COMET

I fought white ghosts to come and find you, Jesus, 
I crossed my inner deserts and all fears, 
to come and discover you, and I'm tired, 
I walked too much, 
I broke many shoes and lost a lot of water on the long journey. 
And I didn't know where to go, I'm a homeless girl, 
with a star on my forehead, 
and they call me Comet, 
and I don't know where to go anymore 
and I follow your star because Christmas will come 
but I will die in a dumpster or maybe at the sea, 
maybe not you will see me among the sheep and the shepherds, 
perhaps I will be elsewhere and I will finally have found the end of my pain.
Dear Jesus, here I am, I'm a girl destroyed by life, 
and I'm not a beautiful presence in your crib and I won't be able 
to stay there or will you welcome me anyway?
They say you were a friend of the poor 
nd I have nothing to give you, and my heart is tired, 
and I'm tired, 
and the journey is over and still deserted inside me, 
no plants, no flowers, I woke up this morning moody.
The sky is gray inside me and I have only one thought 
and will that star shine for me too that night? 
It will probably be the last thing I will see in this life.

TRIBUTE TO BLUE ELVIS

PETER OR DEMON PAN?

the first time I saw peter pan, the Disney cartoon, I didn't like it. it seemed to me insanely useless, a jumble of senseless dream skits: children flying, a villain who is bad because yes, and peter who doesn't know what he is, where he comes from and why he always smiles or almost.

but I don't live on the island that doesn't exist; and I grow up, and so it happens that I meet peter again and this time I see him differently. this time I see beyond his smile, indeed this time that smile looks more like a grin.

already because now I read peter pan as the "lost" son of a distracted mother who becomes the child who does not grow. all children grow up, except one, peter.

the story starts from an industrial London. a dark and famous city, where wendy and her little brothers live. it is a London with the first hospitals, where children were hospitalized and tried to cure them. so if a child was sick, his mother would take him to the hospital, she had no other choice to protect the child she loved.

it was however a big step forward, compared to a rural society, when the care was at home and many children died, all in their bed.

however, it was a time when there was no telephone and distances were not cleared with a couple of subway stops. the mother took the little patient to the ward, put him in the room, prepared him and made him wear pajamas.

then she put the dress and the shoes in a small closet. in the evening, she gave him a kiss and then went home. every Sunday she went to see him, hoping he was well. and maybe one Sunday they would leave the hospital together.

but there were also bad Sundays.
when a mother would come home bringing back only her son's dresses and shoes. of her child who died, who knows, a day or two ago. not in his cot, but on a stretcher

in limbo between one Sunday and another. Alone.
that's who peter pan is, with his suit made of autumn leaves and cobwebs, and who are his lost children. they are the children whose mothers were only able to get back clothes and shoes.
And the figure of this peter who has as a smile "a row of pearls" made exclusively of milk teeth becomes a sad image. pearls that should fall but tragically never fall.
And then it is no longer a coincidence that there is wendy to embody what the lost children have always sought. to be the projection of their mother. his is the voice that tells bedtime stories or consoles peter by singing him a lullaby, a motherly voice.
Wendy and the siblings, however, eventually return home, in their pajamas, just as they left their bed.
It will be a coincidence, but they remain in pajamas for the whole story, just as if they were wearing a uniform for little patients in the wards of a hospital. but at the end of the story they leave the Neverland.
They go home, to their home. they are not lost.

and peter pan remains confined in a useless limbo, with his eternal smile.
But maybe I just misinterpreted.
Ah, I forgot, a little curiosity: the author, sir james matthew barrie, on his death bequeathed the rights of the work to the great ormond street hospital in london, a pediatric hospital located in bloomsbury a few steps from where it is wendy's house was imagined.
Anyway maybe I just misinterpreted.
or maybe not.

In the middle of Kensington Gardens, next to Hyde Park in London, is a beautiful bronze statue of none other than Peter Pan. The work was created by sculptor George Frampton, and was installed on May 1, 1912. As the Times announced that day, “today there will be a surprise waiting for the children who will go to Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks. of the Serpentine ". A 6-year-old boy, Michael Llewelyn Davies, chosen and photographed by Sir James Matthew Barrie, the author of the famous fable who still has lost none of its charm, was used as a model to create the sculpture. It was Barrie who wanted that statue, and he wanted it exactly where in Kensington Gardens he had imagined that Peter Pan had come into the world. Well, once the opera was inaugurated, in the midst of the many amazed and happy children of this new "guest" in their playground, Barrie, looking perplexed, exclaimed: "Do not show the demon that is in Peter". How did you say, sir? Peter Pan? Demon? Two words that really cannot be more antithetical. Or rather, this is what led us to believe the fable that Walt Disney so kindly fictionalized and covered in honey, because the true story of Peter Pan and the true character of Peter Pan are drenched in drama, cynicism and anger.

the original plot and characters are far from fairytale, so much so that Barrie's book was originally intended for an adult audience. In the first and second edition, published respectively in 1902 (titled The White Bird and part of an anthology of short stories) and in 1906 (this time in an independent version and under the title of Peter Pan in the Kensington Gardens), the story takes place precisely at the Kensington Gardens, within which Barrie imagined the existence of a lake with the so-called Bird Island in the middle (archetype of the subsequent Neverland), ruled by King Solomon to whom prayers were addressed by women who wished to have a child. He, in response, sent small sparrows to their homes, which over time would turn into real children, after a period of indefinite length in which they live in a sort of intersection, in appearance and characteristics, between a bird and a human.

Among these, was also sent little Peter, who however, after just seven days in his new home, returned back to the island, more by instinct than anything else. Once again in front of King Solomon, he was punished by it and condemned to remain forever in that sort of hybrid state between a child and a bird, and unable to return to his home. But Peter manages to escape and go back to his mother, to find her, however, already with another child and totally forget about him. Peter then resigns himself to living his existence in Kensington Gardens, surrounded by fantastic creatures and other sparrows-children in the same situation as him. The addition of the name "Pan" is due to the instrument, the pan flute, which he would have started to play.

The image we all have of the mocking, rebellious but basically good and simple Peter Pan is the opposite of what Barrie had initially thought. Peter is a slave to a merciless and cruel destiny, which, relying on the natural curiosity and recklessness typical of children, condemns him to a life without primary affections, to be forgotten by his mother and severely punished by a sort of king-tyrant who condemns him. without the possibility of appeal. The resulting character is an aggressive and angry half-child for this doom, which makes him cynical and unable to look beyond his own interests. A tragic, almost heartbreaking figure, with an intricate psychology and who lives a Dionysian life with the exclusive desire to escape from the harsh reality of the facts: he has been completely abandoned.

WHITE FANTASIA ( part 1)

There are moments in which I would like to go back to when I was little, moments that I miss and that unfortunately will never come back. I miss that innocence and that light-heartedness that I had, I looked at the world with different eyes, a beautiful world. I imagined already after the age of 20 with a job, a guy who cared about me and that only I existed as a woman for him. I imagined many beautiful things, but everything remains the fruit of my imagination alone. I miss it when I played dolls, when I watched cartoons on TV, the beautiful ones that passed Italy one. I miss living in my beautiful imaginary world.

As a child my favorite singer was Domenico Modugno. My mom played the CD on the stereo in my room, while I sat on the floor and let myself be carried away by her splendid voice, from the melancholy of “Hello baby” to the roaring laughter of “Io, mammeta e tu”, in my opinion. best interpretation of the great classic. My favorite song was “Vecchio frack”, because I loved the idea of ​​that mysterious and elegant man walking through the streets of the sleeping city. As a child, however, I did not understand that in the end the protagonist committed suicide by throwing himself into the river. I thought “that top hat and that hat floats away” was a magic trick. The mysterious man was a magician, who at dawn decided to disappear, leaving his elegant clothing as a trace.

Only tonight did I realize the greatest indirect teaching I received as a child and which has always determined my subsequent life choices. My grandfather has always been curious and has always had an irrepressible desire for knowledge, which I then inherited. I remember that when we played “names, things and cities” he invented words when he could, to make me laugh. I was already a compulsive reader as a child, every week I was in the library to borrow four / five books, I devoured them with my eyes, brain and heart. He was making up words, then, and I was laughing like crazy. But then I wanted justice: “Grandfather, this animal does not exist, look, I’ll show you on the book I have in the library: there are all the species in the world and if you check the index it doesn’t fit what you wrote”. And he smiled pleased.

Tonight I had three of the most recurring dreams of my childhood. I clearly remember the feeling of fear and oppression I felt: it wasn’t there today. Today I was not afraid. In the first, when I got lost, dragged away into the sea by rushing currents, I didn’t start to cry, but I started looking, where I had landed, for an escape route. In the second, in the car with my grandparents, I managed to prevent them from the accident that would have dragged us down a cliff. But it was the last dream that struck me most of all: it is the one I best remembered having already lived. This time I wasn’t at the bottom of that hole in the ground asking for help, no. This time I was outside and by chance I saw the movements of a group of children who had fallen by mistake. This time I didn’t ask for help, I gave it. This time I went down the tunnel and led them out through the road I still knew from the dream of many years ago. I am no longer a defenseless child. Now I’m on the other side. Maybe it scares me a little.

Since I was a child I was fascinated by magic and the stories that spoke of it. But I had a big gripe. In nearly all, if not all, fairy tales, female characters fell into two categories: those who could use magic and those who found love. As if it were not possible for the protagonist (or co-star / love interest) to have both magic, or power, and love. In Snow White you could choose whether to be the sweet and inert princess or the cruel and doomed to a sad sorceress end. Same thing in Sleeping Beauty. In Peter Pan you could choose between the well-liked because helpful Wendy or the magical, but envious, Tinker bell.

When I was little and it was time to go to bed, my grandmother would lie down next to me and tell me a story. She almost always invented them … and then when I asked her to tell me an old one she didn’t remember them anymore. So, every time a story was “wrong” I interrupted it, and I began to tell it myself. Grandmother fell asleep. At that point I would get up leaving my grandmother in my bed and go back to play.

Taking advantage of the windy afternoon, it seems almost March and not October, I hung out the laundry … I like it, the memories of my grandmother and my mother resurface, I like it because then the sheets acquire a special scent, a freshness and a whiteness that not even as new they had. From the window I watched them beaten by the wind imagining that with all those jolts every little residue of negativity flew away, dispersing in the air. Maybe you could do all this with your soul.

I would start from the beginning … what do we remember about us? the first image that comes to your mind of yourself as a child? the moment when you become aware of yourself? The fact is that the first thing we do is establish a social contact of affection, without fear, with unconsciousness with those around us … So let’s go …I know that nobody cares, I’ve always known, I just can’t understand why I’ve pretended up until now that it wasn’t. Maybe I just lulled into the idea of ​​something different, because we humans are like that we like every now and then to live in the arms of our illusions that gently rock us and lead us to dream of receiving a few more caresses.

Under the excuse of freedom of expression hides a lack of empathy, tact and sensitivity. The sense of beautiful things has been lost a little. The habit of advising rather than insulting and the opportunity to remain silent rather than filling one’s mouth with unsolicited opinions on strictly personal life choices has been lost. They exchange smiles for falsehood, understanding for inconsistency, education for weakness and humility for hypocrisy. One is no longer accustomed to kindness.

SIX FEET OVER

Passion and foot worship have a history and dignity; for Chinese medicine, feet are the origin and basis of human health. For the Arabs, however, women’s feet carry a story with them, usually drawn with tattoos made with henna. In our culture, the foot and the shoe that surrounds it, provide many indications about our personality and history: women with heels love to seduce, please and like each other, those with amphibians are tough and tough, while they are serious and incorruptible if they wear. moccasins or lace-up shoes.

Foot worship includes numerous practices, such as licking, kissing or sniffing your partner's feet.
Here are the main ones:

feet kissing: the practice of kissing the feet. 

feet licking: when you lick your feet. 

feet sniffing: practice in which you sniff your feet, preferably sweaty and unwashed. 

feeling from feet: an act in which food is eaten using the feet as a plate. 

toesucking: act in which the toes are sucked. 

feet massage: get your feet massaged. 

foctjob: practice where you masturbate using your partner's feet. 

trampling: act in which the submissive is trampled by his partner wearing high heels

Subjects who are afraid of being emasculated focus their attention, becoming morbid, on only one part of the body. In this way you avoid seeing the naked woman and having to do the same, showing the penis and exposing it to danger. Psychoanalysis has indicated early sexual intimidation as an accidental condition that rejects the normal sexual goal and encourages the search for a substitute. Freud originally explained fetishism as a manifestation of castration anxiety. The object chosen as a fetish represents the female penis, a displacement that helps the fetishist to overcome the anguish of castration.

The foot, as well as the footwear, is one of the first things a baby encounters in the mother, especially if we think about the moment in which she crawls. So it remains imprinted in the child's memory and can turn into the object of desire. The passion for this part of the body can also be linked to the desire for submission, which can be easily associated with the foot. There are various practices that involve both the bare foot, clean or not, or just the toes, both footwear, tights and stockings: new, used, whole, with holes.

SANDALS FOR WALKING ON THE BEACH

Whenever you don’t have an answer to everything that happens, look at the sea. You will not have solutions but you will give meaning and flavor to everything. The salty of the salt, the texture of the sand that covers your feet and the wind that hisses in your ears while your heart is filled with love. And you turn to observe the steps you have left behind you and you realize that they are not two but four. Here it is. It is precisely in that moment that everything makes sense.

Walking, footsteps on footsteps, on the asphalt, on the sidewalks, between the paths, and then again its grounds with shrubs and stones, in exploration. Looking for places and landscapes to see and savor! Head and body in the sun, 21 degrees, jacket at the waist! Glasses, t-shirt and sneakers. It was supposed to be just a leisurely stroll but then we follow a little bit of our instincts, or maybe more of the feelings. I will lose to find myself. To discover. The air and the scent of the sea, you pass through the vegetation, still a few meters. Here we are! His bare feet on the fresh and morbid sand, I gave him that they sink between these infinite grains and the eyes that look at that intense blue sky. The sound of the waves and the (strong) wind in your hair. I smile and continue to smile for most of the way We walk anchor and our feet travel miles on that expanse of sand, free and of no one. We wander, every now and then we get lost in every detail, sometimes they are further back, others further ahead. My catch to keep me gentlemen in the distance fishing. My still to keep will be treated in some with the essay is replaced by stones and my bare feet perceive different sensations, especially when I decide to play the water! It is frozen but it is so beautiful; We need the myriad of shells and that vegetation that I cannot define. Someone else is walking. Time is ours We arrived in the background and waiting for us are the rocks together with other people fishing, we sit down, to rest for a moment. Walking on the sand is therapeutic, in every sense! And then we stay there with the sun that continues to warm and shine on our skin and I goth these moments of blissful serenity

You know when the sand is hot but you don’t care why you are running towards the sea? “Here is life we ​​should live it like this” That I do not know who wrote it and why he wrote it, is he imprisoned drugs or was crazy and then I think, will he have two or three centimeters of callus under his feet? When I ford towards the sea and the hot sand I splash I don’t run, and I suffocate so much I suffocate my chair that I can’t do it, it’s terrible to walk on hot sand to torture. Well a life like this, always like this, don’t I even wish a boh? Not so a who. But for heaven’s sake!

We walk, we leave all those footprints in the sand, and they stay there, precise, orderly. But tomorrow, you will get up, look at this great beach and there will be nothing left, a footprint, any sign, nothing. The sea clears, at night. The tide hides. It is as if no one has ever passed. It is as if we never existed. If there is a place in the world where you can think you are nothing, that place is here. It is no longer land, it is not yet the sea. it’s not false life, it’s not true life. It is time. Time passing. Stop.

today I took my grandmother to the sea. I went to see her, it was sunny and when I saw her close her eyes to enjoy the moments outside I thought “why not?”. the window rolled down halfway and her pepper-and-salt hair swinging sweetly in the wind. it always smells good, nobody else wears it. I helped her walk on the sand with crutches and despite being afraid of getting dirty or falling, we put our feet in the water. her with stockings folded neatly aside, me with my wet jeans. there was silence, a distant dog barking and the whole horizon ahead, a boat near the rocks. “I’ll miss you, but I won’t tell you anymore.” a lump rose in my throat, two faster blinks of an eye. a question that I did not hold back came out because who better than her can understand? “Have you ever regretted coming here, Grandma? of having left home behind? ” I saw her sigh and close her eyes again with a light smile in the sun, then one for me “nothing is easy, but why repent? I did it with love and it was right. it was the way to my happiness. your mom, your brother, you .. you are my happiness. don’t be afraid to look ahead, baby. even the sea that returns to the shore every time never really stops. “

I want to eat pizza under the covers with you. I want to hug you, but hug really good to lose my breath, so much do I know how I will breathe my service? I want the thrills as you touch my hair, I want to go crazy in front of your lips and then kiss them, I want you to tell me that I am beautiful even if I will never believe it, I want to envy the world, indeed no! I want to forget the world! I want you to take me away from here, maybe to the sea or even to the meadow, I know so much about you who cares where we are from! I want to sing Wonderwall with tea at the top of my lungs with people passing by and think we are crazy, but they don’t know parrot that we really are crazy! I want to be in your arms and smell you, I’ll tell you the stars from the sky and I’ll try to touch it holding your hand, I wanna feel that feeling if you only taste when you smoke, I want you to sigh on my lips as my friend. I want you to sigh on my lips that you stay.

We accept the love we think we deserve.’ Now tell me, what do you find in this sentence? I think it is a beautiful sentence, full of meaning, a sentence from a book, from a film. But guys this is the reality. We must not accept the love we think we deserve. We have to lift our backs and run to get that love. We must fight, scream, insult if necessary. To me those words convey resignation, they seem to be said by a person who does not know what willpower or dreams are. And we must win that love. With our strength. And if by chance we don’t succeed, in the end we can always say ‘I tried, I put my soul into it and it wasn’t enough, but I was strong.

WE ARE SEEDS

Is it the blood that makes us the same?
Does the blood relate to us? Do mother cells bind us or separate us?
The ways out of a parasitic heart.
The windows of the soul become opaque and without curtains.
What does our existence prove if the value is given by fake smiles?
The dark side of our biology.
The pain of collapse.
The taste of the night.
The noise of an affection built from the unknown past.
It was dawn when my heart stopped beating.
nd a defibrillator did not and did not serve life.
I was sorry to leave this planet. But I had become different.
I had become a lonely man.
Plants and birds kept me company.
But I no longer had my mother Earth.
no longer saw a grain of sand in my shoes.
I was not honest with anyone.
They asked me how I was and I always nodded.
We who are love.
We who are hate .
We who are all things together ,
The worst and the best.
We who are on the razor’s edge that does not cut.
Which remains suspended above the sun.
We who are good people. We are screwed by ourselves.
We are not different and finite in infinite worlds.
We are weird things stuck.
We are the good and the bad.
We are forgotten fibers. We ended up being divided.
Seeds fall into the ground and do not grow.
Seeds fall into rocks and grow.
We are rocks that receive water and do not serode.
We must always be alert to defend the world.
nd spread our wings without anyone seeing them.
We are Alpha and Omega without eyes.
( FAIRY QUEEN)