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

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.

mercoledì, gennaio 17, 2018

Il vangelo - Luca

Un patriota viene trucidato dai collaborazionisti.

martedì, gennaio 16, 2018

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.

lunedì, gennaio 15, 2018

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.

sabato, gennaio 13, 2018

MacGyver - serie televisiva

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

venerdì, gennaio 12, 2018

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.