SUPERNOVA LUX

Walk around the world as if it were not extinct elsewhere.
Don’t be competent, don’t try to prove yourself – it’s not necessary. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do anything useful.
Do your thing, but I know the greatest and most real life experiences are in existing.
We see through poetry, painting, love, meditation.
Only greater joy will be able to do something that cannot be reduced to a market.
A reward is spiritual, internal, and manifested by energy.
So if you feel worthless, don’t worry.
You can become a huge tree with a large crown.
And we have to start waving our branches.
We are stronger than them,
we are stronger than any nuclear warhead.
We are eternal stars.
We do not bow under power.
We bring the light to the other place.

EROS AND THANATOS

Roses are red, blood is red, love is red. Happiness is clothed in thorns, it can be reached, embraced, with the crucifixion clause. The harder you push, the harder it sticks to you, and the blood gushes. Happiness is an elite created by those who self-destruct to give it to others. A cosmic equilibrium is destroyed in order to create, one loves in order to die, to the point of dying. Eros and Thanatos go hand in hand. There are still entities that prefer to harm themselves rather than those they love. They can be considered weak, but others do not know how much strength it takes not to open the Pandora’s box that is hidden behind a pair of eyes, they do not know how much awareness exudes from the skin. What awareness? The awareness of the power used to protect, which if released would cause a massacre with no survivors. An awareness that bleeds inside, behind a smile, without anyone noticing, or at least almost anyone. The blood gushes, and nobody pays any attention to it. And that’s right, for balance. For the world. There is a part of me that you don’t know, and it’s not my fragility, it’s that part that at some point reminds me of what I’ve been through, that makes me recognize your lies, that tells me when it’s time to move on , who does not stop saying that the first place will never be yours, because it is already occupied by me. You wouldn’t even understand it by trying on this part that you don’t see, so you will continue to call it insanity.

LET’S SIT TOGETHER

I don’t understand those people who when they turn one more year get demoralized because they feel older and older or who say they don’t give a damn. Instead of focusing on the fewer years they have left to live, they should be happy that they lived up to that point. Each additional year of life is a wonderful milestone to celebrate, as every day of life should be. Just for the fact of opening your eyes and having another day to live in front of you, you should smile and try to feed that smile all day. When you are young, you take everything for granted, including your health, and you don’t fully realize the extraordinary power you have right now. We often focus on a happiness that will only be achievable in the near future, but the future is only our imagination. Today it is reality. The air we are breathing, the beating of our heart and the sweat of our hands, these sensations of the present are what we take for granted as if they were eternal but they are not. Our vital senses take on their true value only when we are about to lose them. Do not allow this to happen, whatever you are doing stop for a moment and completely forget about it, breathe deeply closing your eyes, listening to your beat, touching your hands but above all enjoying being alive with a sublime smile.

I look at your graceful figure and no fantasy is needed for me to follow the return to the origins, your morning toilet is of fine oyster cloth and you are an invitation to a mud bath, your blue eye stares at me through a milky keratome, with the stiff forefinger you push aside the yellow twigs of the weeping willow and you know well that you can expect all the worst things from me. Emotional flashes and a hundred and eight gold in the finish open the way to the sewer, to the sad weekend that I am now starting to live, the dress of which I dream is woven in the rice color of Siberian cellulose, the green hands of eight hundred girls are the foundation of a sweet confession, the isoipse of the rice solidify you with a courtesy mask and the ratchets of your porcelain ears are perfectly hidden in the listening bush of your oxide macerated hair. The spheres of things and events triggered, against the course of the clock hands, run at zero time, however a single day spent with the beloved girl on a Norwegian glacier is the love bag of all worthy people.

Splinters of smashed dolls hurt my soul, the caterpillar crawling right next to my eye is bigger than the express train that passes in the distance. I don’t know which mountain farmer when he couldn’t find work years ago he started talking to a sheep. I see how my life is sucked into my mother’s life, I see how I am wound back from the umbilical cord to the womb of the progenitor Eve. I see how the stained underpants are the imprint of infinity and the intestines stirred by noble horror lead to a higher vision, I see my semen as against the current being sucked backwards to the first pollution like a mountain trout, I see how from the organ sexual intercourse of all my ancestors are sucked back into the spermatic canal of the progenitor Adam. I live tactfully the resection of the rib that I still miss today.

And in the meantime this is your little waist and this is your pleated skirt from the belt to the delicate crepe and this is your toilet of the silky ivory color and it is an empire model and this is the confirmation dress kept as a souvenir and this is your back dappled by beer coasters and these are your loose hair and staves of music flow from your head. I see how naked you are now sailing under the dark beams, I see your rhythmic hands illuminated by the violent spray of the yellow chandelier, I see how from your little beating legs gush springs, beads that rise from all the pores of your body, you are immersed in a bathroom phosphorescent and vibrating ankles whistling rapids of seltzer, sparkling wines, sparkling fins, mineral feathers, flying fish wings, the flys that the beautiful and young Greek god Mercury wears on his ankles. The full moon shines with the footprint of Armstrong’s sole, but I was most moved by the news of the evening newspaper, a 68-year-old medical herb picker dozed off on a flowering meadow and was sucked into a lawn mower and her corpse escaped from the car along with the medicinal herbs and hay beyond recognition.

Along the belt of the streets I return to the origin of going, the revealing splendor of animal experiences wishes pools full of children to thirsty cities. Your myosotide eye broken by a sliver of Modra majolica now understands my cold gaze, rightly follow how the knife of my imagination pushes back to the sources of things. The last stream is sucked into the small river with the last drop, the last river is sucked into the ocean sea with the last clear cloud evaporating in the blue skies. I see how you follow this ascending fall with me, I see that not a single phase of this striptease has escaped you. Apparently I follow the memory of your white silk dress embroidered with gold, on the wrist the sleeve was decorated with slits for my desire, two hollow folds of cream yellow cashmere, but I follow all the more quickly as the pure source and the divine Needle they go towards spring and you smile at me when you see how I take handfuls full of creative clay in my hands and smelling the earth I smell you too. Meanwhile I feel only in my brain the screeching of your sweet limbs, the skin you have adorned with tender cracks, you are transported by the coordinates of cigarette smoke, Climb high like the bubbles of seltzer, the trees and flowers describe circumferences, an apple falls from the melo, already with the apples in the seed, the last ruins of the evening slip silently into the soft dust, but in the meantime I like the excesses and extravagances of the songs with poetry in the newspapers.

Graceful comes in the wave of the evening a lonely throb of a star. Gradually a light cloud the pupil closes them smiling; and as she passes with veils and feathers, in the great blue tremulous sparks they are born in swarms, they are born in garlands, are born in a hundred, are born in a thousand: but I don’t see you anymore, my star. Liable illusion How many anxieties you neglect. I woke up. Beyond the intoxicating essence of your insidious substance Vast expanses of multicolored black poppies They linger mischievous Willing to stem severely every unwary dream. Cleverly designed they will refute the insolent lie to which you are prone Allocating your vain shy escape to an inevitable departure. We cannot evade An intimate truth. Along the way we meet as graceful souls. Sensitive fairies. You covet butterflies and you love days sitting together.

ORANGE JUICE

I carry the loads on me. I place them on my back, writhing, to adapt them to the shape and material of my shoulders, and I walk around like this, crooked and weighted. I carry loads on me when I decide I’m too old to cry and slam doors. When I make important decisions without thinking and instinct leads me to superficiality and immorality: I leave under the pillow what I have learned over the years, on a mattress deformed by the lines of my loads. At night everything is waiting for me under the pillow right where I saw it last, and I dream of bloody hands. I carry the load of the blood that I no longer have and of my addictions, which today are the only useful support to remind me how I grew up. Addiction, the weapon with which I feel free to wander aimlessly in my prison, countless times. I carry the burdens on me with the experience of one who, in practice, has chosen to suffer.

Then, suddenly, the evening turned into night. Sometimes you don’t have time to notice, things happen in seconds. Everything changes. Are you alive. You are dead. And the world goes on. We are thin as paper. And nothing can be done about it. You can sit on top of a mountain meditating for decades and it will never change one iota. You can change yourself and get over it, but maybe that’s wrong too. Maybe we think too much. We hear more, think less. But you have a brain. You are not a human. You can’t crawl. Yet they crush you anyway. The power of words. If you write them and nobody knows you, you have no power. You have no power. You are like a snail. They don’t even talk to you because they know you’re not a ghost. You are real and the truth bothers you.

PEOPLE HAVE THE REAL POWER

Never think that we have no power. We are millions of people. Our choices greatly affect the economy and many other things. They really want to make people believe they have all the power but they don't. We have a lot of power but we don't exercise it because every day they manipulate us to make us want useless things and to enrich them. But if we become aware of our choices we can make sure they don't win again and again. We are millions of people but we have to make the right choices. They run oil companies, junk foods, poisons, pesticides, poisonous detergents, etc ... So if we don't buy what they produce then they will lose that power. Imagine if big brands like Coca Cola and Pepsi no longer sell, what would happen? There are so many things that people consume that destroy health. We must take back the power to decide for our own good. We must stop spending on useless and harmful things.

DON’T BUY NEW CLOTHES

DON’T BUY JUNK FOOD

DON’T BUY NEW CARS

USE ONLY COTTON AND WOOL CLOTHES

PLANT TREES

EAT LITTLE FISH AND LITTLE MEAT

PLANT VEGETABLES IN YOUR GARDENS

EAT YOUR OWN VEGETABLES

 

You, the people, have the power to create machines, progress and happiness. You, the people, have the power to make life beautiful and free. You who can make a splendid adventure out of this life. Let's all unite! Let us all fight for a new world, which gives everyone a job, hope for the young, serenity for the old and security for women. By promising you these things men have come to power. They lied! They have not kept those promises and never will. And they won't give anyone an account. Perhaps the dictators are free because they enslave the people. We fight to keep those promises. To break down borders and barriers. We fight to eliminate greed and hatred. A reasonable world in which science and progress give all men well-being.

I believe that this historical period should be told more well than other past ones in which we fought hard because the truth was more obvious, because then we were talking about finally having universal rights equal for everyone, now those rights, those laws that were sought , who were wondering strongly there are, yes, but perhaps only on paper. Our parents thought that getting to have laws finally fit for society was enough to make it really better, but they were wrong, for a while they were right, perhaps, but those ideas of respect, justice and democracy have not completely eliminated illegality, amorality and some negative traditions of their respective societies. Because every society, continent and nation struggles with its own problems perhaps even more difficult than before on some points of view because the power of the masses has potentially diminished, or at least their desire and search for truth and participation.

OUR PARENTS HAVE STRUGGLED TO MAKE US HAVE A BETTER AND NOT A WORSE FUTURE.
WHAT ARE WE DOING FOR THE FUTURE OF OUR CHILDREN?

MY NAME IS AMLETA

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Hamlet to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has been walking this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Hamlet has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies her throughout her life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it into the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Hamlet goes in and out as if from a window. It goes in and out of itself, feeds itself to the pigs, gives its vital breath, falls apart and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation.

She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Amleta was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

MY MOTHER WAS A STYLIST

Growing up with an always sad mother. With a woman who sacrificed her job to raise two daughters. How many women sacrifice their careers because husbands don’t want them to neglect their children? Growing up with a mother who little by little no longer laughs, no longer sings, does not want to go out, becomes antisocial, changes character. A father who commands with money, with greed, with control over everything from clothes to food. And he has the power to say yes or no. A mother who is stripped of her worth, humiliated because she stays at home and was forced to choose to be close to her daughters. A woman finished, emptied, become unhappy. This was my mother. Destroyed by a man who wanted her only for himself and always at home. Instead she was a very good stylist, she had a lot of creativity and imagination, she taught me so many things. But then it got bad because of my dad. A woman should never be hindered by a husband or life partner or boyfriend.