Yesterday I wanted to write a piece entitled The Importance of Being Cody Horton but from a long sleep and a morning shopping tour in the afternoon to find a outfit for a friend (last night there was the birthday party Theme '70-'80), I have not had the time. Since
my God is the One That Ride, I found 1: 30 at night and wake up VB to make her laugh with my never-ending string of insults and curses to humanity faces. There are no secrets
much in the relationship between me and VB, wonderfully characterized by a lack of useless crap to argue (and argue in general, I remember one, and how little fight was really unconvincing - but there I was committed , h) and a boring basic sincerity does not allow misunderstandings and dissatisfactions become problematic. But perhaps there is a magic ingredient, and I do not know what it is, but it is what allows VB to laugh until her stomach hurt when I drain the accumulated anger following an encounter with two policemen in the mood to pose as police officers while he was returning from the theme party.
It started with a question by itself is harmless, maybe a little 'retro-mail from one of two policemen with two men in the car.
"Are your wives?"
I understand that you may be wondering "But stracazzo policeman who cares?", But the problem is not that, is nothing so subtle, it is a simple arithmetic. The problem is that in that car were two men and three women, and the answer more healthy (yes healthy ) would have been:
"Dickhead, polygamy is illegal in Italy." Not
I gave this response. Many of my comments and answers have been cured by M next to me, who did not want things get complicated.
The problem is not the status of polygamy in Italy, nor the fact that the questions were directed at these two men in a car, or to talk that way to your chin up and eyes looking down to see them.
The problem is largely personal, and resides in one of my idiosyncrasies with certain forms of externalization of power. Let the word "idiosyncratic" meaning its more neutral, "particularly susceptible", without necessarily aiming to make this negative reactions. I have strong reactions to strong expressions of power, and - as Foucault suggests - the power What is not in itself but is the son of relationships. The power can not see it in his hand in arming the police officer or in his chin up, but the reaction it causes in people who have to deal with.
One of the biggest releases in that car, not for the ears of the police, spoke of the importance of the police not to stare into his eyes. Which, as a basic principle, is acceptable, not straight in the eyes of the passers-by, usually, and in fact I have multiple praised the attitude of people not to stare at Kiel and - if the eyes are crossed by mistake - to make a smile of neutral bendisposizione - nothing personal, I stumbled into your eyes and good day. But the principle
"Not to set the policeman in the eye" was the context of the application in which a police officer, or his, he's instead doing it with you. Purpose. Again, this could have happened to Kiel, but not by police but by drunken passers-by. The Germans are weird. Every people swallow various repression depending on the culture that carries on, and that of the Dweller of Kiel makes it eager to break his balls when he's drunk. But, mind you, can not jump to the neck for no reason, even if it is freed from being a drunk - and, similarly, the officer may not show fully all the potential power that keeps in the pocket, even if it is armed. Both - the drunk and harassing the officer in Kiel from the chin up - you have to react before act. Both do the same: staring earnestly into her eyes.
I hated to go around Kiel drunken, because I am me, and even if I'm sober, when Tom stares at me in the eye does not lower his gaze. It's no use telling me that Tom does it on purpose, not the fucking look downstairs. Lowers the tone of voice. By the way, asshole, not the second wife of somebody.
Please do not confuse this with my tendency borderline personality disorder - well, maybe in my case is that - why not look down when you have a clear conscience is a symptom dignity.
The reasons for which I was asked kindly notice, please keep your mouth shut have been different.
One wanted me to persist in not wanting to understand . I've been too long in Germany, and here we are in Italy, I surrender to understand that we are in Italy and then to understand how certain mechanisms in Italy. It was Italy (Italy this, that I know - who knows how the police and the police in Modena) to teach me to understand, and there is a Horton who chose to be a policeman to get the knife from the handle if not I had insisted on wanting to understand certain dynamics. Horton is the son of my background, and is NY ended up by chance and cliché.
Another reason that I wanted I had drunk too much. Which was true. Alcohol removes inhibitions. But I'm not a drunk in Kiel who has repressed aggressiveness, and tend to react in a more trivial with no filters to what I encounter. For this you'll find on Facebook of my photos last night when I stupid expressions, histrionic and amused. It was a good party. Alcohol I do not inject aggression or paranoia for free, and I - who are the usual monkey of all time, the basic processes at the bottom - I simply react to what I had before.
The reasons are no longer served as my focus has been moved from my supposed self-preservation trend (I have a stronger attachment to the preservation of my dignity), to the preservation of the welfare of the owner of the car, which is the bastard threat that empowers you and asks you not to react or lose will be your friend. We have made millions of scenes, on those frustrating moments of tension and empathy of the viewer if they are successful there is a reason. The procedure has power over me, and in fact I have done everything possible to silence (with mediocre results, but remain above the vulgar monkey), then - 1: 30 at night - wake up VB and abuse of his ear for vent the anger remained. VB is a great way to blow off steam: you repeat a row in a series of appalling vulgarity and insults and she laughs and fun spells, which makes you feel less weight (well, I do not usually wake people up and do not like). VB was disappointed not to have been there because the scene would have enjoyed even more. VB compared me to Adriaan.
Adriaan, who is a character janvanleidiano (which is a variant of the picaresque), is another cousin of the thick and well-structured family Everten for centuries devoted to trade - legal and illegal - by sea. It's one of those families who are State, which is a way of saying caught "going mafia", in which the head of the family becomes the head of state and decide on your future. Adriaan
wanted to be a poet, but was born in the family wrong. She spends her free time, besides writing poetry and honeyed going to hell, complaining of Everten and claim not to be a Everten. It has various conspiracy theories about it, from the most trivial wishes that his mother had a lover, so he is actually half-Everten. Or maybe you have adopted, kidnapped, abducted, and therefore would not be at all a Everten.
VB, two in the morning, he drew a parallel he wants:
VB because I love the irony with me desecrate.
Because the problem, critters, is not the policeman. Not for myself, who has learned not to fear the enemy by his knowledge. I take the enemy, whoever it is, and we build on a character - and, as with any character, then I understand how it got to be what it is. This mechanism is not much of a sociological study (it would be a bit 'generalizing, summarizing an entire genre with a character), but open to understanding. That is my creative pantheon sees Nazis, Jews, drug dealers, pimps, crazy prophets who proclaim themselves kings, lawyers and cops. The problem is not bad, but its banality - I obsessively repeated last night by car, while waiting for the police to check the data. The problem is not Berlusconi but how people react to Berlusconi phenomenon when he is perceived so negatively. "Indignation" and "dignity" have a common root. There is outrage if there is no dignity.
Power is not the weapon that the officer's hand - another reason given to me to be quiet, and I worry, I seriously worry about whether a weapon is intended to silence a citizen with a clear conscience, I worry if the third silent then actually validating that the purpose - but, Foucault, the relationship that develops between individuals.
Maybe the policeman has the attitude of the dog aggressive prevention - who knows with those who are accustomed to dealing . Could be contrasted that anyone can be aggressive with a gun in his hand, and a police officer should be trained to have quick reaction and ability to treat you civilly, because you do not need training to get stronger thanks to a weapon - even I am capable, is anyone able to build on altruism weakness.
Maybe the officer does not do it on purpose, it does so out of habit - and then the problem is not the policeman, but the subdued reaction of those who came to do. It is repeating the performance - the lower their gaze and tone of voice - to reaffirm the status quo , not the weapon.
But everything is justified by saying that we live in fear. Living in fear is her home S, who lives in a residential neighborhood, stop the car and wait until he opened the gate of the house and if the back is closed. S quarrels with the new lock and can not open it. Embarrassed silence of stillness. I open the door, and I try and get out while I try, I ask:
"If you call your husband?"
breath and adds:
"I do not know why I said 'your husband' and not his name."
In retrospect perhaps I know: it must be the trace left by the first of three wives. S I reduced to the wife of someone unable to open the gate must appeal to her husband. But fortunately not needed. There are four possible combinations to open a gate, turn the key on the right pulling it toward you, turn it right by pushing it, turn it and turn it over to the left pushing the left by pulling it toward you. The fourth combination was good that the gate is open, back into the car and then home to make you laugh VB cursing.
Cody Horton is the son of the worst threat, which is not that power over you, but the power to put someone you love - if you want to silence the annoying signed before the policeman tell her to lose her but will not be the his friend.
Cody Horton had, in common with me, a certain deafness to the direct threat. His father was beaten to death, and he did, and Cody Horton has not changed one iota. His father, a shrewd, threat has changed: Horton if he had not looked down, his mother would lose out. For this
Horton became a cop: not being able to be more threatened.
The Importance of Being refers to the current Cody Horton Horton, the thirties, which no longer has to worry about certain things. Horton keeps me company these days, as I walk down the street, so I wanted to write again.
Horton is a winter dress, which is convenient especially when it snows on me. Snow has the ears free from any interference, uncluttered look. Kiel me well revealed the tranquility of snow, softening the thoughts of death. Great place you on a gentle death and shows you, after years - even if no longer needed - how can you die without suffering. Horton fears that it is a suffering, not death. Mea culpa. Now I know that if one day I wanted to kill myself, I just go to a place where snow comes to you at least to the knees, sit on a bench and wait. There is an initial vague suffering, which I have already passed once and then I can pass it again, and then the aching bones begin to lose sensitivity. Be red hot for a few minutes and then fall silent. Wait a bit, 'property as you can, and will sleep - that sleep that I run after every night, and I have to wait because the patient never comes, you relax tense muscles and drags you to the abandonment. His eyes burn with fatigue, frozen under the snow, and you have to appeal to rationality up your mind to raise that ass and go home, because it would be so easy to stay there, sitting on the snow gently falling asleep.
basic requirement for abandonment is such a sweet not to fear death, I suppose. Horton, my difference, does something more: every now and whispers sweet reminders. Horton, in my shoes in a snow-covered Kiel at 3 am in a perfect landscape, you probably would not have moved a muscle. The life of Horton's potential seems less attractive than my own proves to me, obviously. I am drunk at 3 in the snow I moved my ass and dragged that of a Breton home drunk warm. Breton thanked me for saving his life, but the words are vanitas before the contemplation of the concept. Who knows what Breton recalls in his head, I wonder if lying in the snow there would have been if I had not dragged weight at home. The point is not whether he would survive or not (someone would harvest), but what he meant in his head knowing that it did not live up. I wonder how this can change the perception of self, life and death.
But anyway.
Horton is comfortable to wear a coat on cold days. You have to put your hands in your pockets and walk with the indifference of those who do not own in a hurry to get at his own ass from a bench with snow. Your steps will not be anything but walk, stretch the leg muscles on the sole functional purpose to proceed. Neither too fast nor too slow. You have to walk like you're in the middle of a Christmas snowfall, with Santa Claus in the distance singing electronic greeting myeloma. The flakes are deposited on you in silence, and people in all: the idea, in contrast, a warm room in which to reach into drinking a hot cup of coffee and the warmth of a torpor-bench on which to indulge. You have to fall upon them to you as if they were traces of awareness of death, and therefore of immense weight, and hear them at the same time as light as your legs. You can put all those in snowflakes - the greatest comfort and the most atrocious threats - the white substance is fit to hold any meaning. It's invisible and fragile perfection of a bow - and I remember one day in Berlin, observing a rest on my shoulder, big enough to recognize the shape of the crystal. It was a dream moment, seeing what there is always and is never seen. The snow is cold and hot, and the palate is sweet and stings - ficcateci into all the details you have designed, and fatevela upon him without haste to flee, nor to accumulate.
The party was spectacular and I have a fucking histrionic personality disorder. I wonder if they suffered Loki also. But you should just read the Lokasenna .
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