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Stardust

Stardust.

residues of explosives. Morning with memories of a vent and cry a fake happiness. Have you looked at my tears fall, without saying anything, and this is enough for me.

Cover pain with wrapping paper. The thought that maybe we will not be what we are now and the future, between now and April, will be a glittering carousel before going to sleep.

scarves and warm sweaters. We are simple people, and even the carousels and perhaps we do not like that much. It 'been a trail of events presented us with indefinable in that room, to live together in mid-day, night is not included. But that's not the port, only a way station. Where watching the burning of incense, patchouli along with your personal pain. Very decent, but dense.

And speaking of morphine I am really want to experience the effects, or toxic or sick, or come at the end of the world. I would get lost in visions that lead me away or feel light as if my lungs worked helium. Or maybe this bright Christmas lights and squalor gold card is nothing more than a seasonal version of these visions and I'm already playing and I do not know. If all will not want to be here watching the end. I know, is my limit, I can not tolerate and related purposes. Then after many years as I remove the stupid lego towers, makes clear and as we look through colored lenses. Years later, the pain of this becomes hardened and indefinite impression that you would not know more traceable to an owner. The pain of this is a monster to manage, for which I am always surprise of equipment and I wonder, what price will have a built happiness? It 's true that happiness is always built and always has a price? Yet, I know how to do just that, these stupid small buildings that make me feel alive and tangentially anchored some report. A small and silly life, a small and stupid person. It is enough.

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Fog


Scazzi total. Fog. Tears. Christmas around the corner. Last day of the year. Poetry. Madness. Ash. Navigli.
Secrets. Shadows. Nails that crunch incessantly.

In recent times you say things central.

Yeah ... but where I am? Where I wonder, while living my life?

The last frontier where lies the secret of my life: why, I wonder, the terror of the last pages, as if everything was about to end, the mystery of revelation, and my life without a mirror secret, which falls into itself without end?

These dreams that I can not remember, and the lights of the shopping streets, I can not recall, I can not return to the magic of the Christmas holidays if not central when I started to die?

November 27

I'm sorry that this blog has become a dark journey into my rambling.
I did not want, or rather, I was sure that I could handle it "sporty". We transcribe a song by a very nice novel:

"Even before I turn, I knew what it was: a portrait of Rosa that I had seen at the home of Lena, put together with others on the top shelf of the wardrobe . In black and white, Rose caught three quarters, from the waist up, with the breast that was visible in the neckline of her gown, her face no makeup, her hair wet and tousled as if blacks were just out of the shower in the cup hand, rings in all fingers, including thumb. not a pose, as if he had not noticed to be photographed: looking at something or someone off, or maybe not see anything. smiles. E 'in the community and smiles relaxed, spontaneous, unaware of what others think of her, indifferent. It seems you do not need to say "That's me"; seems happy to just be herself, almost humming to herself, "I am, I am" . Despite the abuse, exploitation suffered physical, emotional and sexual ... Rose had, has un'inviolabilità background. "You can not touch me" . I realized that I was not big enough to contain it, strong enough to lift where she could not get there alone. I was the last in a long line of people who have moved away from its only true source of freedom itself. "

Martin Bedford "The Houdini Girl"

The female figures in literature are fascinating. And also in life. Sometimes I think women have an extraordinary power that men have not and will never have.
The women in my life are many, and each is clear and relevant as a water drop on a blade of grass.

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restlessness and crying

Today I feel great concern. I live deep concern.
I could touch it, to feel more alive.
Why is physical, material, present and cumbersome.
Restlessness is a game, more so thin that it is not a person among us, un modo che hai di guardarmi quando io volutamente non ti guardo, e lascio scivolare nella coda dell'occhio, nel punto più sottile e tagliente di percezione delle cose, il tuo sguardo.
Inquietudine è l'emozione più difficile da vivere, da pensare.
Perchè quando lascio cadere gli sguardi lì vuol dire che sto male, in quel modo particolare in cui sto male io.
Come faccio a capire se un giorno smetterò.
Se un giorno, finalmente, non lascerò più scivolare gli sguardì lì, come se fossero lacrime sbagliate, e avrò finalmente la forza di tenerli al centro.
Quel giorno forse vedrò la mia superficie forte, compatta e non in sfaldamento, come un golf infeltrito.

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Amsterdam swing

What can I say? The post I wrote about Amsterdam I did not like. I would perhaps not have written it. But you can not go back nor can we erase what has been. That post is what it is and what it was. But not necessarily what will be.

Anyway ...

with conviction that I would think that it will not be forever my Amsterdam, you will not always be a sad blues. But he could be a lively swing. Amsterdam will be something new when I have the opportunity to go there. It will not be what was not.

will be what still needs to be enclosed in a possible future.

Someone spoke of "nostalgia for the future" as a feeling of nostalgia for the momentum that usually occurs in adolescence and slowly fades as we approach adulthood. It 's hard to think of it channeled bad at the time, so bad as to have caused deep cracks in their lives. So bad to have memories like this hard to Amsterdam. Nostalgia for the future is to think that will never change. But I have not yet figured out if the change exists.

Sometimes I think I want to be yet another person if it was me, what I was, I do not recognize. What we have now is the link between a recent past and what will be. But the future will or will in any case always an eternal present?

I like to think of the nostalgia for the future as a sweet swing or a hoarse blues that echoes through the old streets of New Orleans ... ah corrupt New Orleans, a city where I was going with the mind long ago. There is a post waiting for this. Tomorrow, perhaps ...

Yesterday was a day of sleep, and return to a warm core and deep.

I do not dive there used to be, to find rest and comfort. Now, it's like an apartment eviction, I expect to be thrown out at any moment. Insecurity. I always have one foot in and one foot out from all things. I'm always a bit 'out the door, I can never think of being able to enter and live in something deeply. Stop, sit down, relax. Nostalgia for the future, longing for a warm place that could be your home.

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BLACK AND WHITE

I've thrown out after days and days he was there and was not going neither up nor down (quote from "Ovosodo" by Virzi). I ejected and now I feel a bit 'better. If nothing else, I think I can breathe. Yesterday when you asked me "What can not you say?" or something similar, unfortunately do not remember it perfectly, I felt that we were at this point. (It would be nice to remember the exact words ...) I have relied on what I was feeling, because it was not easy at that time be seen from the outside and understand what was happening. I know it's as if they had removed a cap. The need for identification can not be so strong as to break his own identity, aside from the diversity, the need to expand to be a single person to feel suffocated in the existence of another. And when I said that phrase was not to offend, but you've got I think. And 'that I could not really be in perfect communion. Thinking it all ended there, over there was nothing. But maybe you've really got it, and these things I'm saying to myself more, surprised that he pulled out a toad so big so quickly and without too much damage. I wish we had a unique color, I would be in your same color, ma anche se fossimo tu bianco e io nero non cambierebbe il sentimento che ci lega. Anche se fossimo io un gatto e tu un topo potremmo abbracciarci così. E' possibile stare insieme nella diversità. Ma è possibile stare insieme nella distanza? Ma come tu hai detto, c'è un altro aspetto del legame che è molto più primitivo e più viscerale ed è quello che mi mette le catene, è quello a cui non so rinunciare. Non so se si era già visto sugli schermi uno strappo rabbioso come questo. Forse sì, ma non ero mai riuscita a vederlo così bene, ad esprimerlo così bene.

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Amsterdam blues

When I came to say it was late afternoon, I think. Time in there no longer existed. I have met in the hallway. A winter afternoon with the neon lit. Or maybe an afternoon with the long pink sunset that left a trail of tired light. "We're going on a trip to Amsterdam, are you from?" Travolta. I did not know what to say. Because for a while 'I was out of the classroom, out of time out for myself. Bundled up in thick sweaters. The decision could be lost but I still did not know. The superior authority who had taken power of decision for me and my parents said No. So Amsterdam was the journey that I never did. The journey that you can not do. The train lost the opportunity to escape or molto di più, ciò che non ha potuto esistere. Asterdam è la mia adolescenza perduta, la mia adolescenza in ostaggio. Avevo 19 anni. Al loro ritorno mi hanno portato una T-Shirt, il loro pezzo di Amsterdam da regalarmi, l'ombra della vita non vissuta rimasta per una beffa del destino attaccata al muro. Una T-Shirt larghissima, dentro cui mi perdevo. Color carta da zucchero, con una scritta multicolori, Amsterdam appunto, e una bicicletta dello stesso colore della scritta. Questa è Amsterdam per me. Una maglia che non ho mai indossato ma che custodisco gelosamente nell'armadio perchè è una traccia indelebile del passato, dell'inesistenza a cui mi sono obbligata. Non ci sono tornata, Amsterdam è ancora il viaggio che non ho mai fatto. And 'the decision have not been able to take. Why in the face of having all that freedom, all that power, the power to be an ordinary person who goes to a stupid high school trip in fibrillation, I said no. Yet Amsterdam is a transgression, I also know my grandmother. There is sex, drugs, dispensed like candy at all. There are houses colorful, happy paintings overflowing with bicycles and color of the Impressionists. The madness of Van Gogh, his starry night, the bulbs of tulips, windmills. The people who look at random. The hallucinogenic mushrooms and if you want to get serious, and acid tablets and much more. There are Erasmus and music, rave and dance clubs Tecno. Amsterdam is the luna park della vita, dove puoi dimenticare chi sei, e io sono una specialista in questo, molto più che in qualsiasi altra città del mondo. Amsterdam era davvero un'occasione perchè se non la vedi quando sei adolescente, non la vedrai mai più. Solo allora rappresenta la vetrina colorata che ti promette una psichedelia di desideri da lasciarti tramortito. E anche se devi fare il bravo liceale in gita con i prof martiri di turno, lo sanno tutti che passerai la sera nei Coffee Shop a stordirti di fumo o in discoteca fino al mattino, sgusciando fuori dall'albergo con le lenzuola annodate. E il giorno dopo visiterai le mostre come uno zombie, ravvivandoti solo davanti alla prospettiva di un'altra notte di follia. Amsterdam è il balocco d'Europa, is the city of the joints, where disasters combined, the city of sleeping bags and Interrail. Not for me, no. Amsterdam for me is only what was not. And that will never be.

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Lisbon, the time of anger

Lisbon.

A city that an association of ideas leads me to a situation that hurts. And I am sorry because if you ever go there, I know that I will be inevitably affected.
Sometimes cities are like people. They carry signs of wearing something that is past and see a city with these signs can be a unique experience. How people are affected because the states of mind that when you visit them for the first time, or even the second and third, and just when you think, like the 1000 times I thought my NY. In fact, for me she is a melting pot of different moods, is a volcano, an atomic bomb. They are like the clothes because the smell became immersed in feelings and emotions change with the light and the seasons, they seem very old or advanced according to the day when you put them. They are like dreams because you can turn the long and wide and ask the meaning of your trip. And especially since you can rebuild on their heads and turn them over simply by closing his eyes. Or maybe sleeping. I do a lot of times in my dreams I was in NY and was always different and always the same.
Anyway, back to Lisbon. For me it's a long road that goes downhill to the sea. Fishermen and smell of fried fish. Tram. 60s. Sunsets. Tavern. Children with strong ideals. Ocean in the distance that smacks of America.
But it is also a dull pain that resounds in the folds of a day like today where a number of associations made me need to remember her and I would just forget it. E 'screamed a scream of rage, where no one can hear. And 'the dagger of a fisherman who cleans the fish firmly, making splash pieces all around. And 'the fist of a man thrown against something in revenge for an old offense. It 's like a bone broken for days that it will continue to hurt. Bear the pain. See the photo above there? It's called "Tram in Lisbon." I found it while I was not looking. I like trams. Lisbon no. Recall this day of sorrow and anger because it crosses the sky with its gray one in Milan, forming a color indefinable. A color that does not exist. But I will not say anything back to the heart of the problem because after all I'm just a trace electronically. Pit piles of letters on the black surface as the remains of broken bones. I am going to explore unknown places. And I do not know if we'll ever, in Lisbon, I do not know if I'll take off that smell of fish and those that evokes delusions. In order to be free to see it for what it is. A set of streets, squares, houses, shops ... taking an odd shape, the shape of a dream, the kind you do with a full stomach and leave you a bit 'groggy in the morning and had a glass of 'water.

time the anger is a strange time. A recurring event like the seasons, embroiled in the size of the circular time of Homer's memory. The time comes when the anger does not expect it, like a summer storm blows away everything you need so that every time you have to rebuild almost from scratch. It makes no sense to describe with words because in the time of anger words are never there and indeed, usually sailing upwind.

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Angels over Berlin (and demons below .. .)

I've never seen but I imagined it. Berlin. Many times in my head, many looks, many profiles, perspectives of this metropolis. Berlin came into my life at age 14, when I read for the first time the bestseller Christiane F., We, the children of the Berlin Zoo, seen by chance in the library and borrowed from a friend and read avidly, in a few days. Ever having visited Berlin for me is just that, and some blurry image of the collapse of the wall in '89 when I was in junior high and did about class discussions and small pictures cut out from newspapers to do the research. But it was still too far from our minds pre-adolescents, so stop by accelerated growth and fast forward in thought. Not mine, but the thoughts were different, and they were far from Berlin. Closer to Christiane, who figured in his skinny and in his hair and washed-out look of innocence and the angel of death. And I thought often sewn to her jeans and makeup on him with which he tried to mask his 13 years to go and prostitute. I had a little more than his age, I, and I was so uncertain and hesitant in the pitches I wanted to try cigarettes behind the school, hidden behind a plant with a my friend and then I wrote a lot with my new typewriter that was the best I could afford. I was thinking of Christiane and her metropolitan world to the Bahnhof Zoo made danger and death touched with the lightness of adolescence. I wanted to be like her and gave me leather shoes with heels and tight jeans. I wanted to be toxic to the little down in secret in the world where adults are not aware that ever, but his world was so far from mine, so insidious and underground, his underground world, which mirrors the streets and the city, world backward and mysterious, where sex and drugs were a single large that erased the past and engulfed the future. In my world there was no subway. Christiane and her friends burned like atoms in a nuclear fusion, evaporated in the smoke of marijuana, inside cabinets or between dirty unmade bed sleazy motel. The boys of the Berlin Zoo and matches are spoons and white powder and sex lies and petty. Berlin and a mother who is already gone.

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Dream Dream

Being as well as in dreams, where people must weep and mourn those who have mercy banker asks for mercy ...

This dream touches points of extreme delicacy, all areas where it is concentrated. It 'a so-called recurring dreams.
There is me and a person with important and other people, all close to my life, now or in the past.
not walk and I'm on a wheelchair. But in the dream is not at all clear the situation: I do not know if you can not walk because I do not want, because I can not, because my legs are too weak to support me, or because they have something, voluntary or involuntary, that does not work. Then I look at the world from this perspective, sitting without being able to move and thus unable to fully manage my life. I feel dependent on others and especially by a person who plays a mother role for me. When this person is suddenly unable to attend, I am alone and I try to move in the world on this wheelchair. La nostalgia di lei è forte: la penso sempre, desidero averla accanto. Ma sono sola e mi trovo nella mia vecchia parrocchia. Il piazzale è pieno di ragazzi, a partire dai bambini fino ad arrivare ai giovani, che sono in attesa di riunirsi per gli incontri di catechismo. Una sorta di primo giorno di scuola del catechismo. Mi sento disorientata, cerco di avvistare visi noti ma sono stata talmente lontana da quell'ambiente che non sono sicura mi riaccoglieranno, anche se mi trovo in una situazione di evidente bisogno. Riconosco qualcuno, qualche compagna e poi c'è il parroco. Proprio lui che ha sempre covato una certa ostilità nei miei confronti perchè non ero come si aspettava, lui da cui ho cercato di fuggire ed ora mi trovo a dovermi riavvicinare. Lui mi guarda sempre da lontano, mettendomi a fuoco e dimostrandomi di avermi vista, ma senza mai sorridermi. In qualche modo vengo accolta dal gruppo, anche se non calorosamente, sto ai margini, osservando, sperando che qualcuno mi tenda una mano. E una persona lo fa, una vecchia compagna di scuola. Mi riaccompagna verso casa terminato l'incontro e forse, ma non ne sono sicura, provo ad alzarmi e appoggiandomi alla carrozzina, a muovere qualche passo. Intanto ho ricominciato a sentirmi parte di quel gruppo, e loro si sono ricostituiti come punto di riferimento nella mia vita. Penso soddisfatta a quando li rivedrò, a quando starò in mezzo a loro durante la messa.
Eppure continuo a non sapere che cos'hanno le mie gambe . E' come se non fossero neanche attaccate a me, come se avessero vita propria e il potere di decidere come comportarsi, se funzionare o no. Per un attimo ho il dubbio di poterle usare, di provarci davvero, che la situazione presente non è una condanna e non è immutabile ma posso fare la differenza. Ma so che sto tornando a casa e troverò quella figura materna che mi ridarà il potere di continuare a non camminare.