giovedì, marzo 15, 2018


We woke up and reached for the porch. No yawning, no eye-rubbing, no breakfast: we went outside to taste a different air promised by the new lights. In fact, air was not the only thing being different: sky itself was. The next year, on the same day, we toasted with Moet remembering the day it had been. The paramount of stupor we've experienced, carved in our raised eyebrows and painted over our open mouths was not intended to be ever lived by anyone. Yet, we did see the sky that morning and we have dreamed of it even long time after it was passed before our kinky eyes.

Suspance and thrill coated our bodies with the gloomy heat of inevitability. I remember breathing, but I am unsure to have breathen; I recall watching, but I am unsure to have seen.
The longest heartbeat in geological history, and the most crucial experience in our lives: the day the sky presented himself in a momentary, yet inedited, coat of arms.

All its chemical ingredients were layered by density, as if they were never intended to live mixed together to form "air". Nitrogen, Oxygen, Argon and the rest of the bunch were there: as in a weird classroom photo they all were laying next to each other, in unnatural order.

Time passes and control volume fades away, in the dusk of untold days.

venerdì, febbraio 16, 2018


Red lanterns raised by the night's wind: adding stars to a sky that has billions.
Soft songs coming from the next bungalow: anodyne bass riffs and steel guitars. I am bungalow #100, it must be #99. Numbers get higher the closer you get to the ocean.

Light on one side, surf on the other. Water is never just on one side: if you travel enough, you'll eventually find it again. The sea it's always on both sides, it's just a matter of distance.
Maps can really help you visualize this, for maps are the first form of cubism.
To see better by wiping out a dimension.

A strange group parades in front of my bungalow: a dog and a cock.
Catwalk with no cats.
I have distant memories of a similar bunch: the cock should climb on the dog's back, to play a flute or something. They don't.
I've seen an octopus during my last diving session: it doesn't fit with the story I recall but it may be part of a new story I should create for them.

The lanterns are quickly loosing altitude: I should go fishing before their lights fade out.

mercoledì, febbraio 14, 2018

Baby bloomers

"Life's not that different" said the toad "you perceive yourself as an isolated event until you realize not only you're not unique, but that the very same structures you take part to are clones, replicated as far as the eye can see with slow gradients and timid shades. Interlacing threads making plots which, combined together, tell tales."

It takes a deep breath into its cigarette. They wonder how can it close its wide mouth over such a small diameter. Physics of a smoking frog. The gas station was shut down years ago: no risk in smoking here.

"You probably don't taste it as you should" says someone.
The toad squints the audience, refusing to comment.
"I doubt you can really suck smoke in your lungs."
"Yeah, do toads have lungs?"
"You should probably smoke the cigar, frogman".
"That's true!"
"I've heard it's healthier, you know?"

It drops the cigarette and waves its hands to calm everyone down. It leans over an empty chair and waits for silence before going on, its hands tightly holding the chair's backrest.

"Do you know what medieval tapestries are? I fell in love with the Bayeux tapestry a long time ago. I've always thought that, if I would have followed that cloth, I would have found myself."
Its eyes are now calmly scanning their faces, looking for something they won't find.

"Tell us more about the trapestry!"

The toad smirks: "there's a section where Halley's comet is illustrated. See, to me a metamorphosys is not a sophistication of life: metamorphosys is life."

"And you believe your opinion counts?"
"It has to, dude: it used to be a tadpole!"

lunedì, febbraio 05, 2018

Exuviae pluviae

Look inside your guts. Shapes are hidden in their meanderings: faces of people yet to meet and long gone friends. Our internal horoscope speaks in its sleep: the bull, the bear, Versailles, the little farewell, the stone in the mouth, the sensation that gives a name to any other sensation.

Excursus: the stone in the mouth. Perseverance furthers. The eager lover spoils what keeps him alive. Affection must follow unruled diets: to keep without holding, to hold without keeping. Image: a fat chick crossing a spring creek.

We zoom out to sync vision with perception. Boiling feelings and chilling omens. Life as rich puddles connected by our efforts. Some like it hot, some feel the current, others spend their life in an ice block. Analyzing life is easier when you expect others to consider yours. Puddles are connected by vanishing lines, crawling lifes to build life.

I am beginning to enjoy rap. Some people never age, they keep liking what the youngs like. Slipping from puddle to puddle into the same one, wasting time in a soul hydromassage. I enjoy it more when it's bad, and I mean the rap. Can't really believe when rappers insult third parties: blame is first a warning to ourselves. What not to do in capital letters. The worst the rap, the cleaner the links, the more geometrical the pattern, the more I can empathize with this people. I see them failing my very same way: we're partner in lameness.

sabato, gennaio 27, 2018

Soothing star

I have clear memories of Hale-Bopp, the comet.
It was 1997, we also had a commemorating t-shirt. Can't remember if we had bought it, or if it came free with something.

We are on our way; on two ways: the two tails of a comet. The gas tail and the dust tail, canceling our footsteps into the night.

It clicks and it sighs, coughing in the arduous task of starting itself. Engines can't start themselves: neither could a comet start burning without passing close to a star. A story makes no difference: it has to overcome that starting torque to start running.
To roll down a slope, to loose potential. To descend from the Olyimpus of ideas into the gutter of life.

Multiple stories must happen at the same time to make one, and every story is the sum of more. At least, there are two: the dust tail and the gas tail. Plasma bursts and sand cocktail propelled into the night to form a single comet, to be it. Unfolding our blankets over a dewy meadow and squeezing our eyes at the sky we sense the cubism of information.

The car was proceeding at a steady pace on the highway. Its occupants, wearily contemplating raindrop patterns on the windscreen, were more bugged by the lack of signal rather than by the wipers malfunction. They've been talking for a while, searching for a topic to deepen: it looks like it won't happen anymore now, but silence brings new ideas.
"How can the car drive itself if there's no signal?"
Their puzzled looks lay on a deaf dashboard.

domenica, gennaio 21, 2018

Un calmante

Imbonitori TV in vecchi alberghi di regime farneticavano di sensazionali rialzi in borsa e di nuovi modelli di business imitando la voce del vecchio doppiatore di Ridge Forrester quando Ridge Forrester era ancora interpretato da Ridge Forrester.
I conigli riempivano bianchi vuoti affettivi.
La grande onda della coscienza si abbatteva sulle terre emerse: un vero uomo si buttava nell'oceano in tempesta ma si svegliava in un caldo letto per non essere creduto.
La cosa più difficile era decidere se volessi un'iguana.

sabato, gennaio 20, 2018


Stormy weather, deep into the night. A lightning crosses the sky, illuminating a man on a horse. A horse with no name. The scene is flashed by cubism: in a glimpse, we see the front and the back of the dark knight at the same time.

Something's printed on his cape: a stylized locust. We now consider his destination: a tower. We know the tower's inner walls to be covered by mirrors: a physical metaphor for self-knowledge.

The knight's name is Famine, we sense it via a number of floating media enriching our vision without overcoming it. Our thoughts and considerations encompass the sum of these stimuli, providing new data to provide new data, to provide new data.

Famine raises his left hand: it holds the head of the bear. It was slayed in the future, before we could search for it. It is painful, now that we already know what's carrying, to stare at Famine's raised right hand: the head of the bull.

The search of the bull: an emblem of devotion to the events we are forced to face. The search for the bull as bowing to reality, suppressed by its righteous need to be real.

Famine dismounts from the horse, moments before a lightning cubically lightens up the scene once again, or doesn't it? It looks like spatial and temporal cubism are indeed the same thing. We fear the knight could reach the tower of mirrors, but now we know he's always been there.

Look at the sky: choosing what to see won't neglect the existence of the rest. Focus on one thing, perceive everything: those who get on the same pirogue, have the same aspirations.

What Women Want - film

Pubblicitario umiliato da società sessista va all'inferno: la sua pena è ascoltare i pensieri delle donne. Muore ancora e viene graziato.