Do you want to be
A mute bean counter?
Obliged to agree
With illiterate power

Do you want to be
A crooked bean grower?
Bending the knee
To the lout chief ogre

Do you want to be
A hip beanmasher?
Begging for a fee
From posh dream crushers

Do you want to be
A coffee beans drinker?
Awake until three
Making y’owner a winner

Do you want to be
A ruler of beans?
Sipping your tea
Kept by the machine

Do you want to be at all?
Are you content in being small?
Following a line in the sand
You believe carefully planned
It’s the wind having fun
With termites* under the sun…

[*] https://ucanr.edu/blogs/blogcore/postdetail.cfm?postnum=1197

“Since termites are blind and cannot hear, they rely on smell to navigate.  They navigate by following the scent of a pheromone, which is a chemical they secrete to send information to their buddies. 

It so happens that a chemical in certain ink pens smells just like a pheromone, so they’ll follow the trail. (…)“

Som en mørk afgrøde
De gamle krøller
Blandt de spredte rødder
Nyt liv kan nu vokse
Fra tanken om dig
Der! Din ide i mig
I denne nye forår
Den eneste skaber
Center og grænse
Tanker skyttegravene
Du er fri
At kredse lyset
(Tåbelig natsommerfugle)
Eller dør i kulden
Som din krig er forbi
Og du ved måske ikke fred
Men der er hun
Klar til at undervise
Sådan bruger du dine våben
At så ord
Og samle ømhed

The night sheep trickle
To go and please their masters
They walk by the river
But can’t drink its waters
Now you see the dogs on the run
And they don’t know why
That struggle makes them feel so high
Day after day on the sidewalk the hound
Is ready to push his brother down
When the sun is crawling around
To get another patch of fur sheared
And hear a “Soon you’ll be like me!”
Pigs, oh pigs‘ll never be on the wing
Pigs have fantasies but no dreams

With each light a story is told
Soft wool in red high cranes
Soft growls in Christmas gold
And in the white of bold airplanes
Laughing at eagles in their suffocating ties
Pigs stole the sky

A skyscraper. Dense, synthetic, symmetrical.
Lines. I saw her drawing lines.
I saw that happening, in real time! She was standing right in front of me. A little bit to the left, to be completely fair, in a wide, tall room, guarded by of Popes a pair. Immediately, as soon as I saw them, all I could think about was the riddle with one of the guardians of a door, bridge or whatever always lying and the other always telling the truth.
She stopped in front of a door, grabbed a sketchbook with a concrete (un)coloured cover, opened it to its third page and started computing her seemingly random strokes, that over time excavated a face from the chalk, a column in a distant country holding the memories of those features long forgotten by trees and clouds.
I can see one of the identical floors, in a loop, from my point of view. Does she understand things with no lines?
I have never seen clouds like that. Made from destruction, to be forgotten. Memories of dust don’t find enough breaths and whiffs in fragile minds to know freedom and be winnowed eternally from their groves.
On the floor, from my perspective, there are no lines. Does she even understand lines? Was that a Chinese room?
The leverage of colours turn the untimely clock counterclockwise. Blue goes down, blue goes up; red and its enemy, yellow, dance around each other, ready to find a weak spot in each other’s guard and lunge forward for the kill.
Stabbed and pierced rests the interrupted black diagonal, line, axis, hinge or pivot.
A distant music streams from the next room. Is it a trick?
Like these lines, in front of my mind spinning so vague and far, all parallel, all vibrating, noise on the horizon of a perfectly ordered epoxy beach exploring the night.
Yells of rage, cracked wood logs, absent.
It’s a metaphor for a circuit board, out a children’s park’s map.
The blue square is the king, every path leading to it. Water, giver of it, drinker of it, essence of it.
Where there was one, now the number has doubled. Echo.
There will be war. But not here, not now. We are left with a cloud of metallic tasting tension, ridiculed by old British catchy military marches.
Asymmetry shown as asymmetric colours. Where does the judge takes his judgment from? What will he contemplate before drawing the winning lotto balls from his plastic spherical head?
Of martyrs and stares. Was it ever a choice?
The cross is gravity for some. No, they are not asteroids. They run fast, and burn spectacularly. Shooting stars, maybe dissolving tailed comets. The march becomes rock music. A gray trousered doll stares through her impeccable colour mask at an artwork about democracy and equality. She moves, and a black glassed guard takes over her staring role, with different interest and curiosity.
A dark blue tunnel, leading to a screening room. Two people sitting on cubes, a standing man – his left shoulder on the left side of the door frame. No one dares getting closer.
A man arrives, with two women following him, chatting. He perceives the sacrality of the scene before them, and with a rapid “ssssssh!” suggests them to join the prayer of silence.
Lips on another canvas, eternally repeating, as we promise to each other our kisses to be. Lips making a skyline in a city surrendered to the night.
On the screen there’s a child.
I don’t really care anymore about my position in the room. People can flow around me. Space is less ordered and more fluid in this world. I try to look outside the window, but in the darkness I can only see raindrops diagonally cutting the glass and sparse white spotlights. There’s a volcano in this room, or so the huge slab of metal is presenting itself; surrounded by destruction, or building blocks for a creation. I’m standing on a grate, dark. I wouldn’t want to drop my pen in it. I’ll move from this wastelands, this exploded silence.
The child on the screen is in a green room. On my second passage outside the room I read that he’s deaf and from Syria. He makes anomalous noises, unintelligible.
Isolated houses, in an unidentifiable hour of the day, in a meaningless space.
The conflict between the unsaid and the detail.
How much significance does the soil where a house grows carry?
Motion. People are shuffling fast, many with a mobile in their hands. A couple is dancing, like fluidly malfunctioning machinery, in front of a long artwork with human figures over it.
A man on the other side of the room is recording them.
Is this exhibitionism, disturbing the others’ experience? Art? Is this a canvas for the videomakers and the sketchers to make new art? Is this anything at all? Potentially, the most polite synchronized seizure in the colour.
Investigation on colour.
War, sex, technology. Is there any vision in addressing evident limits?
Transcended still lifes, portraits. I always search for the eyes of those immortal faces. I’ll try to describe the look of the ones in the room.
Eyes are absent. The painting is of a city I’ve been to.
Tired.
Perplexed, or proud. The birds.
Enquiring.
Annoyed.
Valleys, rusty iron mines.
Satisfied.
Annoyed.
Absent.
Absent.
Absent.
Absent.
Over all these paintings there’s a glass coating where I can see my eyes. Or, better, I should see them, but the light – or these artworks – makes it possible for me only to see the shadow of myself. The shadow or a shadow? Has a man one shadow for every mood and light or the creature following us is always the same?
Eyes of toys.
Absent. There’s a pair of eyes, but they have abandoned the perception of this reality, and float in their orbits interrogating different lights.
Raindrops, petals.
Slightly surprised.
Relaxed, peaceful.
Absent, but there are two beans close to each other who somehow resemble a pair of eyes. What kind of look could animate a pair of beans?
Absent.
Superb, dramatic, dreamy.
Desperate, praying – for a miracle, asking for forgiveness.
Forgiving.
Closed, in a dream.
Hopeful.
I enter the next room. The first name of and artwork that I can read on the wall to my left is “Meditation (with eyes open)”. There’s a guide, as in something secretly showing me the way around. And there’s a blonde girl guiding a guy, fully dressed in back but for two white stripes on his trousers, through the lines of a Mondrian. Surrealism is a synonym for displacement. Controlled chaotic displacement.
The feeling of an insignificant human existence. The child in the green room moves his arms.
Faces, staring at us. Demons from the Eastern lands, spirits from the desert.
Broken childhood dreams, ascended into nightmares. Is humanity beyond the shape?
If so, why do the people see broken lines as the loss of humanity? As if we were plain, linear, filled and filtered, ordered.
The more they try to represent inhumanity,c the harder they renounce to the canons, rejecting “reality”, the more clearly I see people, the artists becoming immersed in the same reality I can observe.
When I entered the shop I felt overwhelmed.
Ideas, places, ways of being, ways of expressing oneself and inner worlds, ways of exposing ethereal hidden muteness.
I had to talk. My mind flew back to her.
Maybe expression inspired by the visual hadn’t to be a luxury reserved to visual spirits.

Maybe that world could be converted into words.

A room full of colours. A guy resembling an hawk, staring. From lines, to colours, to lines. Lines immersed in chromatic flatness, borders between peaceful, uninterested Nations – but still, change and motion animate the room.
A seed, golden, extends itself to become an afterlifeless sarcophagus. Blood on its walls as a request, as a fortune teller’s dream and obsession, self projecting hoping to see and create self fulfilling prophecies, to put its own destiny in a form where the pressure of a fingertip could leave an elliptic furrow. Clay, soil for seeds.
The eye room again. This time I’ll try to catch the look in the eyes of the people shuffled around the room.
Happy.
Inquisitive, curious.
Careful.
Menacing.
Focused.
Annoyed.
Shy.
Looking away – but not simply to another area.
Captured.
Intense.
Astounded.
Enraptured.
Pensive.
Excited.
Bored. A mother and her daughter.
Weaving. A glassed peacock girl inquisitively scans postcards.
Two people going in different directions on the escalator greet each other.
Klee’s puppets dance, drunken.
There’s torment on these walls. I can feel people’s discomfort. Once again, I cross the border towards another room-realm.
On the wall “this took contains works that some visitors might find upsetting”.
Those eyes are lost. Too much horror has driven them to be mere shape perceivers, colour suggesters. The links and implications willfully ignored.
Two women hanging, a diaphanous unpainted man screaming. Two girls in front of the frame.
One is standing at the screen of her mobile, texting someone. The other, suspended in a caramel fluffy coat with a yellow scarf, points at the rectangle and says “Oh, this is disturbing”.
This isn’t enough to capture the first girl’s attention from her device – her eyes still on the illuminated rectangle she mumbles “Hm, that’s better”, and they walk away.
A room of portraits, and self portraits. What really caught my eye in this room are the hands of those figures.
The eyes, like the sounds of the child, pretend to be human, and appear to be so to a distracted onlooker, but they hang like geometric splashes on the nose, without anything up say or any coherent expression to push through others’ corneas. They are masks, actors, shapes, vessels, tissues, cells, molecules, strings, canvas strings. They are, however, not eyes.
The hands are hanging and hovering, incapable of holding anything. Distended, contorted into a relaxed fist, supporting wrists or elbows, they simply close a circle passing through the spirited, shocked eyes.
Those hands, like those eyes, have literally, and symbolically, lost their grip on reality. Everything’s ready to slip away, to flicker into a muddy, dark, bottomless pond.
A veiled girl stares at two naked women, posing in aggressive, challenging stances.
It’s a poetic vision.
A perversion of classicism. Death and sickness enter those golden, out of time Arcadias. What is born, from the death of perfection? Reality, some might say.
The theme of the room is faith.
“The gods of pain and terror made them true believers”, one might easily say. But faith is the act of trusting an idea even without any real, rational proof. The condition, possibly, is even stronger than an even without.
But I’m not a big expert on the matter.
With the tragic given as proof, it’s not a matter of believing or faith anymore.
It’s a matter of surviving.
“Does God speak to you?”
“Not personally”
A tribalistic crescendo.
Tsafendas, in South Africa.
A totem of lights and distant voices.
A guard is holding a door open, trying to talk to a voice on the other side. He is trying to reassure the voice, in some language which I don’t recognize.
The voice repeats the same word over and over. At first it sounds like “broccoli”, then with some efforts, the voice manages to utter a “properly”.

Stuff is the king in this new land.
Material, shape, function are all perverted.
Like the eyes of before, I recognize the object but I am unable to find their essence, soul, identity, scope or meaning. This complicates everything.
Unlike eyes, objects ARE their shape, or their function.
I can’t interact with those, so there is no way for me of knowing about their actions; therefore I’m left with form, in the paradoxical position of recognizing them simply through their exteriority, but repudiating the same as wrong. Had it been wrong how could have I recognized the object? There must be something subtle, making them uncanny, impossible. A lost third essence. What am I missing?
There is no frenesy. People walk slowly. Hundreds of people, and everything is so quiet. I am leaving. The bus will leave this city in three hours.
Highly reflective vinyl square tiles cover a ramp; on the other side raucous wooden stairs.
I am out. Bluish ice blocks are melting away in the courtyard facing the entrance, painting the slope towards the river with a darker hue.
People are playing with the amorphous shapes, touching them, hugging them, sitting on them. A couple is taking a selfie while licking one of the largest of those monuments to transiency. “That’s ridiculous…and disgusting” someone comments.
In an underground passage an old man is playing, with virtuoso skills, a classical piece on his violin.
We all seem too distracted to care.
Only a giant girl, in a vaporous red coat slows down, slightly, her pace, and stares with soul-disarming green eyes in the direction of the musician, who lost in his notes with closed eyes returns the favour to us, and does not seem to notice anything about his surroundings.

Sometimes you just know

As I did under the tower

And the sun was too afraid to look

Sometimes I don’t

My face will tell

As when I discovered your art

And would not understand how

A hand like mine could

Use a brush, pencil like a wand

Make magic in this dull place

With all scenery and no beyond

So teach me to print

Teach me how to bring, like you do, joy

Know,

That the only way

I could stop loving you

Is for our love to sing all its secrets

Then waltz with me

So it doesn’t ever stop

Pray with me

Till we create god

Hold my hand

Till we forget about

A me, a you

And love has no more reasons to be

And we are out of the maze

Nails, bolts and glue

Are a need only if there’s two

Bring me on the coast

Make clouds with hot chocolate

And cigarette puffs

Hide with me in the dunes

Until the walkers forgets us

Then take my hand and promise

We’ll get some wine

We’ll get naked, my fingers merged with your spine

We won’t be jealous

When the water surrounds us

Like our skins lost in our nebula

Brought back to ideas and

Basic components, vague

In Cramond’s rising tide

Our beings in lusting particles

Essential beliefs, indivisible

Will find their way in the dark

And make a new us, indivisible

With the scars of the process invisible

As no part of my soul had to be cut away or reattached

I was born for this union, for my shoulder to be matched

To your loving head on a wooden bench

Under the spell of Pyotr’s lullaby in this cradle

Not the end, or the goal of it all

But its start

Shake your pouch of shaman spices

Draw on the stones mined from my ribs

Fill the cracks with sapphire ink

Not of bleeding hearts, but unafraid bliss

And I’ll touch with it walls

Bridges, castles, skins and huts

And print all over this big world

We’ll search together

Love words, as new ones are found

My Sweet Dear,

on that night while you were taking me to Church – to replace the music of your voice with the sound of instruments I was already thinking of the day after our tomorrow where the time would have replaced your bright laughter with silence, and memories, and a poem by an Italian poet was brought by that slow moving ripple to my mind.

Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale, by Eugenio Montale. 

His wound was an Ocean deeper, the time scales different – he had had decades of presence and had to deal with an eternity of absence.

But only then I could begin to appreciate the pain behind these words, to understand the true meaning of how it feels for the creature that lovers create by merging together, a tetrapod with an arch shaped head (holding the heaviness of emptiness), to lose that added pair of legs.

I have translated it for you.

Caro Dot,

È una lettera di incipit. Le chiusure arriveranno col tempo. Non essere impaziente.

Sto piantando cartelli nel suolo; a breve traccerò i sentieri.

Un giorno, inventerò le destinazioni e il labirinto si schiuderà, come un fiore che smette di temere che il sole possa carbonizzarlo e comincia a meditare contemplandolo.

E i sentieri circolari si faranno retta, per poi proseguire, andare avanti, conquistare nuove terre e nuove rotte, chiudersi di nuovo in cerchi, e ripetere il processo, fino a riempire l’universo di questa vibrazione, una radiazione di fondo secondaria, oscillando tra il certo e l’ignoto, come molle elastiche perturbate, come capelli al vento, come il vuoto che va in processione dietro l’essenza, nel ciclo di dubbi e risposte; ogni cosa è un’onda.

Ogni fiore è la casa d’un kōan, ed è libero di appassire, di smettere di cercare una luce, solo quando trova una luce in sé.

Sui segnali quattro parole:

קואן

無

عدالة

அமைதி

Ricorda cosa leggemmo nel libro terzo sotto il sicomoro dalle foglie autolibranti:

D’eternità ci si muove

Tracciando una linea,

Seguendo visioni nuove,

Cambia il mondo, non l’idea

D’eternità si va arrancando

Tracciando un cerchio

Il passato scrutando

E vedendo mutato il vecchio

Come foglie di sicomoro il mio animo ha da ruotare fuoriosamente per tenersi sospeso oltre la linea del nulla.

La fame, la terribile fame di idee. La necrosi che si espande nel mio cuore se non passo ogni istante a combattere l’ondata di irrealtà che avanza.

“Nulla ha senso” è il sussurro che arriva, e ne sono pienamente cosciente, perciò è imperativo crearlo di continuo, rimuginare, fantasticare, ideare, distruggere, ma mai, mai, mai riposare. Si è ad un passo dallo scomparire in una nuvola di polvere, se si lascia andare la ricerca di un senso, l’unica forza che tiene compatti e uniti i miei frammenti.

Cominciò anni addietro.

Accovacciato sul marmo freddo, appoggiato con la spalla sinistra alla parete di legno su cui si apriva il balcone, gli occhi sulle mattonelle in cotto, le piante, il cielo scuro d’una tempesta. Il resto della famiglia in cucina, a mangiare. Lasciai aperta una porta, e il grigio provò a insinuarsi in me. Tentacoli mi tennero sospeso sopra un abisso, e cominciarono a dischiudersi, schioccando ritmicamente. Tutto smise di avere senso per eterni minuti. Ogni cosa una mera collezione di entità minori; e ogni attribuzione antropologica un’illusione, un costrutto, una falsificazione. Se non tengo chiusa la ferita in ogni istante con le dita, ogni parte di me comincia a zampillare fuori, la mia umanità emorragizzata attraverso lo squarcio e io smetto d’essere filtro al passaggio dello spazio e del tempo intorno a me. Cosmogonia delle seduzioni di divinità minori.

Il coprimaterasso è scivolato via da sotto il lenzuolo. Sono troppo stanco per raccoglierlo, rivoltare il letto e rimetterlo al suo posto.

Le molle, colonne del tempio, cavatappi per le mie giunture di cartilagineo sughero.

Ruotano, attratte da una stella oscura, ruotano e incidono bassorilievi tra le mie costole. Come dita cercano di aprirmi, di penetrarmi, di radicarsi alle mie ossa, finemente intagliate dalle molle scavatrici in bassorilievi con scene di guerra e apocalisse, per creare infine un abominio mezzo uomo e mezzo materasso.

Gli unici che non tollero sono quelli che odiano d’un odio che guarda dall’alto verso il basso. 

Non rubare, dissi a mio nipote che voleva farsi soldato; soprattutto la vita degli altri.

Cominciò con un non uccidere.

Come mangerò la vacca che ho così amorevolmente allevato per farne metronomo dei miei rapaci denti, senza prima immolarla al dio liquido che sputo con infallibile precisione quando le argomentazioni addotte dall’altro non sono, a mio modesto parere, convincenti?

Non uccidere chi ti somiglia nella creazione.

Ha i capelli rossi; è il segnale che avevo richiesto in preghiera per bagnare il mio strumento da pescatore d’anime in laghi di sangue?

Tagliò corto; un processo di prova ed errore, o prova ed inganno: questa è la legge, disse mio zio prima d’esser deportato, venduto per un pugno di rupie ed una pianta di more.

Nessun libro nero di rituali, nel giorno in cui mi sentii pronto. Ispirazione.

Il sentiero giusto e la tua canzone preferita nelle orecchie, gli occhi al cielo, le mani tremanti nascoste nelle tasche purpuree della felpa.

All’angolo grigio d’un hotel nascosta come t’è uso nell’ombra che indossavi, la treccia, rivo di vino giovane, offerta ai miei occhi e al vento èbbro, un fiore celato tra le mani. Una parte di me sperava che quella rosa ti pungesse, portandoti, sorpresa, ad esclamare qualcosa per il dolore, attirando l’attenzione dell’accrocchio di senzatetto nascosti dietro una palizzata metallica di lattine di birra intenti a chiudere sigarette.

La mia speranza non ha radici nella vendetta o nel sadismo; la visione è saperti di nuovo capace di accogliere la tua umanità, saperti capace di provare di nuovo dolore, e tutte le altre emozioni meno difficili da accettare. Pace nel mio animo portò il saperti amata; spero ci fosse, e ci sia, anche nel tuo.

Sono solo inizi. Niente rimarrà sospeso. 

In questo continuo l’inizio e la fine sono solo arbitrarietà, rivelazioni casuali di dadi elevati a profeti. Eppure c’è altro che devi sapere.

Eid Mubarak,

Emzí

Caro,

Il 7, Zajin.

Avrei voluto scriverti prima, ma ho passato giorni e giorni in riva al lago con la repulsione d’avvicinarmi ad una qualsiasi macchina inchiostratrice, dall’aratro veronese per le mie ragniformi dita

Se pareba boves alba pratalia araba albo versorio teneba negro semen seminaba

(non mi curo degli accenti, e per ciò ti chiedo di perdonarmi), al pianoforte schioccante da valigetta.
Poca ispirazione, e nostalgia delle gioie d’essere usati da una musa.
La musa m’usa. Cacofonia in blu, e Gershwin non ne sarebbe fiero. Il blu, di tristezza o di oftalmiche speranze, non acerba clorofilla in questa manifestazione.
La Klimtiana Flöge che attendo di vestire di Yeatsiani drappi, di luce, cielo, giorno, notte e albe e tramonti, e dalla cui poesia attendo di essere vestito.
Mi interrogavo su come contrarre “che attendo”. C’attendo? Kattendo? Funziona bene solo nel parlato ma più lo scrivo e più m’appare terribile. Glisserò.
Fili sospesi, come capelli da intrecciare, da tessere in nuziali coroncine, come quelle viste nei boschi druidici ornare il volto diafano di ninfe danzanti, aquiloni disorientati.
Li vedo oscillare, li accolgo tra le dita e ne impedisco il moto, fissando il riflesso della luce grave in una particolare topografia, geografie istantanee d’un mondo che come petrolio scivola via ricoprendo e soffocando ogni cosa; sono tesi ma lontani dal punto del dolore, sottratti al caos che li ordinava in turbolenti vortici.
Nel tumulto ero esploratore, ora sono colono, ladro di entropia e portatore di vita in luoghi prima dominati dal ciarlare afflitto e dalle opere di compositrici bruitiste, profetesse di Cibele e d’Artemide.
Il resto è polvere, come noi quando dopo esser stati impastati con gli sputi e messi a lievitare finiamo a nutrire l’eternociclica Gaia dall’insaziabile appetito.
Esistono giorni migliori di altri per far volare via delle ceneri? Ci son venti più gentili, venti più curiosi e impazienti di esplorare il mondo?
C’era un vecchio matematico nell’Arabia antica che cercava con perizia tra le nuvole della matematica una formula che descrivesse quale fosse il giorno migliore per non sprecarsi nel suolo (Sì) e abbandonarsi in forma di particolato atmosferico nell’abbraccio di Vāyu.
Il suo importante contributo, rivelato in un’opera da sei volumi con un nome maltradotto in latino da un abate frettoloso, è sintetizzabile con “Sarebbe meglio non morire”.

Via dal lavoro prima del solito, alle cinque, prima che arrivasse la bestia desertica a interrogarci su fedeltà e questioni frivole. La meteoropatia per il ritorno d’un dipingersi plumbeo del narcisista che nel mare si specchia mi rendeva insofferente al solo pensiero.
Il sole ancora levato nel suo palazzo di vetro anembico; la mia camera indossa una maschera emulante le tenebre, una spina dorsale con lunghe stecche per vertebre: aposemantismo per tenere lontani gli effetti del giorno su di me, falena.
Apro YouTube.
So dove cercare la dolcezza e la malinconia di cui ho bisogno ora.
Risonanza: le oscillazioni si amplificano fino a distruggere l’oggetto; in questo specifico caso, il cristallo d’ossidiana dell’inquietudine.
Eva Cassidy.
Nick Drake.
I Fairport Convention, e torno ad un nuvoloso, perfetto pomeriggio di un autunno di un paio di anni fa.
La voce di Sandy Denny a interrogarsi su quali siano le direzioni degli alvei per cui scorre il tempo, su quale ne sia la teleologia, se alcuna. Finalismo anatomico del fluire universale.
Il mare che istintivamente fluisce e si fa lingua tra labbra di roccia, e nella sua voce non v’è dubbio ma straziante certezza.
John Denver.
La sezione dei commenti di Take Me Home Country Roads è ora invasa da fan di Fallout impazienti per l’uscita del prossimo videogioco, nel cui trailer è presente; prima, invece, era un covo di vecchi nostalgici e amanti del folk.
Mi aveva sempre colpito la storia, letterariamente archetipica (il Man in Hole di Vonnegut), di una donna.
Non riesco più a trovarla, persa nel mare della palta (kipple) d’informazione.
L’inizio: da ragazzina ascoltava John Denver, e sognava di sposarlo, di essere amata da lui, di essere la musa ispiratrice delle sue canzoni.
Il dramma: il matrimonio con un uomo violento.
Il lieto fine: il trovare il coraggio di fuggire dall’orco, e il matrimonio con un texano innamoratissimo dagli occhi azzurri.

Una volpe attraversa una strada vuota e si disperde per i cespugli privi di succulente bacche smorzati dai lampioni di luce bugiarda.

Il folk. Creazione di un’epica. Non Tolkeniana mitopoiesi ma distillazione degli elementi astratti su cui si fonda la realtà, ricerca d’un λόγος.
In gioventù i miei scritti finivano sempre con la divinizzazione del protagonista, l’unica, monologante, entità presente tra le parole.
Le donne per Picasso: aut dee, aut zerbini. Come queste muse così ogni altra cosa, o si è eterni o non si è. La catarsi del nulla è il meccanismo eternizzante d’elevazione.
Creature abbandonate dall’universo e dai loro simili che finiscono in uno stato di deliquio; tuttavia la nebbia non è nella loro percezione: è nell’Universo in sé che si fa fluido, plasmabile, e loro sono capaci di inserirsi tra le stringhe delle cose e diventano parte del tutto cosmico. Così facendo possono dare inizio alla loro farsa da burattinai.
La trascendenza. A quanto che è umano bisogna rinunciare per avere in dono l’essere più umani?

Mi aveva suggerito un film ed un gruppo musicale. Ho atteso e li ho scartati per il mio compleanno.
Spero di ricevere presto tue parole e tuoi pensieri.
Soprattutto i secondi.

Tuo Emzí

Per l’Imperatore.

Resoconto da Anaicallawospmoht.

Sovversione ed inversione.