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.

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.

Intertwingularity

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.

Il vangelo - Luca

Un patriota viene trucidato dai collaborazionisti.

Chitin Republic

The stones are killing it. Flashing lights cut your eyes, squeezing tears out. You move your body ritmically, joyful since he's pleased to meet you. The stones go up and land down surrounded by screaming cheers.

Schools will be closed tomorrow: it's always like that after a lapidation. They let you stay home with the family to think about it, talk about it, freeze it in your mind.
You're a locust, Harry! Behave like one and stop whining. I am your older brother: I will teach you. You're a locust, and a damn good one if you ask me about it: third of your name, promising quarterback and phenomenal latin lover.
See, I made you laugh.
Now rise your antennas 'cause I'll say it only once: mirrors should be shattered. I know it sounds crazy to destroy the core symbols of the locust-human pact, but...how can I explain; I should start from the beginning. I've found books, depicting our people in a distant era: we used to be small and we used to be billions. Billions and billions and billions. How small, you ask? Not enough to throw a stone: must 've been a cruel world, but it was a world without stones.

Locusts were putting mankind in a corner. Flaying earth itself with insopportable noise, they dried every green inch of blessed, carefully engineered, robot-enhanced crops. Poison was now useless. Desperately trying to find a genetic flaw in thier countless enemies, human scientists made contact with a breed of exceptionally intelligent locusts. It turned out these unexpected, domestic aliens were well upset with the current situation.
Politicians of the two species met and made harsh deals. Caeliferis and human scientists worked together on parallel programs: in two years, four-fifths of the locust population had been genetically purged, while a restricted part of them was gigantized to the size of humans.

Refusing to build their own nation, the megalocusts demanded gold and rare metals. A new caste was born: less rich than the richest men but way wealthier than the rest. Season after season, the locusts merged with mankind, slowly forgetting their roots.

profaNation

It stings.
It stings or it itches: rarely we can tell the difference.
Such, is the feeling for a time now gone, that we had no chance to live.
That, is the feeling we have when we would have done something, something that we didn't do because we couldn't, but that we wouldn't have done in any case, if we've had the opportunity.

Some thoughts sparkle, others just reflect. Writing can be visualized as the activity of building a house of mirrors, then looking into the only open window. Trapping light, catching our own ideas.

Understanding yourself is more than a necessity: it is an art, unteachable yet fundamental.
Our recurring themes watch us from the ceiling of blogosphere, like guiding constelations.
They are interlaced videos, partialized and mixed both to be understandable and to find new themes.

The bull and the bear, the long shower and the little farewell: lost rays, dispatched to lo lit up a rock in the sky just to be pinned to a canvass of darkness, forever. Moon is such an overrated term: we like to call it the lone satellite, as if satellites were not alone enough.

Her eyliner is fading: crying, she prepares to shower. Water to clean water, water thicker than blood, blood mixed to itself again and again and again, blood renewed by pain.
It stings; it stings or it itches: once again it's difficult to tell the difference.
The title she had in mind was "Life of Ivanka"; now, searching herself in the mirror, she thinks of "Life of Angela", or "Life of Hilary" or "Life or Elizabeth".

A last lady, creeping from darkness into light: being born from her offsprings by rewinding the big bang. The little bang and the big mermaid. She waves a reddish salmon tail to lure the bull and the bear in the middle of the creek: a sacrifice for the sake of sacrificies. To endure reality, everlasting the experience of life.
A last look to our last necessity giveaway: a last aid kit to mend wounds after a first supper.

MacGyver - serie televisiva

Uno scaltro agente governativo cerca sempre la soluzione più complicata per rendersi indispensabile agli occhi dello stato.

Atomic pottery

To start, it was a great day. Rain flew down copper gutters melodically, shading the cold winter sun with popping layers of tunes. Chocolate was perfect too: hot enough to warm his fingers but not to burn his throat. His smile went back to a distant time, when school was in the imminent future and job was just something to blame for an adult's absence.

He opened Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at page one and started reading. It was a worn, old, paper copy of the book. He didn't simply loved Harry Potter and its universe: it was the lens that allowed him to see, and understand, the world. Long ago he had decided that magic and wizards were not real, yet he was equally sure that it was the Harry Potter's books, rather than his parents, to have raised him.

Canonic books were all he needed. In the past, he had read and made his own fanfictions, but the original story held any topic so perfectly that reading fanfics was unpalatable to him: changes were reducing content rather than expanding it. Harry Potter had the exact number of words to be perfect: there were no erotic fantasies that could explore the fragile structures drawn by the story's dynamics without shattering them.

Indivisible, unique, unchangeble: to him, the wizard's books were the founding atom of perceived life. In fact, he had little or no interest for anything else, yet everything mattered because everything was in the book: he would have liked to shut doors over the mundane world and dedicate himself to Harry, but he knew the importance of lived life because of him. Meeting and loving people, fighting our inner sins, sharing the good and bad outcomes of the lived life, discovering braveness in daily actions: all the unimportant things compared to the books and the pleasure of reading them, were in fact essentials because Harry's books, the codes of perceived life, said that and proved it.

The mirror of Erised was not flat indeed: it was a box of mirrors and the mirror itself was the book. Reflecting itself in itself, it described life by being it; and existing in it, it allowed to be described in it, building reality over itself.

Alone, comfortably sitting in his IKEA chair and drinking hot chocolate during a storm, he turned another page, loosing himself into a book.

Lui è tornato - film

Un riservato pittore, respinto per due volte dall'Accademia delle Belle Arti di Vienna, risorge: il popolo lo ama.

A voice over the lighthouse

I'm doing my best to treat these topics with respect, since dead people deserve it, icons have their sacredness aura and you don't mess with basil.

Regardless of respect, there are stories that have to be told, even if they're not true: there's people writing books but never reading one and there are chefs praised only within the walls of their homes. Sometimes, as a writer, you have to forget visualisations and content to be a lever or a sling, shooting other's thoughts out of your horizon.

You know Archimedes once said "give me a place to stand and I shall move the earth". So, for once or once more, be that place to stand, even if the spotlight is not for you, even if a place to stand is mostly dust and weeds.
If you're lucky enough, you'll get to grow basil on that square of land.

Frank Sinatra once went to Genova. Maybe it was more than once, but this is not the point.
To start, you should picture Sinatra eating trofie al pesto. This may not be easy, for pesto is green and we all picture Sinatra by photos: in black and white.
Pesto is the essence of greenness, a colorful puddle of taste, edible moss in spring.
Without his voice, the Voice is just a good looking man in smoking, framed by flashy cameras.

The two can't be pictured together very well: Frank feels it and gets out to take a smoke.
La Superba is sleeping bad tonight: nothing new under the moon. He'd like to take a glimpse of it, but it looks like buildings won't let him see more than a small piece of sky.
The waiter speaks some english and he's taking a smoke as well: he hasn't recognized Sinatra, so he asks where he should go to see the moon. The waiter rolls his eyes and produces a simple answer, yet weakly suggesting the possibility to have said something untrue. Frank has seen the world and met many waiters. He finishes his cigarette and says goodbye.

He walks away in the dark, forgetting his coat on the counter after a long talk about the Amalfi coast, the sun, and several shots of limoncello. He's not drunk, for Frank has met many waiters.
The alleys are filthy and have bizzarre names. Usually, he can tell where the ocean is, but the Mediterranean has a different smell and makes a different noise. In fact, most of the times it makes no noise at all.

A couple stop him to borrow a lighter. They notice he has no coat but he changes subject, asking for the name of the alley. The three of them start looking around to find a plate with the alley's name. After a while, they give up and wish each other goodnight.

Frank goes back to the restaurant but it's closed; he now remembers to have helped pulling down the shutter. He lights another cigarette, trying to replicate the taste of pesto, now long gone.

"Nella colonia penale" di Franz Kafka

L'ufficiale addetto alle esecuzioni si suicida, col macchinario punitivo ideato dal suo vecchio comandante, per aver graziato un condannato.

https://www.change.org/p/ministero-dell-ambiente-approvare-l-utilizzo-di-sacchetti-riutilizzabili-per-l-ortofrutta-come-alternativa-a-quelli-biodegradabili-compostabili?recruiter=847192000&utm_source=share_petition&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_message.undefined&utm_medium=whatsapp

Voi non meritate le parole del Maestro.
Voi non meritate l'internet.
Voi non meritate di dormire con un tetto sulla testa.
Niente di tutto questo voi meritate.
Siete una massa di pecore senza pastore, siete i dominati. Umiliati. Perculati.
Cazzo!
Dovreste essere tutti in piazza! In piazza a protestare! A bruciare le chiese cazzo, a bruciare le chiese. Hanno messo i sacchetti della spesa a pagamento, a pagamento li hanno messi, a pagamento nel senso che se uno si compra il sacchetto lo deve anche pagare! Profumatamente! Quei merda di sacchetti BIOsbriciolosi! Te li devi pagare!! E lobby del sacchetto che si arricchiscono, la massoneria del sacchetto si sfrega le mani, si pochi centesimi certo, ma vuoi mettere 1 centesimo per 1 milione? Cazzo cifre da capogiro, cifre da calcolatrice, cifre da fogli excel, cazzo.
In piazza dovete andare, a gridare che vogliamo gli oceani pieni di plastica, i pesci pieni di plastica, i cavoli cappucci pieni di plastica, le mucche piene di plastica, i seni pieni di plastica!
E le tasche dei pantaloni piene di monete di rame.

Profanazione!

Su di te il marchio infame della profanazione che hai compiuto, Baro. Provo disgusto a nominarti ancora, tu fai parte del passato. Mi disturba l'esumazione di questo cadavere di blog.
I blog, Cristo, ve li ricordate.
Erano venuti prima del correttore automatico delle maiuscole, la diavoleria che se vuoi scrivere cristo ti scrive Cristo. Cristo è un aggettivo, cristo.
Cristo, come hai potuto farci questo. Perché ci hai voluto ricordare che siamo irresistibili e brillanti? Perché non lasci cadere nell'oblio tutta la baracca, una volta per tutte? Perché hai voluto creare un boom di visualizzazioni scrivendo in inglese?

Ti ricordo che:
- i post sono stati visualizzati nei pc dei destinatari. Questo non garantisce che i post siano stati letti o 

compresi;

- noi siamo nostri e scriviamo per celebrare il nostro ego (EGO).

Return to a decade we've never lived

The weather sucks, she thought, frantically tapping keywords in a language she didn't know. The translator did a wonderful job, or didn't it? She had no way to know. Sometimes, mostly after closing a mortgage calculator app, she reflected about jobs: working felt like skating over a patchworked jelly no one really understood.

A solitaire cat was watching her from her desktop, reminding the importance to book cheap flights. Or not to? She was unsure about how to remember the trip where she took that photo, or an identical one, later replaced by the better one she had retweeted later on. Holidays and travels sounded more like commitment than fun. What does she used to enjoy?

That Dymaxion projection by the coffee machine. Rarely maps can teach you something when you're comfortable around them. She dreamed about the medieval custom of painting monsters all over them: she believed today we'd draw cats and write love quotes.

The pizza guy had to be there in minutes: there was no time to waste. After closing incognito porn tabs, zodiac advices, work and tips to increase traffic, she stepped out of the internet to enter the shower

A bear to bear

Water is dripping over me, merging with lava rivers, rushing from the deepest layers of mantle. Cooling down, boiling, cooling down again. Heat exchange: hence, trade.

My shower has stopped working, as I contemplate its inefficency with wet eyes in a wet body. Steam emerges from my skin as plasma plumes: I am here to trade. Collecting useless data, trimming inconcistencies, shredding useful information, helping existence in the everlasting task of unfolding itself, by complicating itself.

The bear is shaking its head. Flaying air with its contempt, it turns around to abbandon me once again. A fragile mix of sleep and vision: a daydream, this is what the bear is made of. I try to call it back, carefully winding an imaginary, delicate string, torn by the obviousness of reality. This dream has to keep going, for I am ready for the trade.

The more I focus, the more the bear blurs itself within the shower curtain. David Lynch wrote ideas are like fishes: too bad I'm struggling with a bear. Earlier this morning there was a single cloud in the sky, dripping vapor as it rolled down a wind slope. All I should feel is the trade, the thin bond between bodies and ideas, the curling message due to heat transition that leads straight to the bear's den. All I can feel is time passing and the beneficial effects of warm water leaving my bones.

I realize the bear's looking straight into my eyes: what will I do once I reach it? Bears have claws and sharp teeth and dreams get violent sometimes. I check my magic thread once again: looks like I'm on the wrong side of the hook.

Taurus at zenith

It is a truth universally aknowleged, that truth is not a valuable currency in these first year of the millennia. Our worst posts are praised, our best forgotten; everything in the middle, for a matter of fact, is useless.

To resist change is forbidden, to make it happen is impossible: those who get on the same pirogue, have the same aspirations.

For too long we have gazed the stars, waiting for horoscopes to align with our ideals. I remember borrowed memories, splinters of far lands and alien fauna. Such was the experience of television: an homologated moment in time for those who haven't lived it. The Internet has given us freedom to live these memories endlessly and in various formats. If it is true that the same mind has different thoughts depending on the language it uses, we should have stopped talking TV long ago to start talking Internet.

To resist change is forbidden, to make it happen is impossible: those who get on the same pirogue, have the same aspirations.

More precisely, we should start talking the language of our time. Not for a matter of grammar, but for the sake of syntax. In fact, I believe Internet is outdated: however, this new media we are using is yet to be named. We had to be lobomized to see past our eyes, to see the future we live in: we've burned personal interaction on the altar of social networking, traded our specific roots and heritages for generical company benefits, polluted our waters to clean ourselves. Frightened by unpredictable alternatives, we let means win over method. This is history, whatever horrible we had to do is now past our shoulders: next is future, we need new horrors to break our souls in a shinier glitter.

To resist change is forbidden, to make it happen is impossible: those who get on the same pirogue, have the same aspirations.

Probably, vegetarianism will be the next step in our quest for group evolution. Still, we know today's world has too much social disparity to turn vegetariansm into a priority without harm. I see a return to slavery, yet unintended: we force poors over the chariot of progress, choosing species' ethics over individual's. The first form of poverty is lack of choices: slavery is taking decisions for someone else.

To resist change is forbidden, to make it happen is impossible: those who get on the same pirogue, have the same aspirations.

Our social structure overlapped nature's, so that rich is a synonym for fit. Survival of the fittest is still paradigm, yet richness is well beyond the amount a single human can handle in his life: today, rich is an adjective suitable for legacies, corporations, states; tomorrow, it will define new species: I am honored and terrified to introduce you homo sapiens dives.