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
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.
#14
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!
Zero viewers.
# 12
Italy, Adriatic Sea – beach resorts and old bathing establishment.
Shots by me
Just besides the famous and well-equipped beach resorts of Romagna, there’s an area that was once a cheap public holiday destination for children. This kind of holiday was government-funded and children were sent here for 1 or 2 months a year, depending on the economic conditions of their families. Unofficially it was known as “colony”. I also spent a couple of summers here, when I was 7, maybe 8. I keep a few tolerable memories of me playing on the beach, a certain chaos, my small white cap with ties, the labels with my name on stitched in each piece of clothing, the smell of the soup at midday, the sand in the flip-flops…
Now, it’s mostly in disuse, but some establishments have been renovated and keep on living under a religious management.
Italy, Adriatic Sea – line, light and colors.
Shots by GGRuff
This shadowy and labyrinthine town has swallowed the entire human consortium, I said.
It sounds like a chorus spinning around a unique emotional state. Voices and cries overfilling the streets, rolling down at dawn and returning upstream at twilight
with a load of bitterness, pain
and courage.
A few days after the new dock opening ceremony, a large ship entered and two girls got off.
I noticed them because I’ve been trafficking with numbers, mostly
strings of two units at a time that I combine, pile up or split in grids to contrast their power,
(with the automorphic numbers, I almost touched the abstraction)
Then, because I feel lonely in this life made of non-empty sets.
They looked good: wide eyes, open mouths, tiny bodies and a nicety at any cost that made it all so genuine and fresh. Of that day, that signed the apex of my communication skill to the human gender, I keep a photo. My nose is asymmetric. Look.
I never realized that.
I can’t stop thinking of it.
I’m a grown-up – even now -, bent on my numbers and framed by the artificial light, like a chorister in an orthodox church, a goldsmith in his father workshop or an alchemist, carefully stirring the Leonardo’s bistre.
My lovers have hung their clothes here and there. They swing spontaneously, nodding at me, dissenting at me, making fun of me, of my doggedly returning to these
refuge assets.
# 9
If I had enough energy I would
force myself to fall in love again. Feeling fine or even euphoric ‘cause there’s still room for a sigh in my heart.
The cosmopolitan appeal of this town has almost removed any smell of provincialism in me.
I take care of myself, walk until late, look at the sky and rip adverts off the walls
not a real crime indeed, rather a teeny infraction.
Here is what.
Scraping the city is a vexation and a healthy exercise as well
I practice en plain air and take what the town gives: a word, a face, a picture,
(yesterday, behind a piano concert flyer, I found a small part of nude).
After so many years spent studying the infinite potential of the empty,
trying to catch and link together the rambling filaments of the matter,
I’ve come upon the genuine and revolutionary power
of the gray walls
I think of you often, in your small laboratory
adjusting the width of the ocular lenses to scrutinize the delicacy of a poetic sequence
and missing, a few steps away, the grace of a slightly asymmetric smile
caught in a moment of wonder.
I show my artworks out in the open
to have them stroked, hit and messed up by the wind.
They fold into whimsical shapes, play, sing and move,
come and go
as they please.
# 8
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
He made the revolution, eventually. In its name, he left me, just trailing the door behind. I have no clear memories of that day but an iron wire ball that still lies on my table. I made it by hand while he was turning around the room listing, with wide gestures and not in order of importance, the principles of the “big cause”.
We never met again until when I stepped into that photo studio. Two huge rice paper chandeliers and a lot of pictures untidily glued to the walls made the room agreeable. I saw him. It was hurting.
I got closer to take a better look. In that black-and-white shot, he was surrounded by friends, the party was on. Smart but moderate, serious but confident, his look went straight to the camera. But the smile was tepid and the eyes darker than usual. In that look I saw the doubt of having been misunderstood growing all over.
Just behind them, only part of the famous motto was readable. The last word indeed: “vencido”.
MICROfiction #22
The right mood 