August 15 is a both a religious holiday and a perfect excuse to party.
Shots by me.
Psychro, Krete (Greece), 2014
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.
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.
A windy morning, a piece of paper
is fluttering about
I’ll catch it.
Lying on the love altar,
I offer myself to the enchantment of pain
poor, fated, unheard.
So Fellinian.. baroque enough to let
any adverb changing the whole: I’ll go for happily,
somewhere before lying or offer, or later, to frustrate the triad.
Some kind of failure drove him crazy, I guess.
A movie, a flop, the eleventh line:
I’m an awful lover, but still love better than you.
God, take the voice away of him. The plot is weak.
The Maestro had a clear base of judgment: boredom.
Well, keep that feeling for yourself! He would have shouted.
As far as I’m concerned,
I’ll hold you off!
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.
Sitting on the balcony, the book on my knees, the eyes closed. In the seventh chapter, Don DeLillo talks about the theory of time. He wonders what we could learn if only we’d drive the curiosity beyond the quantum, which is billion times smaller than the old Greek atom. I don’t know why but this made me think of a song that said something like this: “..mermaids chant was too low to obfuscate Ulysses’ shout which already blew through the sails”.
In the same hours, in Rome, a couple of living popes were canonizing a couple of dead popes.
We all are time travelers.. aren’t we? This took my thought to Folon’s men. They look steady but ready to go.
I think too much.
… something that made me think of “Sakura”.
Happy Easter Holidays.