Prose
» Romanesque
» In a wild state
» Catherine Wheel
» Seven Sages
» Recreation
» Mandala
» Wandering riders
» Sabba
Poetry
» Beyond curtain
» A love poison
» Plautinus
» Blind world
» Plancton
» Jack O'Lantern
» Giotto's pastels
» Mab
» Preludes to Lutin
versione italiana
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Material
The objects are important, above all those that last, are damaged
with the time, but remain solid to make us remember far
persons, other things, ceremonies, the dead men. I have a coffer that
left me the eternal wish of candies and chocolates, a photo
that remembers me a person that have nothing to do with me of
which i don't remember even the name, but since it is not a beautiful photo
is there large, throning on the wall like if that girl who acted as
a male with the dark cloth hat while she smokes a cigarette and
watches me were truly important for me.
Unknown yes, but
perhaps important she is. Explain to me why I embrace it with
wool white glove and I remember even the cold that I felt in
that moment, leaned to a wall cracked with behind the winter park.
Perhaps her name was... not, i am not sure.
Falling
walls I have seen alot between the photos of the wanderings
without goal, without thoughts, with love stories of some hour.
A hallucinatory crystal fungus, a lacquer box that a boy stole for me
in a pastry shop, a musical cassette that repeats a phrase, never
pronounced by my great loves. Not even who recorded it for a
birthday. After fifteen years he called me by phone with
the same voice and I finally, it was the hour, refused.
The last
gift of love, a purple stone, I threw away as soon as he
had gone, because I did not believe that it was magic In
fact the airplane regularly left.
When I close with a
person I deceive myself to throw every object that could be combinable with,
but it is not. They resurface outside from everywhere the
forgotten things, and in the least appropriated moments. Signs on the
wall that do not go away, cigarette burns on the sheet, spots on
carpets.
and then you remember that he liked enormous
glasses and that he learned to you to make a better coffee
and to wash the ass, but it's not important, as are not
the stolen reviews to others, the bad thoughts. Other
garbage.
it's right having removed the annual posture of dirtness
suddenly from belly-buttom, having thrown some books,
having realized that I needed of glasses for sight, being
faster to move, more rational in equipping new houses,
conserving in optimal state the ones abandoned. The keys are essential
in double copy only for me, to be sure not to remain closed
outside, in a dark and stormy night. And the comic strips,
Donald Duck, the witches, Paperone and Brigitta, as I said to someone who
did not understand it, down for the scales of house, closed outside. Life is wonderful.
The bottom that I never
played, the rat of Berlin, a green enamel drop on cotto.
And another important name that to hard work I have remembered now and completely I had forgotten. Another piece of my amusing
life as collector.
I am more than satisfied, because the
friends, little, are those that take just their road, while the
enemies and the false friends remain to you glue to see you die.
Someone sometimes are succeeded, making the jumps mortal,
to ship him to the moon, and there is always the danger that he could return
even from there.
Therefore every day is the dream of a new
friend to meet and desire to escape to all the others, than
unfortunately, at this point, are introduced also too much well.
Shapes
I am the inhabitant of the abandoned villa on in hill, wrapped
in its degradation, like I were the last sure shelter of curious natural
shapes not beloved in society. What I mean exactly, even if the argument is difficult and
escaping, I
will explain to you in detail a little more ahead in my talk.
Anciently my decrepit dwelling
was a small royal palace in the estate of some European
nobleman, with a swarm of servants and lovers, and this explains the
erotic paintings at the entrance and particular ancestral symbols
that are arranged like the four points cardinals, but on the contrary
of those they confuse the observer, making him lose
savvy.
A legend speaks about many aliens that would have
taken to ramble round in the small wood there, until getting lost, and not
finding anymore the road for the city. The beautiful thing is that the
poor men were not able to return to the villa, because
that one disappeared to their eyes, wrapped in a
transparent cloud.
Generally the end is tragic. Died for hunger, chill
in the ugly season, for blows of heat and silks in summer.
That
was what happened within there nobody is able to explain it,
except the spirit of the Mr. Count that walks in the last room
with the candelabrum, and the servants downstairs imprisoned
close to the wine cellars, arrogant ones like when they were alive.
Even
me, imaginary inhabitant, didn't understand much more, beyond to
those little things stated directly during my circular walks around
wall already for themselves round, with the facade and the delicious
trap of putti, from which one day rising water flew out for the
young sparrows and blackbirds.
In the bottom of the worn out flight of steps where is a garden
with the statues of strange fellows almost disowned to common people, but great thinkers,
freemasons kept busy of stars of the firmament and stars
of society.
They knew very well each others and it was
enough. Lexicographicals, mathematicians, generals of army, politicians
from the wide awake look, overseers of what remained of glorious and
lost days. But, behind the statues, so many other little men with the alarmed
look made the job of the mole. And some bust fell noisily,
tumbling down for the drop of the hill until the large
square.
I have never seen an assailant entirely and I doubt
strongly that we deal with an alive person, but a defunct and restless spirit
that for some reason, perhaps endured twisting, hates to death
the gentleman of the chosen statue.
Because in
this country it is so, everyone has enemies who are in footprint
even in the afterlife. Dawdling each others to doing spites and so they spend their time.
As I
anticipated to you, let's ignore who has counted and who counts
still now and let's come to the point, the poor refuse of marches
that sometimes I found more bearable and pleasant of other famous
powerful ones. And I am not even sure that the inhabitants of
this species of limbo are less important or destined to less
glory, allowing to these stupid times of transition from an age to another.
I saw in the shadow of the willow a nun abbess
round like a quail. It taught at this point without pupils with a
frightening baton transvested into meter in order to measure I don't know
what. She smelled of chalk and of pancake, sweet and red wine drinks.
Not far there was a little woman who dyed reddish her brown hair and smoked, drank and although we could not be
said beautiful to me she seemed appealing and coquettish, so
thin, with that singing air of country.
These little figures
appeared to me more alive than others, like if I had known them personally, even
under other clothes, in other dimension that was not present to the
reason.
I say this because I have known other wandering shapes of
which I am sure only having read something or only having listened to speak. Instead they
walked elegant around the fairy cottage, as it was the thing more
natural of this world that some glass breaths went around over the
grass of the lawn without treading on daisies and maidenhair.
What I learned from them is that there was no place
neither before me for everyone
indifferently, in this country of nice people, and the refuse was sheltered where they could,
creating an existence of beatitude and beauty.
Musics,
poetries, sublime dances were conserved in this way intact in
the middle of so much degradation.
Quality
He thought he was sad again, while the others ran worried
to their trades, important or not.
Instead he, closed in the perennial and
sublime leisure from which he wanted always less to exit, he was
turning the mind to a particular, melanchonic bloodless music like a
child eroded by imaginary loves.
And he understood, nearly
laughing, that the art was for him an inner disease endured directly, without need of any other.
He was living a fiction of
others, not his and he didn't even realize. An esteem,
a gift.
Another his particular tendency that he had just
discovered, were some very small premonitions, like the one to meet
one person, to talk to him, to know sooner or later. Small discoveries,
meaning that they were so behind the true and just
happenings, to be hardly detections, like jumping on a train
to the flight before it takes speed.
Sometimes in past
he had helped to take shape in the truth dreams, fantasies, things
usually discarded from the life, or more worse still classified as
dangerous madnesses.
Instead for him, from risked behaviors,
outside from the reason, were been born healthy overturnings of
worlds, and what was not known, became in a moment notorious
unmasked most times an authentic collective dazzle dealt for
truth in which to believe.
From this point of view he was a poultice, a social hindrance,
nevertheless his unuseful qualities and an existance as minor friar.
Secrets ties subsist between the things that once seen near are
revealed more banal than what was believed completely without
information, nothing exceptional neither magical, neither
preternatural, but an ensemble of causes and effects, similitudes and
differences.
That moreover does not hinder the distance of the
beauty and the art, indeed. He thought that they became important
more than ever, in order to reveal the state of the things
inaccessible, or introduced which impossibilities, since to reveal
the most put away altruisms there were nothing but those peculiar
qualities.
With innocence of an infantile look the abysmal
circles of the truth are opened and they end, closing the eyes.
Perhaps the
person he thought to meet always lived close...
And intercepting the thought of another person on us is a
favorable situation of passage, of short interest between who
thinks and who is thinked.
The true discoveries are for other
thoughts impervious and accidental, dangerous, painful, deprive of
megalomanias. To dream with open eyes without dawdling on the human beings, this
he was, the evanescent artist.
Power
In the new room there are two radios rather oldish, the computer for the net, disappeared the televisions and music comes only from
the net. Like relics cassette player, the compact and a wrech
record player with burst acoustic cases.
There is a small
Japanese calculator, books and ancient newspapers full of powder to
the edges, notebooks with small checks and lines, economic pens and
pencils, pencil-sharpens and rubber to cancel, close to a branch
broken as ipsilon, the instrument of the dowser to try
to pick the intensity of every hour not to let anything to escape.
Here we don't need to think over, rather to live in the Mandala
opportunely designed to win on the
ancient powers.
While they were never late on deserved
glories, someone changed the water into wine and vice versa, according to
the requirements of the moment. This happened in a very small country,
indeed, it is better to say that there happened what was
already happened in the rest of the planet. In the silverplated climate of the winter the very small
fighter wrote his evening
per diem, fast to purge, active, with
cold feet and hands, but the rest of the warm body, wrapped in wool and Angora,
while the gulls exhibited themselves in the sky near snow and the
robin snooped with the merlon in garden seeking worms buckets
and berries.
He was only exited to see the polluted mental
state of worried, sore, exalted, elated people, with the aid of
colorful tablets. Roads absolutely missing of graceful and glad
things, except two improvised little bands with funny ruddy little men
with short legs skipping like crickets in love for the
moon, with discreet happening of public, but insufficient entrance of
money even for a single bottle of alcool.
The fighter
noticed amused that those players were in that moment very similar
to him, included the will to escape into a bottle towards distant
shores, but he had promised to himself he would hold his eyes very opened wide on
the horror at least two days.
It was a difficult passage
of powers, but it was succeeding, beginning from the harmonic effort
of purification not concurred from the old one that was in serious troubles. The happiness
against the power the sign of the command in fragments, no more
curfew in the evening.
Expired the time of the verification on the state
of the things, the fighter washed his hands and entered again into the
new room.
First mandala
A very little butterfly put down on a
very little flower, but it is not its flower. It's for the saleswoman of gifts,
who daydreams between romantic and weird poets.
It was my
doggerel some years ago, hypnotic spoken game, tender like the
lovers' friendships that have no hearth to ask more
and perhaps in the memory they remain the most adorable.
I had also
my mandala anciently designed with pen, lost or thrown away, goodness
knows, floreal joint of a circle and a square, both small
like me.
If I fixed it a long time, I saw the rosette of a
cathedral illuminated from the sun. My cathedral was dark, an
enormous rectangular space and in bottom little benches to
seat, a highest little altar, high walls, desert.
I liked
to take a walk in that space slowly, ahead and behind, without to seeking
anything, neither one divinity. I wished a stage without
people.
Proceeding towards the altar was the stalk of the
actor who did not think anything special, he was already full
of himself and on himself it had the eye of the large rosette.
My first mandala was a procession along flowery roads, it
was taking the body of Christ without believing in him neither thinking about,
but only because it was a walking towards the golden goblet, shining
roundness that captured the solar beams of the high beamed ceiling.
It was meeting everyday people and ignore them completely,
it was meeting a human being for few minutes and keeping him in mind forever,
decisive presence.
If I carefully fix with closed eyes
the figures who turn fast, in the years
unconsciously and totally spent, I see the geometries of spaces and
light, departures in train alone, never a return. And houses, gardens,
scents, my state of mind in that moment, the corporeal experiment in
progress, discovered mines.
Being tricked for my good, my refusal
of being loved, are lateral spots in the mandala, strong inks,
bleach the rest of the edge, with the discovery that I innocently
know to be cruel, of an extreme, total badness.
I could kill with
facility and for trite reasons, I know this instinct of mine, that has a
single origin in me, without ancestors, and not provoked from meanings events.
Just because I know it, I am not an assassin, I
abhor the violence, and I have as creedence the law above all.
Not blind, unavoidable law like life and death, but Jewish law,
a little wisdom, a little lightness, that abhors every fanaticism.
Solid born
convictions, observing and listening to the wretch human beings who
seldom are able to astonish.
It's incredible how many facts in
appearance important or long in the time are cancelled,
absorbed in the orbit of the first Mandala, vortex, turning monster,
only following its lines painted from a realist painter.
A field
barely grazed from the snow, watched with astonishment from the
window, and I do not know why it is so essential, it is there
marked on mandala.
Spatial minstrel, the knights, the promenading ladies
in mountain, the sinuose dancers, and the first mandala opens the petals
of the eternal passions. I
see the plants growing up, I arrange the flowers, I adore still now my first
mandala. It does not contain neither faints, neither
unavoidable hits taken on the way, but only the clear, essential
purity of the fluvial sprite, fanciful, elusive.
Mandala now
Moved outside, projected around and over an entire planet, it absorbs
and receives anyone, everywhere. Anyone knows how to connect, to
communicate, to ask, to think.
In some place of the earth it is
already the world, in others the new world, in others they barely know what
is it. But it impends from the skies as necessary,
unavoidable callback. I figure you from little time, in a very small
corner of the magical joint of circle that squares.
I take a
peep from behind the bench of the toys in sale, of the
naked dummies, me, slow like a snail, with pen and notebook, ancient,
baroque, nearly shy of coming here, without choice, by love or by constrain.
In the meantime I saw to collapse safe
palaces, inaccessible fortresses, and them more and more arrogant
inhabitants, bothered, enraged, rambled with blood in their mouth.
Before they were the enemies, the powerful men against
which fighting without crews with spirit of adventure and
imperturbable smile of the glorious ancestors tortured everytime
they dared to raise their eyes to look misdoings, unfairnesses.
Now from the rubbles comes a thin smoke of sadness, an incolmabile ruin,
because there are no more enemies, obstacles, but
a void of powers, and someone that pretends of still believe.
It's useless, the mandala ignores and proceeds, leaving
hung on the roofs, on the blinds, on the windows of the blue cars, on the
chairs of the restaurants the caricatures who chatter between.
I wonder of what will speak today, the untiring speakers,
attacked to the borders of their madness, that until some days ago was
contagious and it was able to pretend to be the truth,
churning entire villages. Nobody believes more in it, they run away
everywhere.
Sometimes I feel lost me too, deprived of references,
protecting figure, a half of my past life, in which
continuously I was rejected within me, only seizes to
maintain alive the dream of like you were born to the world,
indelebile natural stamp, without which already death comes.
And I was been born overflow of words.
I was cradled on
the collective, proud refusal to resist, I had the identity of the
rebel, the original. It was not too bad, to observe from
outside what was happening.
A secret voice suggested that I would
have part in this sooner or later of an unthinkable period, an other
community, but I always believed until yesterday that it were simply my
aspiration destined to remain
chimera.
Instead I am here. And now someone says to me that I can make
what I want, with pen and notebooks with lines and pictures,
because was right, in the ass of the whale.
Now they will say
also that nobody never prohibited it to me before, but fortunately to
testify the contrary there is my daily existence, lived outside of
the fray, not for my choice, but for extreme adaptation to one
unforgivable and rotting society.
First scenes
When I get within the net it is not like telephoning or watching a
beautiful film, it is to admire an ancient column, carved with war and
peace scenes, a column that tells the history of its times, well
scanned from skillful sculptors, from the bottom towards the top,
until that the reliefs become microscopical, and to watch them it is
necessary the binoculars or flying nearby with the helicopter that
it lands in the tip of the immense column.
No, the net is
not the tower of Confusion, is harmony, it is the mandala, and the
mandala is a column that encloses the scenes of the life flowing now.
Tower of Confusion is what there was before, world fictitious,
masked, where you could take mortal dazzles, because it never
did show itself for that it was, but set up under to your eyes,
delinquents to command and many to endure, pinioned wings.
System
plastered on itself irreparably, without not anymore possibility
to breathe innovation, reciprocations for merit, good job,
optimal operation, to the service and in the general interest. No.
They had blocked every movement.
the mandala is not a revenge,
but resembles to it.
Inside there is the sketch painted of the
jailbirds, but they are jailbirds at the eyes of everyone. Therefore who
chooses that panel is suddenly annexed with the clic of the
demand. Here, you are with your similars.
Maskings, it is
useless to tell lies, are discovered at once. And if you let
someone cheat you, it is so right, because the virtual lies
are also weaknesses of the mind, and the games are detectors of a
deep part of you.
While iI pretend to be what I am not,
I meet what is up to me. The ingenuous ones would discover the world.
Why, did you expect that the
human beings changed their nature? No sure. The system has
changed, faster, malleable, ruthless.
Goes ahead what to the
virtual one adds one more solid truth, not vice versa. Personal truth
not darkened from the Levantine contrivances by four lunatics.
Perhaps is for this that the mandala has something of extremely ancient,
primordial, regenerative, and a pioneering spirit,
wildly free in good and bad things. Everything slides in a travel without
obstacles. After the hyerogliphics, the papyruses, the parchments, the
press, the sound of music and the voice, the image, here is an harmonic ensemble
of thoughts that fly everywhere in a second, with every expressiveness
known until here and beyond.
My first scenes carved on the
mandala, happy for rambling here forever, are extreme actions
and blocks, nearly desperate from a corrupted country until
its bones, chaotic interlace of evident injustices, sadism and
delinquency. Small last homages to overwhelmed, when there was no more
effort even to resist, because it was useless. There
was nothing to do.
My infancy had the upper hand and it
has flown in the interspace together with the rebellious adolescent,
and the adult who sniggered by himself. Yes, it is a
triumph, I hit you, where the sun strikes alone
in a field of nudists.
From that moment jumped all the mistaken
parameters, in course in the mistaken place. And didn't matter to
me anymore of praises and acknowledgments, but only of being
able to make that for which I am in this world.
I already
caught up two million of spirits. I think that this is that this is success
and this can donate the reputation that survives, the posthumous one.
Second and millesime scenes
The television of my country is driven crazy, it's filled of
confessionals in which relate each other from the morning to the evening,
revealing every aspect of own private life, the mistaken loves,
those imaginary ones, the mental and corporal diseases.
In the
intervals it transmit the life of the persons, nearly was the only
amusement at this point allowed. They even closed with key
for months some young people in one room, with million persons to
spy them continually. There was an only prize for who would have been
more likeable. Poor guys.
And let's think that within the mandala
everyone gives himself the name he wants and usually everyone follows
the free instinct, sympathies, tendencies. And it is the bloom of a
rose of wonderful names or strange, petals opened on the
international scene, aggressive, sweet, charmed.
We can
communicate with the lost or found again spirits, but alive.
In a
moment you can cancel an unpleasant connection, insult, pass beyond.
There is nothing of passive, everything depends on us. Is in force the sacrosant right to hide, wide
protected from means never let them
find you, tell lies never discovered, not to show
in public things of ours that we would prefer not to see not even.
It's wonderful.
the television of my country resumes the young
people even 24 hours on 24, while they cry, release feelings with the
friends, go to the toilette, make love. And let them believe
that they will find a decorous job, easy money, that is
beautiful if many persons see and know who you are, that is there
the key of the success, the realization of the dreams. It is
terrible.
Every civilization at the sunset exhibits its
worst perversions, and is this the final phase of the initial
brainwashing, through the absolute passivity, with the abandonment of
every shame or healthy personal reaction.
In the mandala there is a
natural court for these crimes, slow, but inexorable punishment, until
the reconquest of every right, reading and observing what more
pleases, listening to the music and the words from every radio of the
world, the preferred musical groups as they were to record in
your room.
In public I left going to the cinema, because I
like it. Everyone can maintain healthy habits of the past,
since chooses of the new civilization, the advantages that most
adjust to his personal tastes.
The television of my country has
replaced the hospitals and the services of mental hygiene, the courts
and the jails. It has almost made to go out of control or to close, since
the means become gangway of hospital and lunatic asylum in
which with gossips and wailings cure one by
one. The means have become classroom of immediate sentences,
collective place of punishment. There is an announcer that orders
detaches to it advertising and, for the rest every thing resumed
is resolved in a day.
the television of my country does not
give more news, announces only persistent catastrophes, bogus
epidemics, imaginary diseases, since has necessity of a spasmodic
public by now, panicky, more and more enmesh in
grim conversations. So ended the television, perhaps one
time symbol of progress.
Is a little right who one day preferred
the fireflies of the field and the oil-lanterns to the
audiovisional civilization. The human beings disfigured by television jump
to our eyes.
Cogito
We come back to the thought before saying or writing something to
another person. It is communicated synthetically, but it is a
true contact, the curiosity to know strangers, aliens, to reach them
in a moment in their cities. And from there come back direct informations on the
life that slides. Together can known everything we want.
While those that live under your windows quarrell,
scream, stay for hours in such state without making anything,
slaughtering for little events.
It is moving, isolate parts of a died
world and newly enjoy the great river that flows.
Do you believe that
it is inhuman? No, it is right therefore, all would do it,
until the black hole that the mind has swallowed will
disappear forever. If we take with ourselves pieces of lobotomy, there would
need a meat mincer to make them in so very small parts to
be food for the rats of laboratory.
It is one of the many incredible
stories that preceded the reign of the mandala.
Is time money?
He worked in a noisy room that the others called office, and ran
up and down for three stairs without elevator, because it was
always broken. Exchange dealer for a great bank he was running after
numbers that bounced from the screen, that ululated from the cellphone, going up and down, and they were stopped in motion only
for some hours in the night.
He was not stopped by now and in
the darkness he continued to see the numbers motionless or in motion,
figuring them enormous or small, like at an oculistica visit, until the
fatidical moment in which an important phrase fixed in his mind, a phrase that
he might have captured from the radio or for road in a conversation
between friends.
More than other it was a fixed question mark. Is time money?
Noticed that he didn't minimally know to answer,
because if the time were his days with the figures, yes, yes, yes,
they were smoke, avalanches of money, like the room used after
warehouse of the richest gosling in the world.
But if the time were
the little interval between a closing and a reopening of the stock market, then
no, no, no, it was something that he ignored, perhaps was a dream
or simply the taste to sleep with fragrant, warm sheet, while outside
it drizzled. What lacked more, the time or the money? To him, both.
He was a been born runner, to the run-up tried their conquest,
competing with the ones nearby him.
When the cellphone did not
ring, he played head-cross with out of order old coins, and
it was an amusing way to pass the time that however was so slow to
paralyze the sweet swing of the beloved numbers.
The
perfumed colleagues arrived in the morning and in order, they exited from
scream-room in the late afternoon, upside down and stinking, still
noisier, disputing about finite and infinite numbers. The time was
ended until the adjacent day.
Fortunately there were forecasts to make, numbers that did not
return to fix, accounts to open or to close suddenly
And then the time re-entered on the usual binaries, without
breath.
In the night the bingo or the lottery was not
therefore bad, it was always a matter of noises, while the insomnia
cured the illusion not to lose a crumb of time, as were
making the many asleep ones of the metropolitan jungle.
When he went to work between his adored numbers, he laugh of the
masked chalk boys, with the basket of the donations.
Or of the Chinese who painted in the ground with colored chalks
those strange oblong numbers, wasting a lot of precious time.
Here, it was in that point of the square that had read his
nagging phrase. Now he brightly remembered.
The blackest Day in Trade Market
Since the first lights of the dawn index fell like a
snow avalanche, down, down, more and more down and it was never stopped.
At noon they had all fear and they struck the teeth between
a laugh and another due to excessive alcool mixture and
coffee.
He went to eat something, but before he noticed an
curious twinkle just at the secondary entrance of the bank that
was opened to a court full of black cats.
He also noticed a fresh rose,
thrown away on pavement.
The twinkle was not else than
soap bubbles between the sun, launch from an open window by a
bored child, but he decoded in them some messages in his language and in a
language absolutely out of order, ancient like a collection of money.
On the only phrase the thought, the
usual, only the entirely comprehensible one.
the doubt that harassed him was if the last sign were or not a question mark than sped up it to an answer, like if truly it existed in the
world of the invisibile someone interested to having a contact
directed with his mind.
Until there had thought that the madness
regarded only who was forehead, but now he had fear to drive
crazy if were not quick to close that affair.
Ran again through the repertoire of the fantastic readings, seeking relief in
personages that had something with the unknown,
dearly getting out of troubles. He tried between the comic strips a way
to face the unpleasant worry. Nothing of nothing.
The writes and the
messages were multiplied by now like the money with the titles
just rising and nobody could stop them, in the power of skillful
gamblers.
In the meantime the trade market had a little resumed, the worsthad
passed, time slid slowly.
He tried to reorder the
things. Little by little the writings disappeared and remained only
the thought of the time and the money. He tried to resolve the enigma
with a chain of utilitarian suppositions.
He felt raised in that
moment, started again to smile and to trust in the
future that only an hour before seemed not to be anymore.
Like if
nothing were happened he did not get the road backwards, it
put down a currency in the basket of the begging dog, encouraged the
Chinese, sympatized with the plaster boys.
He was a man of
numbers and money, he screamed and ran and so was also his time.
But in his evening diary he wrote: "The effort behind the hours
is comparable to a free fight in which who wins is firmer to wait for
joys and pains. We can laze or be occupied. Time passes
fast if someone is well, vice versa never.
The time of the lovers
is imprendible, nondescript, and this is the temporal preciosity.
There was nothing else to add.
The evanescente artist
Sometimes it comes spontaneous to think to my dear beloveds
ancestors artists and among them to the ones most similar to me
or for temperament or for profession.
Music
accompanies my life, it is its soundtrack, it is a kind
of physical necessity making the things wrapped from notes. Sometimes
the human voice bothers me. This is why I do not love
particularly the work, except the most tenuous tunes or ancient
madrigals.
The musicians more than the painters are suited to
me outside of my kind, within which I love only the greatest ones,
ignoring the rest peacefully. But also some painter is able to speak
to my spirit, to alienate me for a little while.
In every
kind I see the mediocre one, the ridicule, with irony and much
amusement, because there is nothing more not more funny of an attempt
of failed flight.
I love the lyric one more than the narrator,
but there were players so sublime to re-unite in theirselves every
song, and these I love out of limit.
In my country, where every
kind is faded, the last singers closed themselves, waiting for
the death within houses that are mausoleums, or dreamed to escape
from decline, running in the night with bicycle to new worlds. But it was
at this point too late.
Sometimes I ask myself for
fun what they would make now, in my place. And the answer is
always the same, fast, the obvious one. They would make what I
make every day perhaps complaining, and writing more.
Fortunately times changed, I live in the entire world,
he does not have anymore importance where I was born or the language that
I speak, and where I find myself to live. In this phase of the human history I speak to the planet.
And my work will
remain around without borders when I will not be here anymore physically. I
have not just anything to complain.
That's why now I want to say mea culpa for my weaknesses, my
failures, my little courage, victimistic, mawkish attitudes,
loaded from my feminine part. The dazzles that sometimes I take for
too much naivety, the childish superstitions with which my blood ancestors
contaminated me.
I must have to do like with alcohol tobacco that I hold under control,
because they remain you heal pleasures and not insane necessities.
The thing of which I more am ashamed as evanescent artist is
tremendous, I feel shame to confess it, because it matters just what
I have most beloved, my creative state and my true ancestors. I
fear the cruelty of the human beings towards us, the envy and the
incomprehension towards our privileged condition from which however
we have also atrocious suffering, not only glory and pleased joy.
It's like that we artists pay alot for the blazon
and not there would be need in adding to that to fall victims of who
are not like us.
There is a musician that I consider the
symbol of our race. Well, my mediocre part has considered a threat
always impending the one to end my days in catch of debits and
very bad health, until the pitiless interment in a pauper grave.
I
have terror that the same fate could reach me and I am deeply ashamed of it,
because my noble part wishes to me with all heart to get closer at
least for thousandth to the greatness of his art and to ignore any
other appearance.
There is a conflict within of me that makes me
think to my purity as a big weight from which sometimes
taking the distances, hide myself from stranger eyes
not to be identified and exterminated. I am a true
coward.
A beautiful thing is that sometimes I extend the same
fiction also to me and I tranquilize myself, thinking that at alst
I am only a evanescente artist. What do you want could
happen to me? Nothing. I was able to speak about this
disagreeable thing, but I still have other things to confess.
Listen what happened to me one night in Lille, France, where
I stopped to sleep after an unpleasant travel under a
torrential rain for the whole Olanda.
I arrived when it was already
dark in a graceful hotel of the center, that seemed the center by hand
embroidered, of the ones that are well everywhere, but particularly under
a portrait, in the little table of the boudoir or under ashtray in a
small fumoir.
After a supper too much light in which more
than other we taste a little all what offers the buffet but
a little drunk for the various qualities of wine served from the
French generous, I came at once in my room.
It was much
wide, with a bath and a veranda that overlooked on the inner garden of
the hotel. A long corridor with sage-green armchairs and
golden portraits, statuettes, solemn mirrors, joined my room to
the rest of the stair, silent as in religious concentration.
It seemed
to me were not other hosts beyond me and this filled up me with a
strange excitation. I worked hard to take sleep in the big white bed,
icy like the winter. The sky as I caught a glimpse from the
glasses was white for sleet.
I don't remember well if at a certain point
I fell really asleep, or if it was only the torpor of the wine.
A sweet jingle like the ones that children use to sing however woke up me,
like the ring of a carillon.
I do
not know still now why instead of going to the toilette, I exited
to the corridor to snoop, following the music.
Perhaps I
wanted to be sure that it was not a matter of my inner sound, I
wanted to understand from where came those delicate notes.
And I saw
a silver child in a snow vapor, icily powdered and seated next to
the mirror.
I felt an unexpected modesty, as I did not have
bother him, and I returned under blankets, forced myself to close the eyes,
I forgot him.
Sometimes I have rethought to that night in
Lille, me who don't go hunting sprites, me who don't believe in ghosts.
Yes. I saw Mozart as child, and since that night I have fear to lose my child
that I guard like strained gold, because noone can know what could happen
to an artist, if the life or other circumstances makes him to grow
suddenly.
It's a risk that I do not want to run. Better to
pretend of being adult, keeping inside every fear, being an evanescent
artist.
Strained gold
His day began lazy, after a dream that was nearly an incubus. He
asked for a job and apologized to ask for it to survive. There was the
sun finally, after two universal deluge days, in which it was remained
plugged in house and in the dark, like a rat in the lair, without
seeing anything and anybody.
In company of a book written some
months before he was born. City, places, females, and people that
the writer defined hostile, enemy of the beauty, envious, overflow
of black bile.
He imagined he was a kind of good old man, end du siécle.
He had written a book of memories on things
in the way of extinction, except grass, waters and other aspects
of nature.
He felt the need to abandon book and writings, and to
exit to take a walk for the great garden, to go across new tracks, to
experiment. He found himself at the fountain of the sea horses to breathe with
joy that solitude many times repudiated, wasting time in stupid
compagnie.
Important people walked, bound to their cellphones,
full of appointments, things to do. He had only little
money to spend for the expenses, and to think to how much were beautiful the games of
light in the park, and down, over the palaces, the
red afternoon within his room of conjectures.
He asked to himself
how long could last his condition of unemployed, in that world of
runs-up and breathlessnesses, that solitude becomes time after time strain gold.
It was a special suspension from the others, that made
him to ramble, to float like the adolescents when they exit
from school and do not return at once home.
In such
dimension he chose the persons which he could deal with.
That day for example he greeted a cat and met a beautiful
lady, in the magical wake of the hardly read book. The successive
day he was found to cross around a papal villa, where they
were shooting an American motion-picture. He greeted another cat and noticed
the monstrous body of the sea-horses that had half body of
fish, tail of fish, and only the two front legs from equine. Little
evil those wings, but what helped, make them flying fishes, or flying
horses as the hippogriph?
He would have never left his golden
condition.
To have sufficient moneies in the incoming years,
he would have invented something, never and then never he would
have abandoned what enjoyed in that moment.
He came back home,
and at the television there were the funerals of a Queen.
Work
I introduce you my modernized curriculum today of the things that I
am able to do, because you find a job commensurated to my qualities. But
pay attention, because I will be beggar and will suffer the
hunger, rather than accepting from you a not adjust trade.
From when learned
reading I write everything, poetries, novels, nonsense and other galore.
I know I make every room pleasant where I put the eye,
creating space, light and pleasant things. I embellish the places
like a small architect with little sagacities. Aesthetic elfin I was born, with a natural harmony of which I greatly boast.
I dance as I had a dance school, lively and energetic like a
cricket in the evenings of August in means to the fresh dew field.
And I recite, declare my poems and the ones of other appreciated singers
with passion and skill.
I am able to listen to the troubles
of the human beings and resolve them here like tricks. I satirize,
as we used to do, mighty people of every atmosphere and degree,
catching a glimpse in little time their weakness, the showiest manias,
not for availed again spirit or games of power, but for
my amusement and of which is listening to me.
I know how to choose
garments and to bind together colors, I divine the meterological
conditions, flowers and plants do not have secrets for me.
I know how to
hold in great order house and to prepare coffee, thè, aperitifs; I
cook alone raw vegetables, or to the furnace, and a few other, paste,
potatoes, eggs, but this I am able to do in healthy way. I know how to
economize in expenses, clean up the shoes, cut well discreetly
the hair, like if I had taken to a ship from the Sicily towards the
Americas in the last century.
the rest I make as blunders
and I am slow, obsessive. I don't recommend to you to test me,
because you would leave your reputation.
I am able to stay alone and to be lazy
like the ancient Gods, feeling very rarely boredom and sadness
more for aesthetic reasons, offenses, than for afterthought on what
I am. It gets away from me in a moment. This is my character. Until
today, an
entire timewaster country abstained to give an answer to my clear qualities.
Therefore I want generously to give to it
a last possibility to make up for and to have something to do in
several ways with an its valid son.
The true history of the ghost of Lille
I have seen Mozart, I do not joke, I don't boast with you of an imaginary
fact. He was here, icily candid, a little guy dressed of velvet and
laces with the white stockings and those bootees with the
square tip and with silverplated buckle that I wear many years
ago as adolescent. I was so in love with them to continue to shoe them
with perforated sole, risking to tread on the nail. Bootees of the
century of the lights than made to feel me well like the red
cursed bootees for which someone drives crazy of love, dancing.
It's a shape
of shoes universal. In every season of my life I had a
similar one in wardrobe, or glossy or of velvet, and while I walk
within it together to me proceeds the phantom of the some very
illustrious one, with moderate manners, refined, towards a popular
masked festivity .
I want to reveal what I knew about
the ghost of the hotel of Lille the morning after from the waiters
and the doorman.
I did not point out to anybody of my nocturnal
sight not to let them judge me weird. I asked as tourist
of which was the graceful statuette that made beautiful view of
itself in the scented room of chocolate bonbons.
They answered
to me gladly vivaciously like it were a matter of their
greater attraction, and the curiosities abounded in their
romances.
"It says that here is not
only the statue, but a true and a just ghost, yes, if you do not
have fear, because we know, the master does not want that it is said
for fear to lose customers. You will make the suitcase, is it true?
"But we say this however, because, in short, who can have fear
to see the great Mozart?
"He appears in different ways, at least
according to the several confessions.
"There are who believe
to have felt a spinet complaining, a child who is hungry and calls
his mother gracefully, without insisting too much.
"The fact most
singular happened to a host musician who by expedient was
also a poet, moreover in pedestrian way. He arrived and restarted to the
flight, pale like if they had taken off blood from his veins,
churned as he was chased from a pitiless assassin come there in order
to kill him.
"The poor man never report what happened to him in those little hours between the night and the
dawn, in which he had started to trouble the entire hotel with vocal
compositions of his creation. A mystery remains the way in which
appeared to him our beloved ghost, causing his fastest
depart.
" We found his trousers hung to the skylight, devil
Mozart."
This and other told the servants, and I noticed of their
devotion for that mysterious child who many years ago lived
in one of the luxurious rooms of the hotel. He was the greatest
celebrity who passed there.
These things I knew
after my magical night, otherwise I could well say that stupid
infatuation and suggestion guided my senses towards the dreamy visions.
But it was not, I have seen and felt and I have a
religious modesty in reporting the event.
"Can you clean up my
shoes?" said to me the white shadow perhaps come down like
me from the forests over Helsinki.
" Good, is just there that I
have met you. Nobody arrives to me except for deep solitude. The
games, the festivities are nothing. What reveals our making
is the staying around alone, no obligation, no constraint.
This is our vague consistency as alive and dead men. It is
the same.
In that time my quality were upside down turned to
the mandala and still today I am fighting to straighten up them. Then
I was in escape and delirium, and to see him has been a gift of
destiny.
I knows I am able of extreme actions, even to kill or to
kill myself, I never do not find a direction, entertain myself to the void, but
what in origin I am always I have known it and I sin only
of vanity in telling it.
I will be the lowest circle more of the
mandala, the one that never frames itself perfectly into square.
The first
rose is me. The second one is what I have sacred, the
art. The rest is not much important, it is temporary, sometimes
vain.
"Can you clean up my
shoes?", and peaks and candid
laces wrapped from mistral grazed, waving golden putty.
There is a third rose, perhaps the first in my mandala.
It is my being child that I never lose.
my wandering shadow is
not white, silverplated, but reddish, with the taste of
blueberry and raspberry. Child will be she to see again Mozart, at last
astonishing and bright.
My shadow
The shadow that will be after me is not different from this
dodge living being I take on. He will have the same
stirred, impure, liveliest colors in nature.
I well know each his shading tasted in the
flavors, real, long days of golden leisure
in which we visit every pavilion, every tabernacle of our country villa
with small lake and friends animals, and improvises the
scenes of the life before taking them to the stage.
The body and
the shadow are together from ever, don't interfere, neither scare each other.
And nearly without borders I preview my death, sweet unbloody passage
from the old carcass to what I had been always, a
shadow, term of every desire already satisfied, only certainty.
Me, almost tired. not yet totally, in the melancholic goodbye to the world wonders.
I am able to see the shadow I will be, cheerful over the hills,
wandering among the oriental and of north-European tourists, or
the American boys with the healthy colour. The swans of the lake
will raise the neck, searching something, but the cats will see it
white and black, they will lovely purr thereabout the happy water.
Will still bewitch me the
garden, that sweetish scent of white hedges that is a
compound of love and death.
My beloved shadow will be completely
forgetful, is worth to say that it will not remember me,
of what I have been while still alive and much less
of what I was and what I made.
For her I could have been a saint or worse still a
brigand. Having arranged unforgivable things. Only sometimes she
will hesitate on my ancient passions, without knowing
that they inflamed me in proceeding gropingly to end their days.
She will not ask herself why, will glide down tired of
every human sense, seeking her wasted time at the cinema when they give
movies of vampires. And if in the night she will perchance
in the large mandala, she will run also into my site
without troubles.
She will not be the most assiduous between my new
readers indeed, she will prefer other sites of plants and of
animals, the photographies of a planet in festivity, the crashs in sky
between meteorites, the forecasts of the time over the continents.
Instead eating, drinking, smoking, the shadow will smell in the other
sweet defects, will enjoy their satisfied faces. In short, the one
that will be detached from me will be a beautiful shadow.
This is
a mandalic game that not darks completely courage to ask in the air
delicately who I will be when I will not be here anymore. It's a fantasy
without soothsayers, tarots, berries of rice propitiatory,
smoking entrails, deep of coffee.
I make it when I am close to a change, of
the two or three that transformed me, a kind of death and
rebirth like the shadow. Nothing ends and everything changes,
it is true.
One likeable phantom
Every invention is born on a true body that moves towards
its desires and turns away from it if it goes towards the death.
Every story is an entire, epic life, a sculpture that turns around
to the highest column like the one we are going to describe.
Music at the radio was continually interrupted, while it was broadcasting German
singing of a melting tenderness, male voice pasted of honey and
cider.
It was carnival thursday. Outside paraded wagons and
confetti and the sweetish air was to eat with opened mouth, a
lot it tasted of maroons and flakes.
A poor unemployed phantom
seeked some human being to scare, but there were at this point little demands
on market, pitily collapsed after a row of stupiden films of
horror that had amused the populations of the planet.
The
miserable ghost come down to the road and blended with the masks, beginning his day of peregrination under the main entrances of the most ancient
palaces in Rome witht he never smouldering hope to
flush out before or after a child or an adult a little confused who would have
appreciated its endowments.
He knew only how to appear suddenly, a shine in the darkness, and stay motionless
with a certain pompousness as is used to the noblest sprite remained in circulation.
He had not cruel events to boast, its genealogy was clean, never
human or natural law it was smashed from its ancestors that
limited theirselves
to illuminate some attic of the dépendance or some
narrow angle of the bedroom of a castle.
More than ghosts
the ancestors were like substitutes of the most functional reddish lamps.
From them our small phantom had learned to change
expressions of the ace, like a valid dumb actor.
He had become good in executing truce and gruff faces,
like the one of the hanged person
who smothered and also the face of the spirit happily joyful with
the shelled and mocking big eyes.
When were the days of the
carnival it could train undisturbed to appear as soon as it
began to be dark, and to test in means to the crowd the presence of
some human being more inclined to snoop around the appearances.
Generally nobody noticed the differences between the pale perfect
performances and the simple overwhelmed templates that took a walk for game,
acting the role of animal, hero, died king with plastic face and hair.
The entrance hall of a palace illuminated by
thousand torches to orient the invited ones to the festivity,
furrowed from awkward vampires, false cinderellas and cardinals
without crocifix.
The phantom flew beyond without touching
earth and was found in means to a pandemonium of large masks that
ate, drank, danced, ran to the garden, where continued the banquet
for the ones who were hot.
An orchestra dressed as crickets in livery
performed old songs like at the birthday of the queen.
Two masks ran after each one between magnolias calling each other,
and a fat broad diva proceeded drunk, holding in hand a mute parrot.
Frightened by that so big crash, the phantom was sheltered in the most dark
and silent room of the palace where there was an enormous dull fireplace.
He lied down there within attempting that someone, even
mistaking direction, getting lost, or snooping around reached here. He
could kindly try to frighten him, at least surprise him a little. Nobody came.
Among the notes stuffed with wadding of the valzer of
the candles the ghost made drowsy and when he slept he emanated
a husky pink light.
He dreamed like an alive one, making a travel
within the round matrioska that contained inside another and another again
until the smallest Russian small doll never existed, one
nailhead of pin. The ghost was there within in the warm.
He would never exit from there, and for homesickness
of that dark and warm angle he had drained barrels of vodka and
eaten tons of cakies, without succeeding to getting inside.
They had hidden there his grandfathers during a long bloody war that
the humans they never did stop to fight, urged from the cruel
drunk wind of the steppe.
Was the first, wonderful memory of
himself that it had clear. That night, perhaps seeing the customs of
a history of the past with king killed and starved people, the
phantom remembered more easily.
Long time
ago he appeared to a scared child to save her from dead women sure, and it
had traumatized her so much that the one not only succeeded in escaping,
but she became a little crazy, forgetting even her name.
More ahead in the years, in Paris on the side of Senna, the ghosts of the assassinated ones by
french revolution called her prince Anastasia,
laughing so loud of her and of her court of
Russian drunk men.
The phantoms sometimes know how to be cruel with
the alive ones, but now he knew to be quite faithful to an ancient
memory. That rose-colored velvet child remained in
order always their preferred protect one in the innumerable
reincarnations with name and body change.
The last Anastasia
was a girl a little foolish always in means to the troubles, and if
she did not have them she went to seek them. Troubles lovings or of
money. Nothing could that the phantom blew between her curly
hair, since that ones were not calmed not even with the camomille.
The phantom lived nearby to the
current shadow in the memory of the first Anastasia, suggesting to her how to be dressed, how to behave.
Being her guardian angel.
It was another story in
the memory of the beloved little phantom, a fool that he well
remembered, before he had it in his new, wretch country.
Was found for accident and out of spite to ramble in the unhair and
pebbly small wood over a small river that rolled down active
from the tops of the central Appennino, when he saw a man that
walked with the head. There was a violet fog that freezed the
boneses even to the ones like the likeable phantom never had
cold. Down downstairs the peasants ignited the fire, preparing the
evening meal with the good Tuscany wine and with a joy that came
from mysterious places, inhabited by witches.
The gentle
and proud man who spoke to its piece about wood re-entered on up
to the castle of the family.
Immaginate the joy of the phantom,
when he realized he was following the right person, a
lord of a castle able to appreciate his duty.
The noble man put
his wood to burn and while that one took fire very well, illuminating
daily the room, he began to write with energy, sniggering between himself.
The phantom determined of the writer said visibly, on
turns for the wine and lean dinner.
Because of a game of glares the
shadow truly seemed to be born from burning carbons and had hands,
feet and above all the nose much long, incommensuratei regarding the
thin and squared little body.
The ghost was amused in vein of
presentations. Instead that inspired, captured from his
reveries, said for sure that thing had taken life from
the wood stock as it was inventing slowly, enjoying himself so much for his
creation.
" We see, bad wood monster, that you taste of
blueberries and marzipan as you want that it calls to you, or I must
make everything by nyself?
"What help your big feet to yourself if you do
not know to be in erected position. You stop pretty to sell lies
than soon you will not resist ig nose anymore".
The rascal
phantom was lend to the game and passing to the wood of the
pine he answered timidly. " If just you want to give me a name,
then I am called Pinocchio from all the world I will be
glad about it". And he disappeared at sight clouded of the artist.
But he followed him everywhere into the rooms of the castle, in the
garden until the red rooster.
To that beacon sang the
ghost transformed the feathered one in a china object with pierced
tail that played to the breath, making it gift to his drowsy getlteman.
It prodigal pointed out for farces. He
captured a cricket, a fox, a wild cat, even one snail with its
cottage; he carved three puppets to largeness scale like the
matrioske and he put down them over the fireplace, because they made
company too much the lonely man.
And those ended listed with
fastidiousness in the papers of the bureau. When the amusement
ended the book was ready.
The likeable phantom flew to another
place, to another time, carrying with himself the memory of that
gentleman of the Appennino than every a lot it came down to the
country tavern to farces to call him lounger and of the good
wine that never turns into vinegar.
The dreams of the ghost
stopped, since two dancers entered twirling into the dark room where
that one was hanging in the air, dangling around in an imaginary see-saw.
As usual he didn't realize that he
remained once again without job, without seizes in order to scare
seriously.
Song of the sirene
He followed always the song of the sirens from whichever direction and
distance it came in particular periods of his life, in which there
was need of intangible things, enigmas to decipher, pushed emotional
strong that they made to cross asphyxiated borders, unsurmountable
walls, fixed become dwellings prisons without visible slabs.
Someone could assert that he more alternated normal periods in which
he lead an existence similar to the others, to periods of madness or
less bright in which he was swallowed in the enhancement.
Then dazed felt and made weird things, risked choices,
matters of head from nervous second exhaustion the
scientific current classification.
From his point of view great
truths, the ones sheltering in the beautiful fable where they
decide and are the king, the commanders. And all smooth row like the
oil. Every desire, every demand, every whim automatically comes
satisfied.
The passage of the madness was surpassed when he did
not distinguish anymore the fantasy from the real thing and began to
believe in them, to amuse of them in obsessive way.
The last time began
to think that someone dedicated songs to him at the radio, words to
which he attributed a concrete sense and to which long series
of musical pieces had comply.
In those days became. Poor themes that concurred to close the door to the
other dull perceptions than they distracted him from his new world
the future there, in the range of a hand.
The pleasure hermit, block
organized himself slowly, accurately in the way to change identity,
city, job.
In the preparation of his plan, he was a protagonist,
important figure of reality, of I enunciate, the
truth, in a position to conditioning with his taken of position the
life of many people.
At that time he truly risked to become crazy with that
strange way to do, without possibility to come
back to ancient thoughts. I can say to you that he became important too
in safe atmospheres still disowned to more, a
kind of living rarity.
Now he is protagonist of a freer
existence he realizes, and thanks that musical madness that pushed
it to farces courage, to try the unknown one, the indefinite one,
armed with phantasies.
Sometimes looking behind he still
thinks that he has not been the case, but a magical dark invoice to
push him beyond what he was. But he only believes less and less, every
as well as, when he observes the small letters phenomena of the
nature and wonders to us of their precision, not knowing himself as
they make to being therefore true and therefore amazing together.
A statue and a spider
It happened in one of those days in which all good goes, not to
worry it doesn't matter. It falls the pen to earth and what
happens?
You drraw out a paper from the bunch and you lose the rhyme.
A
fantastic concert between the conifers in the ancient house of the
popes captured the dialogue between a mysterious statue and a spider
that was found to pass here, after to be escaped to the polluted lake
and the spout of a dirty and wicked duck, that a peaceful
water turtle made a din against the gulls and with the head hold out
to take sun.
The statue was settled in great thought, beautiful in
face, dressed as getlteman, and last traced backs roughly, a
lot was the passion of a heart not yet petrified.
- The
statue -
"Here my ideal company, a small spider that does not
have fear of the skull and owl, because it does not know who I was
in the world that I left prematurely.
"They say that I pits magician poet that chased the
ghosts of the dames live or dead.
Always I was gotten passionate for a neck I alter, for curls in
the wind, scented of rare essences, but they have not been that
vague lover, because my papers were true love.
"The Night and
day the white pages called me are filled up with the vain
things of the mind, with the abductions of the senses, the subjects of
gossip of the city corrupt. Still young transfixed to Prati
Elisi on my firm will of I redeem from the shabbiness of the fate
one and of human.
"The Admirers secrets they founded an
association that takes my name and perhaps erected this statue in my
memory.
" Also you spider lively and curious were one of
them in another front life, noble and appealing to like me and now
you are reduced to you therefore polluted of influences with white
markings, curved, halting and ugly at sight.
"But no
matter. If you want follow me, I am available, since have
much time and I am always lonely.
"The human beings are in failure in
order to make to feel that they are alive. At least silent you are so
much and you take me memory of the blissful days, when everything
was revealed for before the time and the last one and I ran
possessed from the God of the wind":
- the spider -
" I have
lost much time I make my web I had woven too much thin
and that one was not able to resist not even the needles of pine in
autumn, figure yourself the capricious inclemencies of March or the
weight of the daisy petals. I had made a house so light that I found
again myself very soon without, to wander on the grass, to jump from a
small branch to the other lacking of guideline. While I heard the
speeches of wandering people.
" I believe I have been always a spider
for your disappointment, but bout it I am proud, because I hide well also
in smallest holes. And I am enemy of bugs annoying borings and, ants
and other.
" They are not then therefore ugly, there is worse in
nature. To who he knows to me to appreciate I I even carry
fortune. Therefore they say ancient enhancements found again in
catacombs.
" It's a mystery that you speak my language, nobleman
architecture that follows my splendid webbings to wind.
" I
explain with an enchantment and perhaps you are indeed wizard whom
you say and you know things of animals and plants that only the
scientist it approaches without moreover to comprise of everything.
"My virtue of having memory of elephant of my filiform distances,
are an optimal mathematician, to make lofty geometries without any effort
in the world of Lilliput that one of my race it invented to see it
then copied from one of you giants.
"You are for me
giant of " If you want to explain to mei what you are, know that I have eyes in
order to see and perceive the hard one and the soft one. I have
ears, miraculous radars that seize to the flight the song of the
birds, the nursery rhyme of the twenty, the noises of the uman beings.
"And
escape with fright their infernal machinery and to every foot I
prefer the leaks of an earthquake ".
- the statue -
" Which
artist, I imagine perfectly as the life of a poor one must is
difficult spider not even big to give fear in order to
remove the thousand dangers that are incumbent on your hairy little body.
"You, friend of mine, not frights, you only make a little
disgust and this enough to make you crush like a midge.
" I
would not want to never fall in your body for one wrong
reincarnation, better to smell at last in the grave. " Once I made a
witchcraft to read my rebirths. I saw a minx, a rat
and a swan.
" I transformed a gone love downfall into something
that looks like you, one yellow scorpion with a straight tail. " I know It,
also you creeds that these are the fruits of an unbridled fantasy, but
I assure, it is not in this way".
This is the artist today and who
visits him random or by error.
Searching for home
Walls of Rome tell stories of every kind, speak from the dawn to the
sunset incessantly, stunning the human beings with quackish and diabolic
buzz time marked from the sound of bells.
They talk about
unrepeatable vicissitudes of an extreme cruelty, transport the
sighful echo of innocent victims, restless died that peace is not
given and tries to enter into contact with the alive ones in the pure
spaces of the metropolitan loneliness.
Therefore happen that the
stupid case entrusts blind person like a mole to these residual
ones of story and decide for you what it
will happen to you suddenly, most rational copy.
You are seeking home
covering the roads with the map for tourists You have walked to
along in the years from quarter to quarter scientifically, having
learned to orientate yourself in the every center and outskirtses with
discreet skill.
And you remember room of your permanence, from that
one of the bored student to those of the impossible loves. Some were
frightful, wretch as the room to pension at the widow who went to
theatre and controlled your sanitary paper.
White coffee walls to
and the hardened bread, cans of beer drunk secretly in order to
resist, to grow towards freedom.
And then the house of potatoes,
sausage and the cheese, still beers and wine to gain the fear
of appearing on the full courtyard of plastic envelopes.
The boudoir of the hotel with three stars, enormous conquest,
ready breakfast and crackers, salami, cheese, but not only beers, the
wine in fridge for the emergencies.
Finally the house of your
preferred walk, the one that let to die for hunger, the worries of
daughter, husband, neighbors and patients very sadists, one poor
good psychologist and perhaps a little dumb. Your house for five
eternal years, shelter, cloister of friars who prayed against hundreds
of devils.
Now swallows the future to you and reaches random to
the house of the beautiful ones of night with the abruzzese
owner. Temporary house, for little months, like your life to
which you are never attached.
You will walk for a little between
hopes and billing spasms, two steps far from the Sistina Nailhead.
You arrived to the borders of Rome and the country that you disown and
has denied you so long, healthy son, balance a little ingenuous,
decided to make your road at all costs.
The square and the circle
I move to the edges of the world-wide mandala, hiding myself under a
plumbeous medieval cape, seeker of gold, untiring operator of myself.
I must perfect my square that still stretches to tear away at the
four angles, expanding in shapeless figures in the space dispersed
between the adolescence and the void.
Nevertheless it is well
shaped, it is a perfect square, designed from my renunciations, from
the hope that renews the vital joy at every spring that comes,
locking up the chimeras in a vague place without strength.
The square
is solid that remains of me after every devastation, the one that
does not move and reform in very short time. I worked hard to well design,
in the suffering of the abandonment of a lazy and vitiated
youthness, but now I will raise to it a votive statue, so much is
the pride of my design. No, I have nothing against the circle that
swallows me sometimes in spirals, indeed, I consider it an
other resource of my uncontrollable spirit.
What annoys me of
the circle is that it turns to alternated speed on its regard, too
much fast now, slowly debilitating now not in tune with my days of
observation of the nature and the human fauna, with enterprises and
yieldings a little outside of the common history.
Is the circle more than
the splendid square that I am not still able to
frame within the chisel, in the course of the handicraft
workings on the inner mandala. Now I am too much slow, now fast in
excess and the circle flakes off into thousand roundnesses outside the
square.
The masters, the crews
I am trying to draw up a long directory of the human beings who
conditioned me more. And the mind goes to freest and joyful between them,
to those people which life is a pleasant afternoon of
inventions, of fireworks, creations.
I do not say even
the names, it no needs, because still they throne like
vaporous clouds over politicians, bankers, oil tankers, dull people,
made up with cosmetics and gold. Not randomly.
But my particular
story had also the luck to intersect a simple honest
and strong human being, able to fly over his village chained to past.
He defied all, closed in absolute hush and he succeeded, watching to the future.
I due to this gentleman the sharpened arms
with which today I can cross every border and
committ myself, smiling, to what will be after me. The external mandala,
the net.
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