THE HEART OF THE MOON

Heart night.
Heart moon.
Mystery illuminated by the dream.
The thought tears. Every morning it opens one day.
It hurts to wake up.
Having to live in human sleep.
A bright and perky twin.
While you are still sleeping.
An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets.
A slab of hearts.
Crushed.
I went in from the back.
Walking on the carpets with holes in them.
The rooster crowed.
The rain was coming.
Candles dropped from my eyes and the light touched my green irises, coloring the meadows of your feeling.
I have chosen not to participate in the life cycle but to remain in nature.
From your doors to my doors a hanging wire grows, almost a vine.
Profane.
A darkly severed scene cut by a skeptical director.
That you want a happy ending is obvious but my end is always cynical.
Heart night.
Heart moon.
Mystery illuminated by the dream.
The thought tears.
Every morning it opens one day.
It hurts to wake up.
Having to live in human sleep.
A bright and perky twin.
While you are still sleeping.
An efficient and hardworking twin while you laze in the sheets.
A slab of hearts.
Crushed.

 

MYSTERIA LANE

On the second floor of my building lives a couple of elderly gentlemen. I have no idea what his name is, but I have often heard him refer to her as "Dear Rosina". I met them on the stairs and before greeting me with big smiles, I saw them come down arm in arm, slowly, patiently. I thought of Montale, how he was able to paint the same scene with all the love he felt for his partner who was no longer there. As a child, I dreamed of great achievements, distant journeys, a fire lit in a house that I could call mine. Now I just hope to be able to grow old with a man next to me who looks at me as my neighbor looked at his Rosina, step by step.
There is a gentleman on the third floor of my building. He is a very robust man on the verge of obesity. However this is hardly visible due to its height. I got to know him from the very beginning of my arrival in this building thanks to his desperate, angry screams, at mealtimes, addressed to a woman who in my fantasies I assume was the very old mother. I then got to know him physically from the peephole of my door since, throughout the quarantine, couriers arrived to deliver packages to the latter. Everyday. Every day more and more out of breath from step to step. Always the quarantine then, he introduced me to Paola, the neighbor across from my building, who asked me if I too heard the cries of this man and then informed me that a few months earlier the one who confirmed me to be his mother died. The mother of this man.
There are those people you would like to get rid of for good.
Like the guy who, no matter how many times you've told him, continues to park his car on your private parking lot; or the neighbor who every Sunday morning starts drilling the walls, which also makes you doubt that his house has now become a gruyere, who will never have to drill, no one knows. Or the classic annoying relative you see once every three months, and in that one time he is able to get you a real third degree about boyfriends / study / work, and he can't understand that in those three months things haven't changed much, and the only thing you want to tell him is to shut the damn mouth.

Or the classic friend - or friend, of your choice - of the person you're with. The nice friend who doesn't have to put in much effort to be a bitch, because she was born with this talent, and she is also very good at smashing the so-called with her presence.

Well, unfortunately, we cannot get rid of these people. Not by legal means, at least. But looking at them with a smile and sending them straight to fuck can be seriously rewarding.
Under my window I hear the neighbors' child. his name is like me and in these days of isolation he often plays in the garden, helps his mother to make the vegetable garden and plant the seeds. she has never been too patient, yet now there is a whole new cure in the gestures that are repeated, from the soil that falls into the pot to the attention with which she takes care that each plant has its right amount of sun. when time expands, more attention can be paid, more kindnesses can be granted. "I would like to know only when it will end" the little girl lets slip and this is what we are all asking ourselves a bit, between worry and the days that repeat themselves. then her mum takes her by the hand and helps her to wet the earth with the watering can, I look at them from above with the cat and I think that all we can do is just that, keep the soil ready and take care of the seeds.
But I still carry dance inside. He forged me, he taught me to measure myself with my strength, with the need for order. It is to her that I owe the discipline I work with. It was hard to have to leave, but it was my driving force and it still is. "
Dusting off old photos ... A past life between spikes, tutu, hall, shows and theaters ... Infinite sadness for letting go of the only thing that can make me really happy. 
I don't think I'm an excellent girlfriend. I have my mood swings. I have my fixes. I have my flaws. I try to restrain myself, not to seem psychopathic, not to make tragedies. I'm good at being strong. Then I burst out for a trifle, as if it were the most important in the world. And I'm a child, sometimes. Stubborn. I get angry about something and can't think of anything else for the next three days. I'm drastic, I don't know half measures. With me or without me. Right or wrong. In or out. There are no ajar doors, only locked doors and keys thrown into the void. There is no going back. I am emotional, instinctive. I let go of people I needed just out of pride. I held back people who didn't deserve me just for hope. I am romantic. I cry in front of a movie and get excited by small thoughtful gestures. I write love letters that I will never have the courage to read aloud. I pay attention to details. I'm a perfectionist, sometimes hysterical. I am far from the idea of ​​perfection. But I love so much. I love with all my strength, no ifs and buts. I love with every single part of my body. I love so much that I have stomach cramps, other than butterflies. And even if my loving so much started to wear me out, I'd let it.

PHILOSOPHICUS

Not safe as help, as to save you, perhaps from the very beginning I could not save you, from your mystery, your thoughts … bastards able to obscure all that was beautiful around you. I didn’t rush to understand how you didn’t rush to see how I saw you, fragile, alone, confused, but you loved and I didn’t have a message, I didn’t send a message when uncertainty prevailed. Some of the most famous, mysterious, mysterious. Secondly, I was just a fragile troop for this world, a world that is not capable, which is not in the degree of good luck, and you are why I do not love, but you love me, that it is part of this world, so tell me, how is it possible? I would like to feel you at the same time love you.
I fell into one of my pathetic periods of closure. Often, with human beings, good and bad, my senses simply detach, they get tired: I let it go. I am polite. I nod yes. I pretend to understand, because I don’t want to hurt anyone. This is the weakness that got me the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often find myself with a ribbed soul, reduced to a kind of dish of spiritual noodles. It does not matter… My brain shuts down. I listen. I answer. And they’re too dull to realize I’m not there …
Porcupines huddle together to fight the cold. Their body, however, is covered with sharp spikes, which causing them pain, forcing them to move away. This is the paradox of porcupines, their need to be close to each other while hurting themselves. Schopenhauer tells it and then Freud is also interested in it, because the same happens in human relations. The closer we get to another, the more we risk being hurt. The pains of one become the pains of the other, the quarrels hurt like quills, and force one to leave. But during the winter, the cold continues to loom, and porcupines left alone risk dying. They then decide to huddle, even though they are aware of getting hurt. The dilemma arises from the paradox: what is the right distance to keep from others? Porcupines will stop suffering when they find the correct distance, not too far away so they don’t freeze, and not too close so they don’t get stung. Even if it hurts, we need others. The closer another person is to us, the more we open up to them and let them be part of us, the more we risk colliding with pain. The more we love, the weaker and more at risk we are, but despite our wounds, love saves our lives. We need to have someone close, but without straying too far from ourselves, from what we are and what we want.
Men were born and raised in a cave, they are chained, then forced to remain imprisoned there, always in the same position. Behind them is a fire that reflects before their eyes the shadows of what is happening in the outside world. This is all they see. One of them, however, manages to free himself and comes out, he is dazzled by the sunlight and sees nothing, he wants to go back to the cave, since he believes only what he had there is true and good. This tells the myth of Plato’s cave. The cave represents the daily life in which we are all imprisoned. The man who comes out of it sees the truth of things, but does not understand it. If none of us are aware of what is in front of us, it is as if that did not even exist. It is not easy, but how many times, perhaps, we find ourselves in front of a happiness, a satisfaction, a kind gesture, a truth, and we do not realize it because it is easier to settle down in our daily life, in the thought that everything is wrong and wrong . It is easier to be sad than to struggle to be happy. It is a gesture that requires effort, violence, but it is definitely worth it. In fact, Plato continues to tell that if man were forced to stay outside and open his eyes to what he sees, over time he would be able to recognize everything, the sun would no longer blind him. And once he saw it, but never would he want to go back to the cave. Even if he did so, the other prisoners would not believe him, they would even be willing to kill him. This is because it is a choice that depends solely on us. We must learn to love what we have and which, too many times, we don’t even recognize. Happiness is a choice, we must have the strength to make it, only in this way will we find our sun.

( All artworks by Kate McDowell)

THE LADY OF SERIAL KILLERS

Maybe some of you know that I don't like reading romance novels but I prefer to read thriller and mystery books. So I wanted to dedicate this post to the Thriller writers I already know and if you know others that are so good, please let me know.

 

Before achieving success with her literary career, she was also a journalist and computer analyst for the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine. This assignment allowed her to build with attention to detail and detail her most famous character, the well-known Kay Scarpetta, protagonist of a series that now includes more than twenty titles::
Postmortem is Patricia Cornwell’s first novel, published in 1990. The novel marks the beginning of a new genre of detective stories, where the investigation of the crime scene and the interrogation of the suspects are combined with the scientific and detailed analysis of the victims’ bodies. The heroine Kay Scarpetta, in fact, is not a detective, but a doctor, capable of reconstructing the modus operandi of a serial killer with the imperceptible traces he leaves behind: DNA, fibers, footprints. Science turns into adventure, suspense and fascination. Postmortem is the only novel to have ever won seven US literary prizes dedicated to detective stories in a single year: Edgard Award, Creasey Award, Anthony Award, Macavity Award and the French Prix du Roman d’Aventure.
KAY SCARPETTA is a character inspired by the Italian-born coroner Marcella Farinelli Fierro, born in 1941 and currently retired after being one of the first women to become a legal pathologist in the United States.
Portrait of a Killer (2002) is an investigative book by Patricia Cornwell, the result of years of research. The volume exposes the theory of the author who recognizes in Walter Sickert, a famous English painter of the late nineteenth century, the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper. The research led Cornwell to spend huge sums to purchase a series of Sickert paintings (later donated to Harvard University) and documents of the time, including letters the “ripper” sent to the police; all in order to find the proofs (in his opinion definitive) that would nail the painter to the role of “ripper”. The book describes the life of slums in late nineteenth-century London, but the writer’s thesis has not met with favor with historians.
Just over six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, busty, little makeup and only a Breitling B52 as an ornament, charming and aware, Kay Scarpetta was born in 1954 in Miami but has Italian origins, Veronese to be precise: both his parents come from this Italian city. As a young man she lived the experience of seeing her father die of leukemia, which certainly marked her and influenced her choice of work in which she has a close relationship with death. At around forty, when we first meet her, she has just accepted the position of director of the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine, and is also the director of the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida. During the series, after Richmond, he will be in Charleston, Miami, Boston and will occasionally travel for various consultations. She is very competent and scrupulous in her work, which, combined with a high moral caliber, leads her to be appreciated and esteemed in her field. She likes to dress in an elegant but sober way, suitable for her role in society; she has a great passion for cooking – obviously the Italian one – which relaxes her and distracts her from the worries related to her work. A perfectionist in everything, Scarpetta loves to control everything both at work and in the kitchen: she has a professional kitchen and she likes to prepare everything herself, even the most elaborate things. She has a colleague and friend who is a police officer who always accompanies her, Pete Marino, a companion who will later become her husband, Benton Wesley, and a niece she cares particularly much about, Lucy.
Kay Scarpetta, the famous character of Patricia Cornwell becomes cinema – Phyllis Nagy to the script. Fox brings a series of novels by Patricia Cornwell to theaters with Angelina Jolie as the famous detective. Angelina is already talking to producers and writers to bring Kay to the screen, but nothing is known yet about which of the books will be adapted, and when the film will start.

 

MY HAUNTED HOUSE

I think my house is full of bad things and I have a schizophrenic neighbor and I think her negative energy after years is building up passing into my house and I don’t know how to do it. I tested the jar with vinegar and salt, dissolved in water, in the attic and it solidified. So there is certainly something. My house is built on a battleground. Besides, the owners are dead there. The first few years things were going well but bad things have been happening since last year. The thing is, I also dated a negative person who I found out was an energy vampire and maybe he put something in here when he came to my house. Or he left us something. I’m cleaning the whole house with vinegar and salt. I also put stones and crystals around. Burned incense. I took a bath with whole salt. But will all this help? Or do I really have to move house? It seems to me that there are now stagnant energies here. I cannot unlock many situations. Do I have to do other things?. I am not religious. I only believe in good and bad energies

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