YOU’RE FINE

You are fine alone, but alone you suffer a lot. You would never admit it, but it shows in how nice you are to anyone, even to those who don’t deserve it at all. You want people to love you, and however much you walk with the air of someone who doesn’t need anyone, you constantly need someone. Boundless fears and tiny feet that don’t allow you to escape far enough. You don’t know how to go far away, then you miss the air and you don’t know what to do, you like Italy, but it’s not Italy that you like, it’s those ten or eleven people in all, without whom you would not know how to go on, because it takes you years to become attached to someone, but then it’s forever. Or in short, almost. Like all beautiful things. You make me smile when you say you don’t believe in infinite loves and then I find you moved in front of a cartoon that should have made you laugh. You never cry because you are disappointed, when you are disappointed you scream. When you cry it’s because you hope, hope and don’t want to admit it. Hoping hurts you, somehow. You think it’s not like you, so you cry watching comedy movies and justify yourself by saying you don’t really know why, “it’s been happening to me since I was little.” And how are you now? Do you feel great? You like the night and you like songs that are no longer used and idioms that are no longer used. Everything about you is sincere, even the way you dress and say the words. Even the way you breathe. You don’t control yourself, you can’t and you think it’s bad, instead it’s wonderful, you are a wild flower, one of those flowers that cannot be picked but only looked at. You perfume a lot, if you were a memory you would be the smell of freshly washed sheets, if you were me you would love yourself as birds love to fly, with a necessary love. If you were me you would love yourself so as not to die. I am here looking at you, you look like a poem that no one will ever dedicate to me, one of those poems that when you read them you think it would be wonderful if someone saw you that way and loved you so much, instead nothing, but no less beautiful , not for this, ever.

STORY OF A LITTLE BLUE GIRL

Hey Blue what happened to you? I see you a little down. And I no longer see your beautiful hair that looked good with any color, where did your smiles and laughter go little Blue? What did all these people do to you to reduce you like this. Why are you crying? Indeed, the correct question is: why have you never stopped crying? Because you recognize yourself more when you suffer, instead of taking them and killing all those who trample you. Who don't know Blu what you felt, they don't know. They don't know what it's like to get up on your own. They don't know what it's like to be alone. You yes. And you are very good because with others you never collapse, you know how to console yourself and you know how to laugh alone. You are strong, and everyone tells you how strong you can be. They tell you this especially before they break you, but you never break. You just cry, and people often can't stand it, but you just want someone to stay there. Watch yourself and say nothing. But Blue is not easy. In this life no one has time for anyone anymore and you are tired of having a phone in your hand to be able to communicate with people. You want a real shoulder, you want someone to take your pain with their bare hands and throw it away. You are looking for love because you have never known it and you do not know what it really is like. All consequences of a tragic past that you don't even remember, if you knew maybe you wouldn't be like that. Maybe you would be like all 20-year-olds who go around the clubs to dance. But you don't dance, because whoever dances is happy, you just move your hip to provoke any man. You seek attention, you look for eyes that are always pointed towards you, but the eyes are not always the mirror of the heart. The bottle of vodka you are drinking no longer even has a taste for you, it doesn't taste like peach or mint or strawberry, it just tastes like a cage that for a few moments doesn't let out thoughts and doesn't make you feel sad. But I know the truth, I know you would tell your whole life if people asked you, but you never really do it. You don't do it for a good reason, people are too normal compared to you and you've been told too many times that you are weird, that you are wrong, that you are different. You are not and you would have tons

THE CAGE

I always keep myself so consistent with my words, too! As if my words were my thoughts, unique and immobile. It’s like saying things out loud, or writing them (to anyone), locks me in a cage. From that moment on, I can’t get rid of the terrible thought that by doing something that (even if only apparently) contradicts what I said, it makes me attackable, because I hate it, I mean being attacked, even if I knew how to defend myself, I avoid doing it, I don’t have I never stimulate him to do so, and so I let things slip away, I laugh, I always laugh. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever had a real laugh, but real seriously I mean! Laughing has become the alternative to everything: getting angry, screaming, talking, crying, and who knows how much else … The cage that I have now doesn’t let you see much light, it’s so thick and dark, ah, if at least it were colored! Instead it is black, very black. I am imprisoned with my words, which I have reserved for a few, but even those few should not have made me speak, because words do not bounce off certain people, but are absorbed by them, I cannot get this idea out of my head and tortures me. I don’t want to talk to anyone anymore, I don’t want to feel the need anymore, which is already a very small need, but I still often give in! If I really want freedom, I have to be alone with myself, I have to escape from anyone and anything, to find an isolated but beautiful place, all mine but nobody’s. And instead this miserable existence of mine will continue in the worst of the chessboards, and I will always be on the corner, ignored, but I will always feel in the center, derided and observed, unable to move, motionless and sad.

SHIBUI: THE “WHITE” JAPANESE BEAUTY

Wabi-sabi (侘 寂) constitutes a Japanese worldview, or aesthetic, founded on the acceptance of the transience and imperfection of things. ... Its aesthetic characteristics include: asymmetry, harshness, simplicity, modesty, intimacy and suggestion of natural processes.
To understand what beauty is for Japanese women, one must think of Ikebana, the ancient art of flowers. A ritual, like calligraphy, the study of literary compositions and poetry, which the Zen masters have transfigured into a religious experience of reflection and illumination, in a way to guide the mind towards the absolute.

Precise and meticulous rituals: beauty must be regal, intense and shining because we already know that it will vanish and that we will vanish with it and is linked to the total acceptance of destiny, beyond good and evil, according to the aesthetic vision of " wabisabi ”, founded precisely on the transience of things. Therefore, the obsession with punctual and exasperated care has its roots steeped in a millenary and powerful spiritual tradition, in the philosophy and religious influences of Buddhism and Shintoism. Obsession of a people full of contradictions and contrasts, which combines devotion to the past with a vision that anticipates the future. Where manual treatments coexist with hyper-technological and sophisticated tools that try to reproduce, at home, the salon protocols. By transforming aesthetics, and the radiance of the face, from theory to practice. Like in an Ikebana, like in a Buddhist prayer. Into something sacred.

The attention of Japanese women to the care and maintenance of a complexion that is as ethereal as possible, flawless and white as snow, is a known fact. This obsession becomes very obvious by visiting any cosmetic shop, perfumery or even pharmacy in Japan: facial masks, creams, treatments of all kinds to whiten or "illuminate", as the Japanese say, the complexion and achieve the much desired aesthetic canon of bihaku (literally "white beauty", equivalent to the maximum level of beauty that a woman's skin can reach).

The appreciation of white skin as an aesthetic canon has very deep roots in Japan and dates back to about 1300 years ago, during the period between the Asuka (538 - 710 AD) and Nara (710 - 794 AD) eras when, at the same time to the massive import from China of Buddhist religious practices and technical knowledge in various fields, customs related to the aesthetics and fashion of the time began to appear on the shores of the Japan archipelago. Among these, the white color of the leather as a sign of elegance and value. The application of a whitish powder called oshiroi (literally "white powder") obtained from the crushing of rice or shells of shells practiced up to that moment in Japan, was gradually replaced by the much more effective technique introduced by the continent which consisted in the whitening of the skin by smearing a lead-based substance on it.

Thanks also to the admiration with which the aristocracy in Japan looked at the refinement of the sophisticated Chinese civilization of the time, the practice of whitening the skin with a state of lead-based oshiroi soon became a widespread fashion among the nobles of the Japanese court. . Not only women, but also men of the nobility used to apply a base of oshiroi to the face. Being an extremely expensive and precious cosmetic, the concept of aesthetic beauty was accompanied by the symbol of one's status in society at the same time. And so, from the spasmodic desire for beauty and elegance pursued by the refined court aristocracy, the aesthetic cult for a pale white complexion, of an absolute whiteness and free of imperfections, was consolidated in Japan.

Over the centuries, the custom of painting the face and neck with a layer of milky white oshiroi has given way to the much more sustainable concept of a skin tending to white in a "natural" way. Even if Japanese women no longer paint their faces, the value and quality of a white skin remains implicit in historical memory, an aesthetic canon handed down to the present day and of which all the shopping centers in Japan are unequivocal proof, for their offer in terms of cosmetics that enhances the whiteness of the skin as the value to aspire to.

After the World War, however, there was a reversal of the trend. The same Shiseido, giant of the Japanese cosmetics industry, launched in 1966 the promotional campaign for a summer line of cosmetics focused on the concept of the enjoyment of summer, whose slogan read "Let us love the Sun", and depicted (Japanese) models from golden skin in the rays of the sun. In those years it was customary for girls who could not get a natural tan on the beach to use foundation with warm bronze colors. But it was a fashion incompatible with tradition, and destined to soon evaporate from the collective imagination.

The development of scientific research, and with it the evidence that exposure to sunlight causes unpleasant consequences such as spots and wrinkles, as well as dangerous skin diseases, has favored a return to the ancient preference of Japanese women for a white and flawless complexion like a blanket of fresh snow. The candid beauty of white which, as the saying goes, has the intrinsic strength to condone other imperfections. It is the concept of bihaku, that is the aesthetic canon par excellence that has established the boundary between elegance and vulgarity in Japan for centuries.

PHILOSOPHICAL CHIMERA

Sometimes we can no longer see things for what they are. We lose the nature of awareness, our particular symptom that allows us to remember, see life as a whole, imagine perspectives or mental states. Also be aware of death. And it is precisely the ability to enter a world – the one we build ourselves, because “a dog lives in the world of a dog” – and in the position of others that confirms the importance of will: when we are in the throes of devastation of awareness, identity is very far away, and even being in memories struggles to recognize itself. I do not remember. If there is no longer the possibility of dialogue with the dimension through which to recover our truth, there can be no action. Because if “reality is a call to act”, man, emptied of the possibilities of the world, cannot recover movement. It also forgets the perception of one’s own freedom and that of others. Without the ability to imagine and overturn the senses of things we are lost individuals, at least at the level of consciousness. But we still manage to live. Oliver Sacks tells the case of a judge who, during the First World War, suffered a very serious injury to the frontal lobe: the trauma made him unable to feel emotions, to have a perception of himself and of the world, but it did not affect his intellectual faculties. . His profession, however, could no longer be exercised: the judge left the seat because he recognized that he no longer understood the motives of the others. What surrounds us can still tell us something, but we feel it without what the French call sensibilisation, which, as it happens, combines the two meanings of awareness and consciousness. Brain damage can give rise to David Hume’s philosophical chimera, namely being “a bundle or an accumulation of different sensations, which follow one another with unimaginable rapidity in perpetual flux and movement”. To experience how to lose the impressions of events and to feel that the sequence of numerous unrelated changes slip through the fingers: in Jimmie, another Sacks patient, they struggle – without his realizing it due to anosognosia – the emptiness and the miserable strength of identity, which survives the de-animation of the disease, Korsakoff’s syndrome. The power of our acting in reality is to overcome any kind of dissolution. There is certainly, in us, a place that can be taken care of, but without too many certainties. And the mind often is silent and limits itself to observing.

https://youtu.be/crQeiIl1E8c

A LIE THAT IS EROS

You remind me of someone who
It never existed; the
Crazy dough, maybe it's in
That Lilith bed that I am
Misunderstandings were born: ha,
I have always known the truth
But lying to me does me less
Ache. I wish I could prove
That time is just an arrow;
What I see inside yours
Hands, sincerely: a
Fist of presumption and limits,
The ones I prefer not to know.
You know how dangerous it is
Give the signs more labels
Convenient: Call things with the
Their name, and from there you start again.
But, tell me why not even
In the answers it is possible
Find that kick that me
Stuns; I see myself, I am beyond
Myself, I would like to recognize myself.
I created I created
A roof a mirror
Conforming to fidelity, it is so opaque:
How long can I stay in this
Invisible shooting e
Survive my projections?
What I see in this balance on the world:
The garden let go.

Now I have only weight. I like,
But not always,
Being in control of things myself,
Know where to put your hands.
I touched you in that bed, and I have
Lied in not loving.
In the dark, with a little cold
Around: find myself in a
Bunch of mud, the gift that
Someone made me. I have it
Left to rot, but it always is
Dense. I'm in it.
What do I see inside the temptations:
A lie that is Eros
And engine of consciousness. I would like to
That becoming was simple
Becoming, and not a return on
Guilt. Nobody touches me. Support
The last glass on the carpet, in the
My test what you could
To be. "You have more things to tell yourself."
Yes, I would like to tell them all, but it is
More humane to enjoy the confusion:
Sometimes the suggestions arise on the
Street. I wish I was different
And yet they are just that: one
Consciousness that sees only the hand
Tapered, a new light, too many
Register for one story only.
What do I see inside your story: one
Mine who cannot leave.

LUX MISTICA

In our life many things weigh us down and create like a mountain of stones within us that blocks us. I have recently been able to find some space for its Light but I think I am unworthy of it. I feel like a little sparrow looking for crumbs. His word and His divine energy are immense and I feel as tiny as a gnat. I have asked many people to pray for me because I would like to feel the faith. I really wish I had a gift from the Holy SPIRIT but I don’t think I deserve it. I believe that the world itself is currently crucified on the cross of pain. We should all help each other. Rediscover divine love and help as many people as possible. Time always appears to us like this, in the form of an unstoppable and necessary worry. Plotinus had questioned himself enough about this restlessness. In fact – so he says – there is a place in the Soul that generates a very particular dynamic, that is, it manages to produce “the sensible world in the image of the intelligible one and makes it mobile, not of the intelligible movement, but of one similar to that and that aspires to be its image ” They are a series of steps, but it is not difficult to go back to the first question: why is time not enough for us as it is? The Soul cannot tolerate the intelligible inside. It is too much, it is heavy, it continually fades into its impossible consistency. It exists, yet it seems to have nothing to do with what Maeterlinck thought was “the atmosphere of life”. We need momentum. Indeed, no, it is necessary to offer the reasons and conditions. Time, in an imperceptible instant, recalls its nature, becoming the subject of itself and the identity of the bearer of a past that is almost always transfigured. This is why it is so complicated to write about what has been: the memory takes the form of a narrative about which we often know nothing. We only feel an impulse to hold it back, but the only action we can really do is prepare the wax, to start over. A divine arrogance pushes us to cut the boundaries of something that perhaps does not exist. In reality, the memory wanders a bit on its own – above all it takes its own form on its own – and, like a poem, it returns. In fact, the actual writing of the self is not so far from the famous long journey that Valéry talks about: we are waiting on the side of the road for a lump of perfect words in their unitary project. It almost seems that our role shouldn’t be felt. But, in the end, delimiting everything towards the outside makes everything infinite towards the inside, an infinity that needs to open up, selecting, explaining a narrative, above all wrong.

https://youtu.be/QwVjTlTdIDQ

BORN IN THE STONE

So ready to disappear
I was
so featherweight
and apologize to the skin
with every dust of air
for undue occupation,
so impressed by the transparency
I was
to make glass
tersissimo
to dazzling mornings
and smell of wave
between propped bodies.
So strictly useless
the soul
my
to keep it green next to it
in the long course of the so-called
dating
without any unhinging
of speech.
"Then? Then?"
Then
I slipped out
in hard peel
world skin,
I make a silence
on evil,
a cloak
of insolent beauty
terrestrial.
I cannot command
this flow
it is a great work
of clear yield
with a majestic current,
I am a word to the light
I was born.

LOOK INTO MY TRUNK

I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.

THEY STOLE MY BYCICLE

Six years ago a friend of mine gave me his bicycle as a gift and he is gone forever. For three years the bike has always served me: I loaded it like a mule to do the shopping, we went a couple of times away and then around this green area, for months she and I, her bike. For months and miles, it was my car. I remember that she was waiting for me on the last sidewalk of the station when he left. When I left for London it was brought with great difficulty to Padua and when I returned from London I went to pick it up from Padua. It was raining heavily that day, rivers of water lined the streets and the Paduans found a girl in the rain who splashed water everywhere and sang the Christmas song “Jingle bells” in the middle of summer. I was very happy to be able to ride a bike. When I arrived at the station, the track for the bike was the last one, outside the station shelter and so I had to forcefully fit the bike onto the wagon and then pull it up, in the midst of a thousand curses on that last wagon before the locomotive. Unlike the one I have at home, this one was called “Little Mermaid” because during the winter rains of a cold and merciless reverse, I always emerged from the waters on her saddle and stayed afloat. I walked around in sub-zero temperatures and warm socks under my pants. Then one day I went to the library, serene as always, and when I go out I haven’t found her. You took away not only a bike of questionable economic value, and of fundamental practical value, but you also took away a dear memory and a piece of my life. The Little Mermaid was the only memory I had of my friend. Thieves assholes!