Fast Frontal Lobe Dementia

Of silly categorizations




"So sorry you prefer to children or animals?"
"between a child and Who would you save a dog? "
Here. Questions before so what do you do?

Some would say opposing arguments, always.
Others would use the flamethrower.
Others would be more seraphic: forget, without a shield and away some copies.
To each his own ... I
before these silly simplifications and banalities that touch on the lives of living things did not admit an apology. And mind you that in this case is not "ignorance" to date, unfortunately, a lack of culture, family background or a "dry". It is precisely this superficial and what is not excusable. The inspiration for this post I receive directly from Facebook. I have a Facebook page that I use only food for thought on Alchemy, for news of exhibitions and events (I think) interesting or protest / environmental initiatives / animal rights or solidarity in general and for the sharing of some important issues with friends and friends. Point. And do not tolerate that on my Dashboard (as in comments to my blog post, so I turned on the moderation) can express opinions contrary to my values, does not tolerate the publication of phrases such as "Better suppress dogs kennels that take away resources that could instead be used for children "or the like : " I g acts bother " (but a nuisance to those who and how?) I think it's only the head of some people to be outclassed by the nuisance. Reasoning skinny, shallow, rude (because it was my Dashboard and everyone knows how I feel), and vapid cast "casting". They said the Alchemists: "Haste is from the Devil." Now the phlegm of Saturn we know to be the privilege of a few and exercise but also occasionally use the gray matter of the brain would not hurt. So, just to keep it in operation! Categorizations do not need anyone, do not trigger any critical reflection, zero empathy, participation mystique (Levy-Bruhl to put it) that everyone would be able, and they only highlighted the worst part of all of us. Outside the categorizations may instead express a thought which may also be critical, even in disagreement, but at least it is a rational thing - that is supported by a minimum of reasoning makes sense! - And not a priori stupid. To say that dogs or cats guests at a kennel or shelter of some should be deleted because they can feed with that money "children" (what?) Is something that makes no sense. Dogs and cats have no guilt for the fact of having been abandoned by some hick uncivilized, do not have faults of their prisoners find themselves in a cage after a lifetime of dedication and friendship. And "children"? This magic word that gets thrown out each time to corroborate the opinion of many petty and crude! Why not begin to contemplate the idea of \u200b\u200bremoving some absurd and shameful privilege to "political" (if so we call them, as Aristotle thought I think Italy is turning in his grave!) that "we" are instead of thinking immediately remove the bread from the mouths of dogs who have no guilt but to "exist" and want to eat? (AS THEY BOTH HAVE RIGHT YOU and the "children"!). We begin to contemplate this idea: less privileges for politicians, less inventory, less travel for free, decent but not extravagant wages, fewer trips to their girlfriends on the flights of the state, and so on ... this way you know how many resources to help blow out both children and dogs, and cats, that the elderly poor, the hospitals where not even exist equipment to do the analysis, that schools that lack even the desks and chairs ... .. And sometimes we really need to stop talking about "Systems", ultra-esoteric discoveries, fenomenologiadisticavoli, stop playing the "Masters" ( then usually the most useless are those lessons are not required, those who are self-proposed "Master") and return to look back, to feel empathy for the smallest of the small ... but how do you lose empathy for the little ones? To imagine a dog in a cage as an expense and to establish "priority" when there would be no need? How can you not love the face of suffering? The suffering of all. Why a blackbird captured and imprisoned in a tiny cage, forced to live by as a draw because a hunter can shoot his other brothers feather and a brutal, brutal, and so it is that some adults take upon themselves the right to "visit" at night and spoil the children's innocence. I can not see the difference: the terror, suffering, fear, despair and sadness are the same. It 's all brutal and who thinks for "segregated" or worse, those who refuse to look and feel of the suffering of others ("because it hurts me so much and I am very very sensitive') is just selfish. I am too emotional, I cry always silent but emotional, I realize, that's why I screen so much and always try to stay away from people, because all of a sudden you discover that a person hides within itself the most incredible malice or behind a suspected hyper-sensitivity lies a heart false and selfish. My closest friends, those who will never leave me and despite my constant postings silences, they say that I always screen too, it is true that "see beyond" but that the world of the Angels should not be my only world I also occasionally get out. Perhaps this blog thing is also an exercise in this regard. The Wizard of Saturn understand me well (even if he does not know ...) because it is so too, too bad that belongs to another Aeon, so far away ... Then I think that if a person is unresponsive or, worse, disgust, before the sad eyes of a caged animal, if not budge in, if you "do not want to watch" because it is considered too sensitive (when it is not so because then the facts show that generally the people capable of worse things) or if he comes to regard the poor as a living being only "economic losses "you will never even feel empathy for" the children "... It saves all or do not save anyone, I think so. And I do not care nothing about who you are, " what is your job, how many degrees you have, how much money you have, because you're famous / a, how many books you've written, because you are esoterically informed ... in my yardstick is another and is based solely and entirely on respect, sensitivity and love for the living. For all the living. And the mourning for the planet we live with all his great poem. This is not to deny the minimum bases of respect ... and even to take those as starting points for our thoughts and our conversations.










PS Thanks to Monica for the photos.

Igi Certification Vs. Gia

Eternity


From the window of my house, not that it is a nice place but at least you can see a glimpse of the forest ...



"Be careful to rate and juniper growing in cemeteries, baby,
their roots touched so much death,

not ever play"
(Swabia )

Illustration taken from Cyril Bouda Prazske Povest,
an old book of my dad on the legends of Prague.

Last night was a beautiful evening. Although all plants of this world.
I looked at the basket with things to iron and I thought: "Okay, now boxing anything else do not go out anymore." So I stuck the iron and then I made from this video that the father of a dear friend of mine uploaded on youtube and she sent me to publish on Circle Mrs. Trelkovski. Look at it. Really watch it. If you want to read this post you have to do it by listening to the music of this video and then looking at the pictures ... The I admit, I was excited - a lot - not so easy to do text, but last night I could not stop crying, with all the thoughts that this video has stirred ... and ironed while I cried (okay, okay, I'm slowly becoming a "human case") but mostly I kept repeating like a mantra of poetry Ikmet that the father of D. chose to go with the video:


"I love my century who dies and is reborn
a century whose last day will be beautiful:
my century will shine one day
like your eyes "


Time. The things that pass. Death. The green moss growing on the stone covering the statues of the "dear departed." The dear departed ... I'm currently reading a book about transgenerational trauma and reflect on both the "dead" ... on "dead" and what is ... what we bring in, on what I'm learning to loosen up on me and others ...

"My century will shine one day
like your eyes"

inheritance to heal, to heal, to love and let go ... old and new eyes at the same time ...
People often ask me how do I pay all my loneliness.
Here, I do not think I ever be alone. My secret is my strength.

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?


I do not know. I never thought of. It usually went in at the ground to be collected was in and out ... ... maybe a furtive prayer, a candle and go.
But no. Is not that what you do ...
Then about a year ago, I reflected on the words of a friend and I understood the importance of attending this strange that I was missing. A delicate dialogue, quiet but not silent, and no less pregnant with the many conversations that "wasted" each day. Talking with the dead. With the dead and pray for the dead. Praying for the dead ... And all of this regardless of the signs, the religions, "believe", the "pater," the "Ave", the Lares, the spirits of ancestors, genosociogrammi, inheritances, identities and entities ...

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

Maybe through the lanes of Juniper those cemeteries in the country, between the red lights that pulsate suspended in the black of night, have you ever heard from inside the Prayer uscirvi direct to the marble of death, without capacitive madness which you pushed to do this? A prayer without a conventional form? To pray for Love?

Praying for Love.
For the Love of all.
For the peace of all.

Why is there something bigger ... and this is undeniable, it is called Cosmo or whatever you call it. We are a village, a dot, a quote in a book of hundreds of thousands of pages. But we Preziosi.

Learn to love the old cemeteries, old cemeteries. Get "explain" their forms ... or listen to what "they tell you."

Bubbio My maternal grandmother was a small village, not even a thousand people in the province of Asti. The fact that he lived his youth in Acqui Terme, before marrying and moving to Milan, had not made him forget where he came from. He had not forget the fact Bubbio cemetery. And every year, the Day of the Dead, he returned there. And we are back again, to take us to visit his sister, the Queen of the Tarot, as I call it. I love the cemetery Bubbio, ancient, the fog that envelops the Days of the Dead, some graves are very old ... ... the gates of the cemetery gates, let us ... if they are all small doors creaking, rusty at times, but it comes to doors or portals? And the plates? Ah, the plates move me ... what! I always buy it - when I can - at the flea market and puts us in my photos, or some clever plant important collections in very special moments. So I go after death. Or rather it seems to me to meet her, exceed ... And besides, for someone like me, born under the reign of the threshold and the afterlife, there's no better place than under a glass plate. Sooner or later you'll see me there, under a sheet. And I will not be sad. Things be crazy, you say. No, is that we lost poetry and thin coats not see them more, we do not stop often enough to reflect on the meaning of eternity. Eons infinite cosmic steps that we will never see. Really do not we ever see them? Yes, perhaps we will never see them, overwhelmed by the latest technologies that we use to help us and instead we use only to annihilate us ...

Once I had written something like this Gender:
"This whole fear of being considered like a dazzled," crazy ", mystics, wanderers in the opposite direction, lost his way in front of the Aeons all'incedere infinite universe of which we ... we are servants and masters. "

All our petty lose their meaning when we try to imagine the "Forever".

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

There is a small cemetery on Alagna. An old mountain cemetery. Poetry that the old cemeteries in the mountains, those mountains with cold shoulders, leaning against the wall of the old church, a tomb on the other to gain space close to the bare rock. Spirits quiet in clean air. But I'm really quiet? Perceive them? Close your eyes and cry. Mountains make me cry and do not always know what I'd give to be able to read poems on the graves of an old mountain cemetery ...

Have you ever walked around cemeteries?

Cemeteries of seaside resorts, you can imagine that we have some buried pirate treasure with his child and would like to return for "being able to believe" that this story "treasure" is true and that one day you'll find it ("real dad that we will find the treasure?"), the salt air and seagulls playing with the air there, hundreds of feet above your head ... and the spirits who interact with the sand and melt in the din of the breaking wave, then return with the tide, and again the waves, eternal movement, Eternity.

Eternity.

Are we already Eternals, if we think in certain terms. Beyond Death and All over ...

Open Cervix At 5 Weeks

The Wizard of Saturn and the two stones

Hausbuch Wolfegg, Saturn

I'm writing a story for the Wizard of Saturn, will publish only one because the rest will print on sheets of raw paper and the present of the Magician - with the two stones that are right for her - when the Universe will decide who will be time. Only then will publish the rest. Perhaps this will happen in my life or maybe the tale go beyond the boundaries of my time ... Apparitions, visions that belong to another time and perhaps will remain in that other time. Then they find themselves, who knows where and who knows when. Crazy.


The Wizard of Saturn is a guest at the Castle. It 'been invited and as usual do not think you deserve it, modesty is not his, mind you, it's just a kind of self-imposed mental mechanism act to encourage it to do more and better and better. It 's so that has always guided his life and the growth of his own person, driven by an innate stubborn and very strictly. When the wind blows from the north to the castle is cold, colder than usual, the Wizard of Saturn has pulled back the curtains and thinking, leaning against a column covered with slate, says the mountains in front of him. Very cold. Beautiful. The ice falls from there and creeps into his bones. But he holds. He is the Wizard of Saturn, unshakable. It always seems sad, even now, leaning that column, while looking at the mountains, he and Death in a thousand miles away from everybody, but he is so he is not a fool nor needs to have around jesters. He is sufficient for himself, always. The Wizard of Saturn has accepted his assignment without hesitation, the son and grandson of MA, was used to perform the duty that he was asked by ascetic perseverance, he has specialized writing done on the mechanisms of pain and is dedicated to finding a elusive recipe for a panacea that can "bonire all evil." It 's a bit one of his fixation. Sure, he has studied and knows Galen, but his passion is directed at another person ... and it is easy to understand. In part doctor and in the "priest". Alchemist. The Lords of the Castle, however, already have their doctor, as they have a priest to whom it does not seem real to have been elevated to that role, and chaplain who was ragged, he now finds a spiritual guide ... and transeamus - for now - on how to manage the sacred by this man ...
The Wizard of Saturn it should do anything else there at the castle, he would have another job to do in that house. And the castle is more of a rough jumble of stones, nothing to do with the beautiful, elegant fortresses of the Plain. The lords who dominate the valleys are rapacious and brutal and their homes reflect the essential warrior (And often Predosa) that characterizes them. The Middle Ages is one part time "crystallization" and the other period of movements "on the various chess pieces." It 's like everyone is looking for a place of power and were trying to figure out "which to choose and how to position within a world that is radically changing, a world that, like all periods of transition, there remains poised and there is air that has to change. But who are the protagonists of that time and place we are talking? They are the lords who live in the Alps still wild and try to push the boundaries of their possessions, day after day, as fierce battling Gentlemen ... there is the Church, with all his assistants, who does not love those places but is well aware of the need to establish outposts there, too, and above all they need "protection" and legitimacy, at least by those in power (or rather of those who have taken the lead) ... and then a plethora of helpful villagers in search of a corner in the sun while sitting on the floor next to the master's table ... and of course are always ready to cut his throat at the right time. No chivalrous ideal. Not least in those places. Finally, only the raw land to work for hundreds of poor people deprived of any right to claim on the fields for which they live spitting blood. We shall meet in secret among poor people, begins to drift a sort of fear of even a simple scan with little joy to the seasonal rhythms and looks to the now strong official religion to see if some things can still do or not, "calling the shots is in fact now the religion of the One and unapproachable God, a God who promises life eternal for those who never dare to raise its head in life that they now are living. suffer in silence!, only that you are allowed! Certain "holidays" there is still the old echo, although where the Church did not cover with its mantle, the tendency is to bloody repression. Or at least the ban. The development would seem the only entertainment, nothing, not even the weddings tend to be more public because the Lord would want to intervene and assume the right to claim the graces of the bride, usually with beneplacido when even the mockery of itself Castellana. The Lords have as they see fit women who inhabit their land. The Wizard of Saturn tends to stay away from certain things, wasting time, he is considered a privileged, he studied at the School of Science and Konrad von Megenberg lords who dominate those areas if they contend for his own name son of a scholar of scholars. And so the Wizard of Saturn has always got to be able to take care of Science, is secretly (very secretly eh!) In love with the writings of Hildegard von Bingen, very cleverly takes care of the policy area and also knowingly provides help to those who need it, but quietly he could not bear the idea of \u200b\u200ban odious line of needy people at his door. He possesses the gift of a great love - the content but not measured! - For all humanity that surrounds him. He could have chosen to install him as Lord at his current residence and his laboratory, but declined further invitations to be a diplomat to do so could not create any enemy. For now. And he always has control over its potential enemies. Up there at the Castle all the fear, the fear is that the Lords quell'ex butcher called "doctor" and is the ragged slimy priest. But above all the fear the Lords. And he feels very protected from this, protected in his power to do pretty much what he likes most and be able to roam freely in their possessions. It 'was during one of those who saw her wandering the Witch. He saw her, but she has not seen him. At least not in the sense that he imagines. She in fact has only "heard". And then it was bad. Very bad. He can not understand "why" than its intrusion that gradually, over time, has become stronger. Someone had spoken of the Witch, he was told that there, on the crossroads to the north boundary of his possessions Gentlemen, lives in a cave half a girl voted maybe an ancient god, or perhaps a demon, some swears that she "rides a wolf with the Old, "is rather those who have seen quotidinamente fill the vase of flowers next to the shrine of the Virgin, to climb up there and pastures ... but no, for now, has never taken the habit of going to get her to ask something, ask to be accountable for its actions. Every time she was visited by some sick and often the daughters of poor people waiting for unwanted children present companion in arms of passage, the children of the same soldiers that you care but do not have the courage to touch it because of the stories about his servant Lucibello, Lover and powerful demon, or goes to the women's house in childbirth, but all in secret, everyone is magnetized but nobody wants too have to do with her and she does not want too many people around ... once went from there also la Castellana to ask a favor , it says the grace of a son who invariably had arrived, and so the rumor had spread around giving it a sort of legitimacy to stay there. " They say that you can speak with the demons, will be able to attract them and send them away from the body and mind and do so even those with which the priest can do. Lives of Our Lady of Grace ... or perhaps that of the Devil? In any event, beyond the rumors, for what is certain is that as long as she reigns Castellana anyone, not even the sleazy priest who thinks he's having good reason, or dare to send her away to her worse. She is a bit 'like the Wizard of Saturn has set its balance and trouble to tear! And indeed that is not The Wizard of Saturn is looking for it had not gone there on purpose, it was by chance (by chance?) In front of that hole cave where she lives, had stopped his horse and went down to pick up a drink from a rudimentary tank where the witch is used to collect rainwater. Then suddenly it stopped. He had seen her from behind, skinny and dressed in pieces, fiddling with something in front of a small fire, signs traced on the ground, feathers, stones, sticks and words spoken in a low voice. In the hands a small sickle, those from the field. The Wizard of Saturn is not superstitious, is a man of Science, at least he tries, and his studies prove it ... just do not like to be caught off guard, knows what is moving on very thin floors and behind the thin veil of reason ... and so had decided to stand by and watch the scene hidden by a giant larch. The girl, the Witch, always from behind, apparently did not move. Perhaps he spoke ... or was it the wind? The face was fixed on an indefinite point in the right hand clutching the sickle close. Beside her a black dog, a large mastiff, stood quietly and looked like a sphinx. The dog! The Wizard of Saturn had not noticed the dog ... and suddenly the animal moved in his direction. Without growl nor bark, just pointing the area. "It will have After the horse, although I tied far from clear ...". The Wizard of Saturn began to dislike the situation, had no means nor time to study it enough for him and calm, patience, reasoning and the cold calculation but were really essential to move at best. That situation instead contravened every rule ... He felt a latent danger, even though it was very well armed and a girl with a dog were not a threat "natural" for him. He was trained in the science so as to guns. But there was something else. Something attracted him, and he knew there was something, he knew!, that would be very useful here, but prudence made him rather immobile, paralyzed. The big dog had walked three or four yards in his direction when the Witch, still without turning around, recalled him to himself. Immediately the animal turned toward her, ran to her, then looked back toward the Wizard of Saturn. The Witch is not never turned towards him. He walked toward the cave and gently invited her dog to follow. Both disappeared into that black hole of stone. The Wizard of Saturn did not move for a few seconds, then quickly walked away towards his horse. Saddle was assailed by the strange sensation, a mixture of relief escaped the danger and an opportunity lost ... but for now still has to be all right ... Time will give or take away reason, only time has this power over him. No one else. And he is not afraid ... Time Mage as Kronos does not fear death and waiting. Afraid of one thing and one thing is drawn: the madness. And incredibly admiring of demons who is not afraid of human folly.
Witch instead knows: it's the Wizard of Saturn, he felt it coming and had "seen" even if they have not looked at it and we can say that he does not know who he is (the Witch is far away from logic and from events at the Castle), but this time he knows he can also turn the sickle and hold it on the side of the blade, she will no longer anything to establish a priori, who brings with him the chill of Scythe can not control anything , is why, cautiously, it was not time ... but for now, even for her, is still okay ...

What Is A Tequila Belt

A Grafofagia all its own ...

Nyc writes a lot. E 'obsessed with writing. It 'a kind of graphomaniac.
Nyc writes and eats everything that was written. Everything you wrote.
Grafofagia.
Nyc "eats" in the sense that its ago, in the deepest meaning of the verb "eat" all the words that way, the leave for days, months and years, "eats" not in a physical sense but in the sense that the sculpts in the interior for leave to act in the best in his life. And in the life of the reader.

Spells. And NYC is like a novel Golem with his scraps of paper activators. Nyc

But not only writes "here" on the Blog. Of this blog is just a fun exercise, an attempt to digital communication, something as unusual as it is entertaining for her. Things marks the most pregnant Nyc (Signs ...) on its books. Indeed, notebooks with the "Q" capitalized. Words and pictures, I want to honor the Zodiac that the Sun is in that of Uranus this month. Sign of fast connection. NYC has always believed that writing was magic, a kind of activation that far outweighs the fleeting vocis flatus. The voice did not deposit anything, you know b ene NYC lately is doggedly continuing his exercises on silence. The passive voice, "spear", and goes, if something needs to be clinging then grabs him, otherwise the sign must ol'incisione. And the writing is a kind of incision. He was right in Swabia: "pinning all the words that I cast out." She also precisely on the TV Guide, then could not remember what he had written and had read Nyc ... which obviously did not understand. In short, the ideal would organize at least! For this NYC keeps least a notebook in her purse and a notebook hidden under the work agenda, including an appointment and the other of poor leadership which tries to do as an assistant ... and NYC has recently discovered a shop that sells packages of colored paper and recycled wood tones and beautiful handmade cards to send to friends and associates. That hole is the shop of his kingdom! Yes, why not interested in Nyc mark things up ... the sign of a digital archive, forging pe nsiero on paper, is the important thing for her. The incision. The symbol. The date. The signing ... to dial in a good way to avoid the invoices. How many times affixing signatures every day? How many times we do it without too badarci and there enough screen? The writings are all tracks. It 's the Daimon guiding hand, which in turn slides the pen and pencil. The written sign is there: magical expression of a moment that otherwise we would have lost. Scratch of fate. Nyc because fate is all that is "just state," the sign that could tell us also what will (might ... .... ... But it is said), the thing that speaks to those who look carefully. Vision to unravel slowly, and above all to score. NYC whole-earth and water-in-mud with its Taurus and Scorpio Rising. Seemingly quiet, watch and write, witch-scorpion-venom hidden in the rocky gorges all pins in her notebooks. Some say that his eyes "change" when he writes. Try to affect your scores on paper, your Sincronie, what do you liquidate your eyes? And 'the excitement of discovery, the key that turns slowly in the lock, the lock or "maybe" suddenly clicks and pops. Leave submit your script and what settles slowly become magic of wheels and gears that moves and then run ... and run more and more, tracing furrows, to cultivate your fields, tracks that will be very clear later. It's your thread that unravels in Time. The path your time: and that is you think about it, for you that you scored, you've written, you are the Magician! Everything will be clear to you, an evocation of latent unconscious phantasy that is new in the dawn. It 's your story, how can you believe potertene be there, at the margin, to watch (suffer?) ... ..... You're swearing! Get a pen and paper: a nice piece of paper and a nice pen. Write or draw, di-marks. Stroke. Write as if you were to read some time between other people (and maybe they will! ) because then it will certainly "another you" to re-read those things, your old coincidences and synchronicities of your past take the form of your new events. And do not lie. In performing this exercise, you can not lie, the better the open mouth and a bullet fired from down in the stomach. Write the hideous and revolting reality appointment unspeakable things, trace the signs that make you afraid, throws to the winds the principle of non-contradiction, as Matte Blanco said on the principle of symmetry [*]: "The unconscious is the report inverse of any relationship as if it were identical to the report. This implies that treats asymmetrical relations as if they were symmetrical ", this exorcism will cancel the time, space and any other distinction and classification. Make light of the Vision. The sign is the Deity and the catch is you who is a mischievous sprite invisible, made specifically to your foil the paper. Take your notebook into the wood and trace the sounds you hear, what I recall, designed the flight of butterflies, where they alight? They are the voices of the Little People that too often men have not been able to write down and write. Angels in the air and air between the trees as you "write it all." Reread what you wrote after months, some pages the tears of anger, others will make you cry, others will still be those which now you're falling in love or hate that now with all my heart but in any case, the vision will be corrected in black and white. What counts is still the sign. And if you say that the "story told" is curative, imagine what can write! Think of those spells transmitted orally, which over the centuries have assumed a certain stability of form so it can be elevated to the rank of transcription in some code .
Nyc thinks of his notebooks and run away a bit 'funny. Sometimes the law of "workers of the occult", "witches", "neo-pagan," "shaman," "Druids" (?) Who spend a bang of € to buy grimoires trendy, upholstered in leather or python Armadillo adorned with feathers or Ibis Condor Fuchsia ... This rather strange girl is in love with the smell of recycled paper, is in love - madly - signs engraved on the raw paper. Its rough (these forthcoming) Books of the Command ...

"... We had a priest from Elva,

lags behind that of the picturesque village
in that magnificent mountain valley of Valle Maira

which encircle the giants of pelvis,

of Suede and Chersogno.

It had come to possess God knows how;

and had also learned,

certainly be a professor of magic,

to read for his verse.

And we really wanted to read the inside

a profound science.

It was not a book like the others.

First of all centuries old,

perhaps thousands of years;

and then, hand-written, but with plenty of strange signs

- doodles, arrows, circles, knots, grids, spirals, figures and monstrous figures -

and certain pages in a red so vivid they seemed blood and fire ... "

(E. Milan, the magic book)

[*] The Book of Matte Blanco I mentioned is: The unconscious as infinite sets. Essay on the bi-logic. Einaudi.