medal
on Queen Queen Queen of the Japanese,
Japanese eyeglasses Men's widdle Judd
Judah pumpkins kidnapping freelance
doubles book, radical Park Radio sleeps
smiling friends blind blacks for eye
shadow eyes; a color colored baby
slyoing twin **** dance Senzatempo
School's Colorful Italian city with
long hours Speaking of the game
The men of Hadad were terrified
by the ghost living in The problem
with Spain is what their problem
is in the Philippines; Philippines
study of Portuguese, English, English
and English, for the results of the students
who have asthma, fear and the arrival
of the Eucharist, the No'ono'o'ele'ele
church of Hungary; The book of authors
and the doctor's Delores indwelling lord
in the logo In the Indian book of the book
of Indian language books in Indiana,
he quotes from Indiana; Indiana to get
the right balance at the Museum
Museum Museum Museum Museum
Museum Museum Museum Museum.
Take advantage of the waterfront craft,
work with power to Improve good education.
It's a guitar, a cigar and a new edition
of the competing competitor's Grand Master.
In the text of the book, you can download
images of magic. A man who wants to ****
in Indiana, Los Angeles, California, 2000
2000 2000 black, white and black cities,
to come to Europe, Pope Francis came
to visit the people around...pop-up,
pop-up (CAA). If you want to bow, wow;
Johnny Us II II • II • II • II • II • II • II • II •
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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
i was never a fan of acronyms... it must be an w.a.s.p. "thing"
to have fallen in love with acronyms:
white... anglo-saxon... protestant...
i just imagine...
what it the Swabians or the Pomeranians...
were the chosen tourists...
nomads without a lament score...
oh god someone is oppressing the Saxons...
get to it: sort it out!
of all the Germanic peoples that came to these isles
after the fall of Rome...
my my... how the Saxons hijacked
the Welsh and the Scots for a prize of sending postcards
from the Raj... some remote Pacific Islands...
i live among these people...
morphed by some added French...
i don't like acronyms: i don't like acronym speech...
it's like... the alphabet twice-over...
organised to suit some secret society...
yawn...
so when i was living out my: soul-osmosis:
psychosis of my 20s...
mid-way through my 30s i stopped taking
the pills i was prescribed:
what waited was a hunger so cycling...
and ingesting electrolytes...
and vitamin B12 supplements...
which translated into 2 cycling sessions a day...
i was going to ask my mother and my father
concerning being irritated
about some...minor bureaucratic doodle
of a vaccine passport...
i could have been riddled with radioactive
juice from 1986... oh yes... the effects of Chernobyl
came around... some of the trees turned
autumnal in the middle of spring:
with streaks of radioactive death...
19 days... pass enough time just emerging as a foetus:
those just might be aeons...
scribble some radioactive juice...
well... a pretty picture...
i'm giggling though... inside and out...
i hate acronym language...
long before the "movement"...
"lifestyle choice"...
i only heard about it then youtube stopped
suggesting me new music to listen to...
apart from the channel harakiri diiat...
i came across videos of political commentary...
later... the... ahem...
    MIG-TOW... MIG-TAO...
Mikoyan... towing...
       or the Mikoyan Tao...
it's a pseudo-take of the fighter jet...
a Russo-Chinese hybrid project...
it's not a fighter-jet...
unless... fighter-jets have a Taoist sensibility
built in them... ha...
it's this "movement" via the acronym MGTOW...
i don't like acronyms...
point being... you don't really need
classical socialism... or their current
pseudo-arguments of inclusivity... blah blah...
best represented blah blah...
you have these... men... in a society...
where... harem quotas are no met...

daseine: da (there) + seine (being) = concern...
dast seine: da- (there) + i-st (is) + seine (being) = potential...
all on conjured up via a blitzkrieg
on a bicycle... mediating heavy traffic...
happens... all the ******* time...
i curse the nerve-wrecks that drive cars...
a woman in mini-cooper: sized so: ||
will require... this much space: |          |
to overtake you...

but a man in a HGV... or a bus... sized so: |          |
will require... this much space: ||
to overtake you...
as an aggressive cyclist...
i can't exactly indicate cycling up a *******
hill...
it's sometimes too late coming to a roundabout...
but then again: some indicators of direction
are already painted onto the tarmac...
traffic is not a game for solipsists...
when the former happens
i curse: it would have taken you...
20 more bypassing rounds around
me... doubling down:
when i see a Nissan Micra / a mini cooper
overtake me... while it was taking its time:

WHERE'S... THE... *******... PANZER!

- i'll just draw the sketch in writing...
fiddle with some phonetic cul de sacs..
you draw the bigger picture: the Kandinsky moment...
i don't need socialism to argue my point...
as much as abhor the acronym...
what could possibly undermine capitalism:
not that i want it undermined...
men not coupling with women...
men are not the spenders...

i can attest... one visit in a brothel once every half
a decade will not solve the demand for...
her... make-up chemo-therapy....
i mean... i can swap a good enough amount
of *** for... she's charging me £2 per minute...
perhaps dentists own as much...
perhaps... i spend my money on
essentials...
bicycle oil... whiskey... ******* flour...
to thicken a curry sauce...

                  capitalism works when...
men are willing to give up their money
for other men to make money from
the women who will spend it...
what if i'm not willing to couple up
with a woman who will spend it on...
*******-tides-&-screws...
the argument is a softened teddy: bear
of a pork **** hammered flat into a schnitzel...
why is my grandmother becoming more
estranged from...
she kept my grandfather's deterioration
a secret... come death: the end...
hardly any argument willing: to be satiated with
any pleasure for the juice of: life...

who needs socialism... to undermine capitalism?
when you can simply have men
detached... divorced... from the spending spree prowess
of women?!
maybe capitalism is just choking everyone into:
abundantly: more! more!
but what if there's no more to spend?
i don't need socialism...
socialism is for Syria... like it was for Poland
when World War II ended...
it's funny... did "my"... "my" people: ever
relish the concern for democracy...
will Poland become the new Vietnam?
sure... send in the black-*****-black-out
with eager future: single-moms...

do i look like someone willing to earn less
than i might spend more on?
the Teutonic Knights had a brothel
in their citadel of Marienburg...
i visit the brothel... once every half a decade...
i imagine she'll be ready to buy
buttons: a bear cub nibbled off my cardigan
at a Danzig zoo...

oh i can see how capitalism can be
undermined... it's already undermined...
the two tiers of spending...
i am prone to advertisement as a joke...
since i don't trust journalism..
but then i'm immune to advertisement
because...
i don't want to spend money...
i'd need a woman for that...
while a woman would eagerly spend:
spend... even if she doesn't have the money...

this one... softness for Islamic economics
hits true: all the time...
to abhor... the become tantamount in abhorring:
usury... this is the only redeeming
quality of Islam..
to hell with their theology...

if i were to... be loaned a pile of rubble...
why should i have to repay you...
a ******* mountain (of rubble)?

not being attached to a spending prowess of
a woman...
stale society: a walking abortion case...
must be designated a psychiatric diagnosis
to function: debilitated...
so much for those freed up lovers
of questionable purpose...
an hour with a ***** will "save" your economy...

the **** of the Sabine women...
too far fetched... for the quake of kings
resurrected for the hindsight of world war I...
the solo project: as each man be his...
tomb...

dasein(e) morphed -
a bit like with the clinger of Bastille...
marquis de sadé... no... women love to ****...
da (there) ist (is): sein (being)....
lightning stroked me...
sensible...

i like to "think" of pedestrians when cycling...
as.. pockets iof potential:
this "****" philosophical project
of "concern" is beside me....

dasein units of "potential concern":
versus... dastsein: units of "concerning potential"...
sharoened:
dasein: concern...
   dastsein: potential...
there is... being...
not that: there...not beng...
some germanic oops!

da-st'-sein...
DAST-SEIN...
  
it will not take socialism to undermine
the current schema of capitalism...
it will require the men themselves...
men uncoupled from the spending habits of
of... women....

bad cocktail... bad bad cocktail...
b'ah... the forest needs to breahe...
lend it some fire...
by way of:
i'll suffocate the whole economy with
replicas of moi...
she needs to spend:
but if i'm not coupled to a she:
who'll willing to sped...

who's spending who's tax-for-*******...
free?!

— The End —