Edda Tassi poetessa e scrittrice italiana contemporanea

Know yourself

"... they killed your son, therefore kill me as soon as possible". But the Indian answered: "When I wanted to kill you, I remembered of my son, and took pity of you. I don't tease you: come back to yours, and continue to kill us, if you want". And he left him go.
The priest of the sun loved the ancient fables and she wrote some of them once in a while, when the golden energy began to decrease over lands burned by the full summer.
They entrusted her another hopeless case. They took him chained at night, and now he already found himself in those beautifulst lodgings, to the sure one, we don't known for how many time.
Naturally, like all the foreign hosts, also that one had been put in a position not to harm more nor to the other, nor to himself. Watched closely, hands bound in manner that was able to eat and to drink, and more fulfilling to other useful tasks of the daily life.
He had beheaded various hostages and sent his brother to suicide, stuffed with explosive, within a crowded a cinema with a hated American name.
Every room of the rustic villa, dipped in a tenuous landscape of olive-groves and oats fields, had spacious windows that directly gave on the joyful laboriousness of every known small species flown there. Swallows, sparrows, merlons, doves, turtle-doves, peaks and many others.
Those domestic servants lacked, because they were not enough independent. It was not only this, the soundtrack of the long, wonderful days. A continuous music went out from the walls, very varied resonance.
In the morning and the night it was symphonic, then of every kind and every country of the world. The human voice was heard very rarely and and was silent modest almost immediately.
While the menacing assassin, full load of hate was imagining the death of a boy who flew with the surf over the highest wave, the priest of the sun entered beating, as should shake a zombie.
"You are not the only assassin in the world and also those poor fellows likes of you are not therefore special not even. If you want I take you here close, to a genetics institute where they slaughter the eatable beasts. You would be a little at your ease, but perhaps you would have a waek stomach. You know, they are normal people that make, laughing, an infamous occupation for all the other humen. They are not therefore sugary like you, as you need proclamations and divine justice, in order to arm your hand. And if you believe that to eliminate some of the human race were so important at all, you are a deceived, nice. The life would continue to churn itself happily as usual, raising other terrible Americans and similar, smiling, always in full activity. You are here because you know the minimum necessary and to know what sort of man you are. If you are a delayed you will be cured with generosity, otherwise you will do everything alone".
That one was more and more menacing. Its hatred grew to excess, it almost did not explode from the neck onwards making his head squirt away, like sucked from a funnel.
Her voice was sweet, persuasive like the one of a benevolent siren.
"Even the chief you found for you makes me to laugh: if you knew how was Europe many centuries ago, you would laugh of him and his charisma would be zero. What would make of you a sole show, here they made it across the length and bradth with crowned heads and poor ploughmen. Everytime, every execution was a joyful show as a circus and the public drank around and ate satisfied. Your organization is a spite in the space-time universe, regarding the true warriors of the death, the ones of the times ago. You suddenly scare poor fellows who are licking their ice cream. Those were feared much more and their arrival was imagined directly from the infer to there. Continuous restlessness. Desolation. And with the gas, what do you believe to make? After the crematoriums, the mountains of ashes. I am daughter of this Europe and of the one run away towards the American coast. I could make of you what I want, but it is enough to me that you know you are not the first and the only one of the human history to allow himself to vent his own wickedness. You are a louse of hatred remained bound to the mane of a planet in some places a lot satisfied, in others shaken from scarcities and Biblical tragedies. We cannot allow us to waste time with you too much, then give yourself a balanced style".
You will not believe to us, I know it, but I say the same to you what happened. The body of the assassin, for the anger, first began to tremble, then spewed pieces of meat and bones, one after one. And his head was never found again, as he never had it.

Most are wicked

Strange conversation at the radio, today.
It seems to me a certain Community Radio of the Tennessee?
I am not sure a hundred per cent, but the speech I have heard them really. "Want we wickedly to be sincere? To someone it is enough to do something bad free of charge during the day, also trifles against the neighbours, in order to feel himself I do not say well, but already better. Most of the human race has a spicvery marked rumor of that it can upset the other people's serenity and acts automatically consequently. As true as someone lot is true that someone wonders of the contrary point of view, taking it for enormous gentility, while it is simply a care, a delicate modesty. What makes the difference between the fearful wicked persons from the proper wicked men, the serial killers, is the intensity of desire to harm. The occasional murders are sometimes the best and estimated persons from the most that they are highly subsequently astonished of the extreme deed. Many suicides are failed murders, impotent murders. The attackers, kamikaze and their beautiful fellows, are the fool murders, the ones who need to hide themselves behind great thoughts. Someones among them are former-pacifists, or still worse, megalomaniacs little provided. Everyone has the feeling of what is he, and, at the same time, he wishes the maximum from the life.
There are some parents who think of being the owners, and with judgment, of their sons. Some among them kill the badly grew as burnt bisticks sons, thinking that it is not therefore unjust. And they procreate others of them in order to swell the crowd. Today this is the fashion, more than the sons murders for money, several trifles, nevrous breakdowns bound to the family like birthday cakes. The war is another thing, it needs to be made for defense, for justice, because unavoidable. Who is in war is not an assassin and very rarely he can become, because the murder is something of free like the torture, not having other purpose than the hatred satisfaction, envies, jealousy, availed again, revenge. Cannot be called murders the soldiers like someone times ago. It is ignorance, wicked lie, said who knows why. Assassin is always who provokes one war unjustly.
- Mother, I do not have Coca-Cola, then I go to steal it to Spiderman.
- Go, son, so even if you will die we will be rich, and an entire village bursts.
Someone should have to say it, that they may not do, to the wicked men." These are the little scientific speeches, background of a traditional, corroborative music.
Then the frequency jumped. Independent Radio or something other from the Ohio. We to are sorry. Timeout.

Charge reveals the man

I attended since little days the dying sculptor and his friend musician, still young and full of maggots in their heads.
It was an atmosphere that fit me perfectly, always working also in the night, receiving like a parking where they repair the broken cars. Now that I think again that lonely basement smelled of oil and gasoline, with scrap-iron with antirust paint, and moreover of excrements, because the bath was always broken and they threw over water and sawdust at the worst with a bottomless bucket.
It was what I searched then, beyond to a guaranteed meal, a drink in company, something that could dissuade me from stabbing my neighbour, expecially if shit, is worth to say, probability of homicide about 90 per cent.
Sometimes joined to the group an odd deaf and dumb dude that seemed a lot interested to the last job of the sculptor. He spent also hours inquiring him while he was chiseling a big head without forehead, empty inside, with eyes pierced, Greek nose and an enormous flat mouth.
The musician played various instruments, but his favorite was a violoncello with the six cords always to settle, with the nearly dark sound, whose use demanded very painful calluses to delicate hands that that longed for the piano.
He was not able to explain his absurd partiality and he gave the guilt of this to that statue, to its creator, asserting that one time he had finished the head, he would be sure benevolently enthused of a less binding instrument.
Truely, both me than the others rightly thought that he was not sure a musician, but an amateur like the ones a little swaggerings who act like artists, because they would not know what other pretending of being refined and fashionable.
And there was the mistress of the poor dying one, by everyone called with self-importance "faultless widow", a sort of monument to the feminine, tall and thin, always dressed eccentrically although an indefinite age than many supported as Methuselah.
She had been a belly-buttom dancer all around the countries of the desert, courted by the rich Arabs who wanted her at any cost queen in their harems, obtaining anything than teasings and winks. She still considered herself married with an unfortunate writer who left her for her servant, when he realized that the dancer didn't want to have sons, but money and success.
The fact is that the mrs. had put into the grave both him and his young new spouse. And it was nearly that died before her also the sons born from that disgraceful love.
While the black lady continued imperturbable and stubborn to live, defying both the laws of the nature and the ones of the men.
Her only purpose was living for revenge as long as possible. She remained more and more single in this route of hatred and challenge.
Then she began to pay some persons in order to make sure herself not to be single in the moment of the passage, but they died before too, after she had to stump up money to give precise indications on her own funeral rites.
Until that that old man had known to a beneficence auction seriously, sick, that he had at this point little time to offer them in its company, but at the full moment of good will, of force in order to work.
And then he was free and with a little luck, seen that however he was for several years younger than her, he could die a little after, thank God, it never can be known. In fact the sculptor did not have any intention to go to his Maker, at least until he had not finished his lovely head, large, cumbersome, magnificent.
The deaf-mute took to be interested also to the violoncello, spying furtively the moments of absence of the foppish young man, in order to come near to the belly of the instrument and lean the head to it.
One unlucky morning disappeared both the violoncello and the shady fellow and the weak musician did not resign himself.
Instead of turning to the other instruments of the orchestra as it had said before the misdeed, he turned to the philosophy and then to the afterlife.
Everybody disliked it, at the end he a good-natured chap.
The violoncello mysteriously reappeared towards the end of the season of the monsoons, but therefore everybody knew that it had been the dumb one, who was sure not deaf.
The faultless widow had the honor to hear also its voice, the night in which danced cantatas and kind madrigals as young a little awkward.
It was the eternal night, while that one tranquilized her, choking her little by little.
"You see, pretty woman, you have made it, you did not want to die alone. Then I am here, durable creature. You also die in company".
Finally it was the turn of the sculptor, but he died of his disease, longer than expected. He died calm and satisfied, close to his ended work. He was truly capable. I was the deaf and dumb one.

Nothing too much

In front of the black clock with broken pendulum that did not articulate more not any time, neither slow, neither accelerated, but oscillated light like moved by the warm sirocco wind that passed under to the doors closed, Ramon took to write uninterruptedly, like possessed by an inner force. He felt himself mechanically driven by clear visions, both of the past, and of the future, like he had in hands not a pen nearly ended, but a crystal ball that marked a bizarre present.
Every thing was clear, to the place its, as in one listing from one to six, or from one to nine.
Besides the sheets on which he wrote to free-wheel, there was still marked the annotation on the search of a graceful mammal, met from little, of which he had to ascertain the kind. Was he a matter of beech-marten, or weasel, or marten, mustela, even mink?
And how the little animal arrived there, to the edges of the field of barley? I caught in a glimpse the shape from far away, but I suddenly understood in the moment that did deal neither of a cat, nor of a rat.
Ramon played mentally, cooking delicious plates as a true chef. How many years of dangerous games he saw again, smiling!
And nothing was still too much, above all when it was a question of, number one.
Then there was and it remained eternal second gear, the freedom, a total freedom, without bargaining agreements or bootlicker wisdom, wild freedom.
That one that serves to the art and science, never enough, nearly unattainable, like the sink of water, mirage in the desert.
He found again moreover excellent smell in guess next events and he loved so much the search of the truth, of the most right justice.
He had not never understood those who do everything in order to escaping from both them, like if they were not put there just for mankind, we don't know in order to which inscutable total plan. Or only in order to control every its inexperienced movement.
To follow, in the difficult listing, here comes love, that for Ramon was a rather bizarre thing, somewhat inexplicable and nuisance, to which he approached like a take-the-plunge serpentine who does not know he is dangerous.
He found himself in the middle of obliged choices, callbacks from his inner forest, chosen made for refuses and rests, with a thin lump in his throat. And those were the loves, those for which at the beginning you would neither spend any money, nor pompous words, but only regretted for like it was well before alone, without. Desperations of lost freedoms God only knows where, in exchange for sweet stenches of pen, belongings, inevitables, to wonderful times, heavy times like hard sandstones that cannot roll down from the mountain to crush flies and mosquitos.
Nevertheless the love succeeded to climb in the listing the loved beauty, goodness knows, perhaps for a progressive imbecility of the ever always human mind. The love had still more advantage in the comparisons of the pleasures, more light, more inconsistent, more aleatory of the beauty itself. Eleusis mysteries.
Of all these voices in his classify staff, Ramon continued to think that they were never enough. But where was the wisdom of the "nothing too much"?
By him it was therefore far to come.
Nevertheless he seeked it where was the border. Difficult to track. Ramon got loosed hiself in every thing he made and the limit went away constantly. Was he happy? Sometimes a lot. Was he serene? Very rarely. Was he alive? Always. It had simply to put together the pieces with fantasy in thousand various ways. Perhaps, a day, but it was necessary more time to it, more hours than light.

Optimal it is the measure

They were born at a distance of little months. Loretta came to Italy on summer from Switzerland. She was the oldest of the three cousinses. She already smoked secretly and had a boy older than her, a sort of Cat Stevens before becoming Islamic.
As soon as she arrived, it began a game with the smaller cousins, the dull one, making her turn as wheel, holding her strongly in hands. Then, suddenly, she left it fall to less as best she could like it happened.
The country woman raised herself with difficulty with the bumps and she did not laugh anymore. They went in garden and Loretta began to give the instructions of the case. "We cannot hold the asparagus to grow among the lilies of the valley, aren't you ashamed?".
The country woman adored to eat the asparagus and to smell the lilies of the valley and bear every critic, because she thought that her cousins were not therefore bad like they wanted to appear. The adults said that Loretta was so wicked, because her father had gone from home, stealing them the little pennies of the money box.
In winter the simpleton cousin played instead with Lycia, in the uninhabited house of the Swiss uncles, before going to the garage of the house under construction, or to the dodgem cars, where they were attended by several male friends, almost all behind Lycia in miniskirt, fine stockings, high heels and sometimes already made up as older also in her face.
In the room of the Dutch aunt there was a closet full of dresses, and within the drawers many false jewels, small colored bottles of scents acquired for a little, to the unit of department store where the aunt was cashier clerk.
The two young girls played like the television series "the bandit of the king". Lycea married a count and became very rich, wrapped of pearls and feathers of ostrich. The other instead ran away with such Morgan bandit, and lived an adventure after the other, dressed like a male.
Today, after many years, the three cousinses found again theirselves to take a tea together.
Here they are. Loretta became the best mom of this world, with three kids to grow together with an amorphous Swiss man, bespectacled and very serious getlteman.
And she works as social welfare for difficult children.
Lycia caught the owner of a chain of lodges and continuously lives at the edge of a swimming pool even in winter, changing herself dresses and jewels according to the hour of the day.
The youngest cousins became more wicked. She wanders around the world like a sledge, in company of a hacker of the computers, a queer chap named Bambi.
The country woman moreover learned a little to dress herself and to not allow other to throw her to earth.
We can say after due consideration that life has fit perfectly to all three of them.

Inquire the words starting from the things, not the things starting from the words

Juan was a computer science engineer, pale supersmoker, cold like a refrigerator regulated to the lowest temperature.
Since little time they sent him to the offices of the police assigned to the crimes in net. There he remained even to eat, sleep and make others little things in front of the computers full of sites of the entire world, threatening, infected, the last ones on the way to recovery from the attacks of Turks and Brazilians.
He felt like a soldier to the front, to which time after time they entrusted a mission of high risk. And he acted consequently, implacable, working accurately to destroy his enemies.
After all he was really enlisted by the army of the earth nations in war against a weird Arabic schism that had declared war upon the rest of the world, claiming the right of the total domination in the name of an old camel of the desert, that they adored like incarnation of the Godness oil.
They hid carefully the poor unaware animal together with delicious foodstuffs, into coves dug purposely in order to save it by the attacks from sky and earth, because it had to stay alive to please with its presence the fanatics sent to die to exterminate the enemies of the new world-wide religion.
The army had called our computer science expert, because he could carefully examine the capital punishments that those gruesome comic strips broadcasted incessantly in net, in order to convince everyone of their bad superiority, asking in exchange more and more suntuose garments for the big camel, while they remained more and more beat up, armed to the teeth.
The executions were accompanied by absurd proclamations in sites truly made in pedestrian way, ugly to such point to make indignant Juan of the fact that well or badly he continuously saw shuddery scenes.
Up to now he had traced some serveur of European countries and analyzed the most picturesque expressions of the new prophets with the best automatic translator.
He was nervous, because he could not help more to trace the real broods of the Bedouins driven crazy, unusefully looking at homicide after another.
For reaction to the scenes that he watched from morning to evening he splits his side to laughter, imagining that they were not therefore tremendous, since after a certain lapse of time succeeded strongly a ridicule.
Perhaps it was good to let the children see them in the schools, because they would not have had fear, sure less than imagining them. And then the children have a marked tendency to grotesque. There was seriously to laugh being accustomed to this, with those at the worst hooded big strong men with the rocket launchers brandished as scimitars. And the poor rotten, with that sort of braggart pruning-hook, fit also in to crack firewood, leaned to the shoulder lowered for overload, with eyes like a rabbit behind the holes of the black cloth! To splits one's side to laughing! Arab websites made at is were by developers, so unaesthetic, little functional. Arab websites of the broken heads. Crazy desire to beat. But can they use to the contrary the scrollbar, because the text must be read from right to left? At least learn to translate this, indeed of kidnapping people for a camel!".
Juan swore to himself not to let the soldiers see him so smiling and ironic, but to track alone the camel and to give back it to the desert, if he ever could discover a whichever indication on the place where the great hunchback beast was guarded.

Care yourself

I lost my memory slowly, in a way that sometimes allows to me visions of a capricious child in a garden, then a round and arrogant adolescent that washed hair, beating the head like a colt in a dirty stable, and then more nothing.
In the follow I met good nuns, lovely university professors and gymnasiums that were not fit to me. And still mason actors and gentlemen for which I was a poor friend. And then university professors bad you and envious and revengfull politicians invidiosi, because I did not have a membership card anymore.
I refused crumbs and compromises too much hedgehop.
One day, full of youthful hopes, I went to visit a rustic big villa, hoping to meet a Tuscany publisher on advice of a friend phantom, but I only found the gardeners, the watchdogs and no parking.
I went to know two popular journalists of opposite factions. I found much alcool, loss, then indiscriminate blows and depreciation. An old wise doorkeeper said to me that my diversity was a luck, not to throw it away for such personages. And that as soon as she had enough money, also she would slink away like the wind. My legs, it's not a shame!
Head up, most determined, I took my crossroad with enthusiasm, without regrets, without turning behind me.
Now I have still around some little figures of that past, like in a mobile theater or in the tape that turns the targets to hit to win the pelouches at the country fairs.
I know I fulfill precise duties of race and of family and, in speaking, meeting, smiling with such little figures of manger, I feel well and in the right place, having the perfect knowledge I don't remember well anything, I invent therefore only a sweet way to interact with someone.
I feel good, a little angel.
Job, aid, help, forgiveness, as I had a pair of fluorescent wings on the back of a triggered adolescent.
Irony of the fate, secret wisdom after bitter mouthfuls, childlike tears, whims as leading lady exausted and a little stupid although extemporaneous brilliance.
These are the criteria with which I give myself a balanced style everytime. And it wonderfully works.

Don't wish the impossible

A sort of Mameluke was the supervisor of the black cove. His enormous shape was very rarely looked at standing out backlighting, the only brightness that penetrated in some hours of the day within to the prison. I was there from birth and I did not know anything else in this unfortunate planet.
I grew in the cove of the monster, spying every his movement, every his weakness, every occasion to run away towards the light, but there was always that enormous heap of inhuman meat to obstruct the escape hole.
The monster instead was smaller, much bearded, very thin, and dominated everyone with the cunning, the extreme wickedness.
Once grown I begun to think seriously I was of another race, cause neither anything I aspired was there within, nor it never would have been.
I liked purplish flowers that were born between the sand of the humid cove, the baths in the underground river when there was there anybody, in the long days of the war over the cove to exterminate invisible redeemings never arrived outcome there.
Very soon I began to hope to see someone of them breaking before dying for old age or disease of cavern, a plague that took boneses for the excessive dampness.
Being nearly always in the darkness my eyes hurt in the effort to watch far away towards the light that leaked, in the hope that without warning fell the Mameluke of the monster hit to death.
I would have wanted to go there over and run away, but of it I didn't get the guts and the monster was too much sly not to notice my intentions, or better, he believed I was terrorized by the war and the death.
I was despised by everyone, like the women who served food and washed the monster and his garments.
Someone laughed without teeth of the verses that I marked on the white parts of my wasted Corano.
A day like many others, while I counted the hairs of my beard to understand my age, my state of deterioration, the mountain of meat of the Mameluke floated in the dirty water of blood.
I was terrorized, at the thought that the guilt could fall back on me, the only one remained underground. Also the women were gone up to fight since a little time and they did not return anymore.
How could it happen therefore? Could the Mameluke blink against a solid cliff accidentally?
Then a child soldier entered, without hairs, smooth pale and laughing.
"Are you hungry?" he said to me. "pull the tail to the dog".
And then: "Are you thirsty? Pulls the tail to the hare".
It was my language.
I ran away towards the income hole and I saw a sky full of nocturnal lights.
"Firefly, firefly, come to me. I will give you the bread of the king, bread of the king and of the Queen. Firefly, firefly, come near".
There was no more monster. A child armed until the teeth let me see the firmament.

Prose

Poetry