Full of wonder, braided mouth

Fuoriclasse vero. Vorrei davvero capire come sia finito qui: il reparto reggiseni ha un profumo piccante che non riconosco; che sicuramente non riconosce nemmeno lui.

È una promessa, una promessa di cosa?

Guarda i prezzi come se volesse comprarne uno, ne saggia la morbidezza benché non sappia di cosa si tratti. La promessa ritorna ancora una volta: parla dell'estate, sussurrando sbiaditi ricordi futuri del periodo successivo all'accoppiamento, indulgendo nella zona alta del naso; un punto caldo e tranquillo che grida "indipendenza". 

La solitudine con gli altri: l'elezione tra i pari. 

Ecco: profumo di adulazione? 

No: sono solo reggiseni, indumenti come tanti altri.

Mi siedo tre camerini dopo il suo, in attesa del momento giusto. Povero coniglio, fino a sei giorni fa non avevi nemmeno idea di come fosse fatto un reggiseno o a cosa servisse. Mi ricordo di quando prendevo tra le mani i tuoi fratelli e le tue sorelle per accarezzarli con le mie mani di metallo.

Outfit di oggi: guanti neri made in Japan, comprati in questo stesso centro commerciale. 

Non ti ho mai accarezzato: forse, anche per questo, il professore scelse proprio te per l'esperimento. Così avrei potuto cacciarti senza pietà quando saresti scappato.

Quale natura ti guida alla fuga? Quella di uomo, o quella di coniglio?
Ti immagino tastare i reggiseni di fronte allo specchio: incantato dai loro colori pastello, tenui e trasognati; sbalordito dal pizzo fresco e regolare come un mandala di schiuma di mare; intimorito dalla severa struttura dei ferretti, nascosti come lame nel fodero.

Sto per fare la mia mossa, ma uno dei camerini tra noi viene improvvisamente occupato da due ragazze straniere. Rinuncio: troppi testimoni. 

Fino a pochi giorni fa sgranocchiavi carote ed io dovevo solo preoccuparmi che fossero abbastanza. Come vola il tempo: prima che potessi rendermene conto sei diventato un fuoriclasse. Il professore sa vederci lungo, anche quando sembra soltanto fissare il vuoto. Devo riportarti da lui, sull'isola, prima che tu faccia qualche casino. Esaminare dei reggiseni non è un casino, se ti limiti a questo, ma non posso rischiare.

Si apre la porta.
È occupato?
No, no, certamente, prego: esco.
Fingo di valutare l'acquisto di una maglietta prima di tornare al tuo camerino per aprirlo: sparito. Mi sono distratto ancora una volta.

Deve essere colpa di questo profumo: dice così tante cose che quasi non mi sento pensare.

Welcome back

Un caffè per i tuoi pensieri, purché siano impuri. Throwback thursday: nuovo palco per una vecchia malinconia irrisolta. La tara tramandata da genitore a generato del compiacersi per le scelte non fatte.

Mio nonno avrebbe potuto comprare una casa a Varigotti, in tempo di guerra. Qualsiasi cosa fosse la guerra. Ho un ricordo non mio a cui tornare: una mano tasta il cratere di un camminamento in calcestruzzo, dipinto di rosso come a simboleggiare una ferita sulla pietra. Un murales con scritto "sfarzo" e una riga di lattine di Sprite sbiancate dal sole.

Throwback ad oggi: fallito. Sono bloccato nel 1943, durante il bombardamento del porto di Ancona. Che palle la guerra, penso: ma la mia opinione non conta. Forse è proprio questa, la guerra: la tua opinione non conta.

Allora perché non sperare in una guerra nuova, se ci siamo stufati di questa?
Previsioni del tempo per domani: non pervenute. Se gli americani lo volessero, qualsiasi cosa siano questi "americani", non avremmo più il GPS nel giro di venti secondi.
Pegaso, ti vedo ferito e stanco. Già quando eri un feto avevo dubitato che le tue ali potessero portarti nel cielo. Eppure, hai volato: eccoti sfrecciare tra le nubi in fiamme. Ricordi di bombardamenti vissuti in prima persona: non pervenuti.

Throwback alla storia di mio nonno: dall'altro ramo della famiglia, una bomba era atterrata sul letto lasciato malvolentieri dopo innumerevoli falsi allarmi. Donnie Darko ma senza il patema psicologico. Anzi, chi può dirlo?

They made me do it. C'era quella storia del filosofo che aveva intervistato il pilota dell'Enola Gay.
They made me do it. Mentre Saddam sorride sotto i baffi tra le pagine di qualche sussidiario bocciato dalla commissione per essersi addentrato oltre due capoversi negli anni di piombo.
They made me do it. Mentre le forze dell'ordine indicano un kalashnikov rinvenuto in un bidone dell'immondizia, prima che Brokeback Mountain stimolasse una nuova linea di vacanze in campeggio, per la gioia dei tour operator.
They made me do it. I tour operator: l'unica categoria in questo mondo di solitudine che si rifiuti di ammettere di essersi estinta, tanto tempo fa, prima ancora della propria invenzione.
They made me do it. Odio questa narrativa di elenchi, come se si facesse la spesa delle emozioni tra i pannolini e i croissant.
They made me do it, con le pubblicità progresso che cercano di farti credere che la peer pressure non sia più forte del libero arbitrio.
They made me do it: quando Greta geme di piacere mentre ricondividiamo le foto dei giaguari in fiamme.
They made me do it: mentre il disastro della British Petroleum viene dimenticato perfino dai pellicani che lo hanno vissuto.
They made me do it: con le serpentiniti di Cogoleto tinte dal greggio.
They made me do it: mentre cerco di rincorrere invano un pensiero su questo touchscreen prodotto in Cina, reso torbido dall'alcol e dal cibo da strada (io, non lo schermo), dalla noia e dai social network (il telefono, non io).

Intravedo Gerri Scotti tutto sudato che mi chiede chi incolpare per un milione di euro: me stesso o gli altri? Just do it.
Me stesso, rispondo, mentre la pira di banconote euroconformi vagamente ispirate al monopoli si incendia.
Me stesso, imploro, mentre le pagine dei fumetti orientali che non ho mai pagato si riducono in cenere e lapilli.
Me stesso, grido, mentre i fumi delle VHS dei film est europei che ho piratato mi strangolano senza pietà.

La guerra, dubito possa esistere qualcosa di tanto assurdo: qui non ci siamo che noi.

Post scriptum: La settimana prossima andremo al mare a Varigotti: save the date, che in russo si traduce più o meno con "sokhranit' datu".

Saremo imprigionati in una realtà alternativa in cui la guerra fredda è stata vinta appunto dai russi. Sarà un sogno con grandi statue dai visi severi. Tutti guarderemo Marte chiamandolo solo "il pianeta rosso" e berremo caffè da grandi samovar fumanti, mentre il telegiornale mostrerà le foto della sonda Soyuz X.

Guardami negli occhi: sicuramente starò facendo pensieri impuri. Finalmente ci sarà l'energia nucleare anche in Italia, qualsiasi cosa sia questa "Italia". Le auto ad idrogeno caldamente consigliate dal partito avranno nomi come Velocità ed Ardore, ma sembrerà davvero una cosa normale: tanto a Varigotti parcheggiare prima di settembre è impossibile anche in questo sogno a metà tra lo scherzo e la preghiera.

Non so quale sia la casa, non ricordo oppure non voglio ricordarlo. Mi verso un'ultima vodka prima di prendere ancora il largo da fermo: è bello essere tornati.

E' non è permanente impermanenza

Touchdown

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.

Pipeline

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.

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!"

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.

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.