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Oriana

The first novel I read was "Nothing is so" in the seventh grade, found in my grandmother's house during winter influence. I still have it, Feltrinelli edition of the 80 type. There Oriana in Vietnam, with braids, in a tent camp of the American army, dressed as a soldier. She was a journalist, soldier. Her beautiful eyes moving and intense gaze, he saw beyond. I was just a child. But that day I decided that I would have done the journalist, war correspondent, as she did. I wrote pieces on fire inside a military tent, with the notebook on his lap.
Then it was different. Now I'm trying to become psicanalista. Però mi piace fermarmi a pensare a lei. Abitava a New York, e quando ci sono stata non ho nemmeno visto la sua casa. Però mi sono detta "Siamo qui insieme, lei è in qualche casa, in qualche strada di Manatthan." E' Toscana d'origine, come me, anche se io sono mezzo sangue. E anche io vorrei vivere a New York.

Da bambina mi illudevo che in qualche modo lei sapesse che esistevo e che volevo diventare come lei. Che lei era il mio mito, anche se non sono una che fanatizza sui propri miti. Li penso e li adoro in silenzio. In ogni caso Oriana era Oriana. E anche se è stata demonizzata, contestata ed esaltata ha lasciato un buco vuoto quando è andata via. Un buco d'idee e di presenza mentale. Forse era una tiranna, an uncompromising, whatever you want. But his way of writing his own thought had a mix of authenticity and pragmatism, clarity and strength, courage and poetry that every reader recognizes them as trademarks. Oriana was a Florentine in New York and this says it all. In his genius, the genius of the Tuscan but their roughness. I want to read it again and nothing is so enchanted with the eyes of a preteen. Then I heard here Oriana, again.

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Children of Leningradsky


Leningradsky is a metro station in Moscow.
children live there. Street children
, homeless children, children road.
It 's the same thing.
an abomination in the world, here as elsewhere.

A Polish director, Hanna Pollak, has made a short feature of the protagonists.
This review will not focus on documentary film. That's good for one to see with their eyes. I focus on the eyes of those who saw him.
The faces of the spectators, when the film is finished, they were lost. What I read in their faces, in those eyes, was the sense of the film, tracing the images imprinted in the soul of everyone.
There were no words. I think that they can not exist for a horror without end, and objectively are also unnecessary. Unnecessary.

Why is not the horror or metabolites, or in need of a long, long, almost dilated processing, which does not come through words. Yet the horror comes in those little lives at the speed of light, in every breath, every heartbeat. The horror they did not ask permission, not asking for the opportunity to enter.

I want to comment on this film through the contrast that the film has created with us, we who live on this side of the screen, and we can see sitting on a chair, warm, dark and quiet. We who have chosen to look at it and maybe we prepared a few days before because we knew that this appointment was waiting for us.

Now back to the eyes: there were those who smiled, as if he had awakened from a long slumber. Who was looking around as if he did not know where to be found. Who did not move. and continued to stare at the scrolling credits. No one spoke. No one knew what to do, even if the only reasonable thing was to get up and leave. This was the film. A quiet storm. An earthquake property. E 'right now, in the end, it all starts.

To Us.

In the belly of the opulent Europe, the European Union under the floors, an army of pale children live clinging to the heating pipes. No one knows they exist. A nation of little ghosts.

Now no one can say, I did not know ...

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To be an outsider

Today I feel out of everything.
Feeling strange and unusual.
Intrigued by my new being.
Exhausted.
I said to myself and when I yelled my voice out from the pack.
Sì sono uscita dal gregge delle pecorelle ammaestrate per obbedire a quello che sentivo nel profondo.

Non avevo scritto nessun post per l'anno nuovo.
Ma ho trovato come voglio inaugurarlo: voglio sentirmi più libera di essere me stessa senza vergognarmi di quello che sono.
Voglio sentirmi più autentica, senza che questo mi faccia paura.
Bisogna sottostare a molti compromessi per vivere in socialità.
Ma a tutto c'è un limite.
Mi pentirò, chi può dirlo?
Certo, non sarà una passeggiata.
Saying "I'm not there" always has its effects. For once I did that and it is, how to explain, beautiful, heady and complex.

What I regret is that a certain person never believes in me and see me under a single, smoky lens. The image of me, his eyes never changes.
And the point is: this is not important.
Ok
But what I am for myself and as for others, and what you can find a happy medium between these two extremes?