sink into this wild never-ending daylight;
breathlessly run, always expecting to stumble upon a wolf or a fox. A fairy, if only.
dance in the clearing or run after fireflies among the bushes, crazy for love;
never forget the transit of a fallen star;
while the morning moon is crumbling down,
stopping her futile wandering
to shape to my feeling, eventually.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Seneca wrote Lucillo a letter on Hecate and friendship:
.. Let me tell you what I like about Hecate on friendship. “Are you asking me” he said “about my progress? I’ve started being friend with myself.” He made a lot of progress... such a friend is always at hand.
Merry Christmas to all our friends
(and to their friends, so)
Laura & JJ
Short trip among the golden, yellow, orange and brown nuance of the larches in the magic Occitan land: Val Maira (Cottian Alps), Italy.
Great weekend by B&B Lou Bià, Val Maira, CN Italy
The Circus is visiting the suburbs:
a red and white stripe tent stands still,
the wide open mouth of a child.
There’s a bit of poetry around;
when the soul gets out of the inside, it happens sometimes,
once in a while.
Under the same off-white light
someone is running away, not far from here
others are having such a fun.
#14
At dinner, we discussed the Italian nineteen century,
lives and values in precarious equilibrium
between conservatism and progressivism.
I hang around with smart people.
This morning, in a bar in the suburbs, I recognized
the impetuous emotional alterations of an avant-garde
fin de siècle.
#13
A gentle roll-off. The moribund sea erodes the foundations. This town is exhausting.
Buildings float like slabs, chased by the winds;
the room is filled with dust and anxiety.
A voice is altering the stillness: bitter, sharp.
(Friendship among artists is frail, when based on aesthetic theories).
– Sixty art pieces. And nothing. Neither a shelter nor a shrine, a prison, a nightmare, a hole in the ground to tell where the journey will end!
Light’s too yellow to argue like this, at the window
the sun is touching the sea, getting its temperature.
where the journey will end
The picture in the frame, a beach in Stromboli, heads on the sand. A tepid smile.
No, indeed. Not even here, but
I didn’t know we were lost.
# 11
Italy, Adriatic Sea – line, light and colors.
Shots by GGRuff
Solomon was still enjoying
the painting in the smoking room
a minute before drowning
he sunk down with the trees
the apples (pears were not ripe yet)
and flamboyant exotic flowers
viscous details Nature exposes
to the sun, the rain, the negligence
condition sine qua non to make us feel true
my hair, skin, iris
colors had once been joined
in a cold amalgam
decline and creation, nearing the end
some places come into blossom:
another seductive paradox
#7
Life is hard for collectors. Only a few samples of the entire collection of photographs slipped through her fingers. She jealously treasured it to the end. The reason for such a strict custody lies in the folders of this story.
They fell in love on the eve of the War, which left them both unharmed. He, a test pilot, used to wear a pair of thin mustache, à la mode until 1937. She, conveniently desirable and given to reverie, couldn’t stop smiling and addressing him letters in a delicate and airy handwriting that she thought proper for her unique and special reader.
In return, she received overexposed snap-shots, stressed by an intangible chromatic intensity, painfully suffocated or burnt by the solar bulb, which he imprudently took during his solo flights.
The first she got was wholly black. She promptly praised his effort to catch the entirety without falling behind the single element. Nevertheless, she exhorted him not to exclude other ways to approach the universal beauty.
Such a warm support produced an increase in his audacity and more shots soon came: inconsistent walls of clouds, massive skies opening on a solid void that she imagined to be desperately deaf to the comforting sound of the backwash and the leaves rustling.
In a word, they made up a new love alphabet. And it drew the interest of the public.
When she was called to share her memories or unveil their secrets, she waved and said “Phew! He was a skilled dancer, but often his steps were out of my reach.”
MICROfiction #23
of the journey this is a brief part
a long queue, a rite of passage,
(not a significant turning point, indeed)
# 6
The right mood 