How Does Manic Depressiondo To The Organs

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In Italia trentacinque anni non sono abbastanza per chiudere i conti con il passato. Quando il passato e' traumatico, quando il lutto non e' stato elaborato, quando i ricordi sono stati archiviati in the wrong way and the truth 'no official standing, the past and' destined to return to haunt him.

The Italians are well aware, our recent past and 'littered with accounts opened, half-truths'. This has often led to doubt everything, to imagine that our country's history has been written according to criteria that have little to do with the truth '. It 's a national problem, what to do? Cynics might always have been, and we have told so many bales now nothing more than 'seems certain.

I do not know how to judge the new investigation into the death of Pier Paolo Pasolini. Pelosi has recanted his story a couple of years ago, and now there 'who purports to have had his hand in the last chapter di Petrolio.

Puo' sembrare un paradosso, ma e' stato proprio il mio amore per Pasolini che mi ha sempre impedito di soffermarmi su speculazioni riguardanti la sua morte. Nonostante fosse stato assassinato un poeta, nonostante i conti che non tornano, nonostante la mia incredulita'. Davvero l'autore degli Scritti Corsari , di Le ceneri di Gramsci era uno stupratore? Com'e' possibile che un'artista della sua sensibilita' potesse aver tentato di costringere Pelosi a un rapporto sessuale? Ho accettato con dolore la versione ufficiale per stanchezza, perche' speravo che almeno con Pasolini la storia fosse stata clemente.

Chissa' se le indagini si schianteranno davanti a un rubber wall (yet another of our history), or if they can tear out something out. Poets do not have peace, and Pasolini we lack so much. But truth 'is made.

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Libertà, Sistemazione e Vita che scorre

It takes courage to stand to be free. Free from the constraints the other, free from the silly fears that cling day.

It 'much easier to remain in chains. Although much less tasty. The guards will tell you what to do, your day is punctuated by the geometric series of actions pre-packaged. You just follow that pattern. Nothing more. School, home, office, friends, beer, party, women, kissing, disappointments, passions, football, referee, dreams, training, perspective, books, poetry, philosophy.

But here is missing the Life. Freedom allows you to take my life. Freedom to walk down the street to head high. Silently screaming to everyone "I love you, so what?". Freedom to look into his eyes n friend and say "I'm sick and feel embraced despite the mistakes and the shit that you spread on the street. Yet, to be free, to enjoy this clean air to penetrate, the pulmonary tract, to live, it takes courage. Fear blocks only. Does not make you more responsible, or conscious. Fear you nailed to the wall. You chained, like all these rigid patterns that have not felt tight at the ankles to know how many years but only now-that-you know to be brakes. Brakes, not trampolines. A limit, not a potential.

We must stand up this damned Fear and jump off. Shake this burden of rings in the chain. Stop being luridi melmosi vigliacchi. E togliersi la Paura della Vita che entra dentro. Lasciarla fluire, come un fiume verso il mare, come l’amore di una mamma. In semplicità, lasciar fare alla Vita. Accettare quello che è e quello che deve essere. Fosse anche prendere quel viso d’angelo e abbandonarlo sulle rive del fiume. Fosse anche la traumatica lucidità di una ormai consapevole inadeguatezza. Intrecci di rapporti fra cose in sé bene o male sane, ma fra loro quasi patologicamente soffocate.

C’è da distruggere le catene e guardarla, questa Vita. Con occhi lucidi, forse. Piangendo, ci sta. Ma senza quella isterica brama di legislatore del mondo che tutto vuol comandare, che tutto vuol far quadrare.

Sometimes the circle is wrong. Damn geometry of points infinitely combined. You forward or you are missing a piece. The fact is that the circle does not leave a square. At best, an ellipse. A horribly disfigured ellipse that looks like the official declaration of bankruptcy work. And you insist on trying to bring back the points. To see an infinite chain of small dots that remain unfinished in vain its space to two dimensions.

in two dimensions. Already with two times the going gets tough. Imagine three. Do not imagine the fourth, the space-time and other similar pathological relatives. Place in the x and y in life is already too complex. The rest, let it be. But perhaps need to stop our nefarious activities of mathematicians accounting. There is not even to try. This is not through lack of ability, but a duty necessary for survival. To save his life.

Find the total freedom that opens up to Life, that makes you fragile and naked in front of the chaotic flow of a life. Let life be fulfilled in the simplicity of our actions. "Please, while life is fulfilled"-just-. Accompany her in silence, without expecting anything. We vacate and the life of every scheme. Read like a book of poems, falling in love with images, sounds out of tune hating, arrogantly challenging the arrangement of words. Ma mai pretendere di spiegare tutto. Lasciarsi sfiorare dalla “percezione d’infinito” che ha toccato i giorni. Lasciarsi accarezzare, passivamente. Il resto verrà e si snocciolerà da sé come riso che cade da un vaso: nessun chicco si chiede se riuscirà a sfociare. Sa solo che –prima o poi- troverà la Via, come tutti gli altri. E finirà al Suo posto.

Certo, ci vuole Leggerezza e Prospettiva. Condizioni di fondo indispensabili –per ora- ancora non raggiunte. Ma –anche su quello- possiamo lavorare, con pazienza. Intanto c’è da capire se il profumo di questa totale Libertà fa per noi oppure ci spaventa così tanto da portare le nostre caviglie a rinchiudersi di nuovo in antiche catene d’acciaio.

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Standing Ovation

We waited for eight years. For those if it were lost, a very bad Daniele Luttazzi.

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Surrogate/Invisible Cities

not listening Surrogate Cities for years and I had almost forgotten how wonderful disc is (and I've never seen the show, only a few fragments of the first video Phoenix in 2005, now I would give a leg to have been there).

We listen now 'cause it will Heiner Goebbels' at the Barbican in late April and I'm doing four accounts to see if I can afford one or two days in London. Town 'which has always fascinated me incredibly, attracts me and disgusts me at the same time, yet I can not explain to you why', not 'particularly attractive or comfortable, and' polluted, dirty, and it 'was raped by the horrible housing modern that has completely altered. Perhaps the only one who can 'and explain' Italo Calvino's Marco Polo, when you say that "a city of 'do not enjoy the seven or seventy wonders, but the response from' to your question. Or the question that asks you , forcing to answer, like Thebes through the mouth of the Sphinx. "

The photos you see instead of another city are 'invisible, Edinburgh. I'll talk' in the coming days.

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Can fall lower than that? I can not comment on the latest news, I do not even have the strength to get angry. I can not imagine what will happen now, at worst will not happen anything.

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Rallentare, e fermarsi

I Treni viaggiano troppo rapidi. Tutta quella velocità, non si sopporta. Sempre il posto finestrino, sempre la scarpa poggiata sul condotto di areazione. Sempre un I-Pod nelle mano e due arterie che sfociano nelle orecchie. Pare ideale come condizione di quiete. Pare.

Ci si dimentica degli Occhi. Sempre. Preoccupati di tenere il culo al caldo ci si dimentica degli Occhi. La parte migliore. La più fragile. Abbandonati a loro stessi, gli Occhi si ritrovano bombardati da un susseguirsi paranoico di immagini. Una dietro l’altra. Senza sosta. Continui cambi di colore, di luci, di passaggi bruschi. Delineano i contorni but they never manage to grasp the detail, the particular feature. They were born to this meticulous craft. There, however, is to enhance the ability to have treasures of subtleties and-lose-disappointed every time their passion. They are drained of their Hope, their perspective. Sucked into the vortex of a frantic trip undergo this torture, while all around it continues its run.

And the problem is not so big if they were to suffer only those two small lights. The fragility of their consistency exposes them to nature in absolute joy, a gruesome pain. And 'their fate. Some people are born to climb mountains, some to never exit from his paese, chi per morire lottando contro il mondo. Gli Occhi, loro sono nati per essere Fragili. Una meravigliosa missione: accogliere la bellezza della vita nell’instabile consapevolezza della propria precarietà.

Con gli Occhi, si spia il paradiso e si sbatte sulla porta dell’inferno. Lucidi e sinceri raccontano la storia dei giorni al Cuore, chiuso nella stiva. Ed egli -teneramente avvolto nel suo purpureo mantello- chiede loro di descrivere le foglie, le cacche dei piccioni, i pianti dei bambini. Una disperata piangente richiesta, di innamorato ferito. Lui, che mai vede ma sempre e solo sente. Cieco fomentatore di una locomotiva che a tratti corre, a tratti sussulta.

Già, Heart and train. A destiny for two. Separated at birth. Both twisted and bloody task that inevitable grind of meters on meter, and then stop suddenly, and then restarted, and then-still-slip. That they be disarmed before unknown visitors who paint their walls with bright colors. Only the Train-a-times unable to defend themselves, sharing. Heart no: you take all scratches and caresses, hugs and injuries, and even lightning strikes. Property. Suffers but is not afraid that much. It welcomes all with perspective, casting his eyes over the horizon, building destabilizing shocks. Only one thing endures: the lack of air. I have no regge. Si gonfia a dismisura fino a esplodere, schizzando verso ogni dove gocce dense, gocce che restano impresse sui muri. Gocce di sangue. La Mancanza d’Aria lo annichilisce, lo fa impazzire. Pompa a raffica, senza sosta, senza rallentare, aumentando a dismisura i battiti e la pressione. Ad ascoltarlo pare emettere un battito unico, continuo.

E quell’Ansia, quell’Angoscia priva di Prospettiva gli arriva dritta dritta dagli Occhi. Da quella fonte immensa di accoglienza di luci, di immagini, di volti. Gli giunge da loro, i suoi narratori di magie. E’ un’amicizia che ogni tanto s’incrina, sferzata da un’ipertrofica produzione di sensazioni. Succede alle volte. Succede sui treni, When the eyes travel at the speed of light in search of a landmark to which steal details. It happens before the time you do not explain, but they are always entangled in the mystery of uncertainty. Walls below happens when the eyes lose their perspective and try to cement a damn in the homogeneity of the vanishing point. It happens, you have to take it lightly. Arguing does not help, in fact only brings trouble. And the heart yearns, and watery eyes sorry.

We can only slow down at times. And stop. And look at the details of the eyes of a child, died of his canines in the front line, his voice shrill. Getting lost in the hidden smile of a woman who loves you, or would do so, or do not want at all. Smiling on the lines of a poet's melancholy, or desperate tremendously. Standing still, with his feet on the ground and your back straight. In an open place, where you can breathe the scent of damp and the smell of salt grass. Slow down, that's all. And wait for the heart within its rhythmic regularity and dry eyes, but not too much.

The speed puts me in distress. Or the lack of perspective. Between the two, I do not know.