Wednesday’s Child

I was out very early that morning.

It was still very dark.
London is even more lonely at that time.

Just a  minute earlier,
I was on the side of your bed
Laying a finger on your shoulder,
Exposed in its nude roundness, to the night.
And you smiled, still in a happy dream.

And then, everything of you, knew everything.

We did work all night long
For your music
And the happiness did run through our veins and nerves
Like toys scattered on the floor.

Making love was only a mean to an end
Because we won against the time
And we were won within our time.

Those dark shades that I saw at dawn
Never would have known
What we were
And the noise I had inside, that quiet morning

Now we could have died.
Be complete.
As the heaven we knew then.
Could only be dispersed in the light
For pieces of life, that we were,
Nothing more than candle wax melt in the dark,
Scenting of time and ends.

So, now I see you going serene.
I keep my eyes down, still.
Not to be looking at you.
For the only affairs protecting me
Aren’t memories, certainly.

Because I made of us the only reason
And now I have to deal with this dark times
Of your absence, that stabs me straight into my marrow.

And then, I always pretend to know nothing anymore, about you.

Alex di Martino

Il Bambino del Mercoledi’

Uscii di casa presto.
Era ancora buio.
Londra e’ ancora piu’ sola a quell’ora.
Ti avevo appena toccato,
E sorridevi, nel sonno,
Tutto di te sapeva tutto.

Avevamo lavorato tutta la notte
Per la tua musica.
Avevamo la gioia che ci correva, a gara, tra nervi e vene.
Come automobiline impazzite.
Abbracci e sesso erano stati solo il mezzo.
Avevamo vinto contro il tempo.
Ed eravamo vinti dentro questo tempo.

I tipi bui che incrociavo nel silenzio gelato
Non sapevano e mai avrebbero potuto sapere
Quello che noi eravamo.
E il rumore che avevo dentro, in quella quiete.

Ora potevamo anche morire.
Avevamo toccato il paradiso.
E potevamo solo dissolverci
Frammenti di vita che eravamo
Sciolti come cera al buio
Che sa di tempo e di fine.

Ed ora ti vedo andare, serena.
Terro’ ancora gli occhi bassi
Per non guardarti.
Che la sola cosa che mi difende
Non e’ certo la memoria.
Perche’ io feci di noi l’unica ragione
Ed ora devo trattare con questi tempi oscuri
Della tua assenza, che mi si ficca dritta nel midollo.
E poi, faccio sempre finta di non sapere piu’ nulla di te.

Alex di Martino
12.10.2010

Ero Madre

Ero madre
Piegandoti i vestiti
Benedetti, dopo un giorno di sole
Madre silente
Perche’ non vi e’ gioia, neanche per canticchiare
Guardo la tua biancheria, senza desiderio
Ma come madre che sa quando una bambina diventa donna
Solo la tenerezza di noi due, bimbi perduti, eternamente
Ho avuto la fragranza della tua pulizia sulle mie mani
Per ore, mentre mi ritraggo in questa assurda assenza
Faccio le mie cose con diligente pazienza, trattenendo la pena
Guardando in basso, perche’ e’ li’ che il dolore muto risiede.

I Was Mother

I was mother
Folding your clothes
Blessed, after a sunny day
Silent mother
When there is no joy, not even for humming
And I looked at your lingerie, and no desire
Just a mother that knows when a child becomes a woman
Just the tenderness of us, eternally lost children
I had the scent of your cleanliness on my hands
For hours, while I retreated in this absurd absence of you
I did my chores with diligent patience, holding the pain
Looking down, because there is where the silent pain resides.

alex di martino
10 October 2010

The bombs that changed Britain

Today, seventy years ago the air raids on London began. “The Blitz” was the code-name of the operation that saw London under incessant fire for 76 consecutive nights, killing more than 43,000 civilians and destroying more than a million houses. Many other British cities were targeted, many other were killed.

And I simply cannot understand. Five years later, possibly in retaliation, the UK and US bombed indiscriminately Dresden in Germany, killing about 25,000 civilians, only few weeks before the end of the war.

But I can only think of these children. Where are them? Did they survive? What happened to them? Were they separated from their alive or dead parents for ever? Were they sent in Australia to be protected by the war and to be abused physically or for child labour ? What are they looking at? They even seems serene! Is this their house? How can they maintain such a noble pose in the midst of such a disaster? Shouldn’t we learn from them? I am trying to imagine what they are thinking then. How can we keep doing this?

When I was a teenager, there was a poster circulating in our rooms. It depicted the silhouette of a soldier falling under fire. A big “WHY?” flagged the eternal unanswered question. I suppose we were still banking on some ’68 hippy, antiwar moods, but “why”? Seriously, why? Can anyone answer with a serious reason why war must still exists? I don’t think so.

I think some of us may think that wars are an “important” thing that only “important” people may understand. When I was younger and rebellious, this was the answer that I got, for example. But the reality is that there is no reason for wars. No legitimate reasons. Could Nazi Germany have been “arrested” before getting too dangerous invading Countries? Maybe? But learning from the past, should we not look for different way of resolving our controversies rather than bombing people and places?

I know, I keep insisting on this maybe trite topic. But I wish I could die one day knowing why we can’t do better than wars.

After love…

I think that the future of a relationship is established during the 30 seconds that run after an orgasm. Yes, because it is such a unique moment. It is a time in which we try to recover a sense of self, trying to reconnect with life after a rush of lust. And it is also a moment of solitude, deep solitude. Like dogs that remain attached but ignore each other, back to back, we try to be kind and maybe exchange a word and a kiss, but maybe, deep down, we have nothing to say. And I mean, when there is love, imagine when there isn’t! But maybe we have nothing to say because we are confused. What is this? Is this what we have been told love is? Reconnect the the forever lost half of us? Reconnect to my soul mate? Here? Now?

In those seconds, we can probably recognise the nature of our connection with this “stranger” in our bed. Stranger, yes, because regardless of how long we have chatted or dated before we end up in bed, I think that knowledge begins in bed. And it is only the beginning of a very long process. Knowledge of our vulnerabilities, fears, tendencies, I think happen in bed first.

When those 30 seconds never reconnect us to ourselves and to the other, I think the finale is well known. I think we can try to recreate something ‘special’ during the rest of the time but I think that how things work. And then we start chasing and mending what has possibly never existed. Yes, after love, is just the beginning.

(adm)

Heroes

Let me get this straight.  A professional who chooses to join the military, who decides to go to combat zones in Afghanistan and Iraq and getting 3-5 times his salary for that, plus career advancement, acknowledgements, medals, etc… who wears an armoured equipment that costs (to the taxpayer, of course) some hundred thousand dollars, who, being part of the US or UK military, has got probably the most sophisticated technology and intelligence available in the world, who walks every single feet with satellite guidance and who–unfortunately–got killed by a local so called “terrorist”, that wears some sort of local desert-proof garment (very picturesque, but not necessarily meant for warfare exercises) and that hides in caves inhabited normally by goats and that shoots some 50 years old weapon– is called a hero? That guy is called a hero??
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I feel terrible when I see a 18 or a 25 years old dying like that (I wonder why are mostly the young soldiers to die), I cannot even remotely imagine the despair of their families, and I understand that for them is important to think that their child was a hero. I do understand that. But I do think also about all of those that didn’t ask to be militarily invaded, bombed, killed, gassed. I think about those people who shielded their families with their lives. And they are civilians. They didn’t choose to go to war. They do not get any salary nor any satellite link or special rifle. They probably live with a goat and few dollars per month. But nobody (the media) even mention them, let alone ever call them heroes!

So, I wonder how mad and irresponsible is to promote a culture of heroism when there is no hero at all here! There is only the immense stupidity of war, its financial reasons, the global political agenda and no other valuable and valid reason for it still to exist. How pathetic is to feed people with the surreal fantasy of  ”the soldier that goes to war to sacrifice himself for his country”? It hasn’t been like that for nearly a century! Even if you stop a kid in the street, he’ll probably tell you that a hero is maybe somebody who jumped in a river to save someone’s else life not some soldier that sacrifice himself for his country. Or, even worse, he’ll tell you about their soldiers–those in the videogames–where the hero is the one who kills more enemies, right? C’mon, wake up people, it’s time to be realistic, not to keep acting stupidly with poppies and flags. In the UK there is even a charity (the poppy one) to look after war veterans! How mad is that!? Right, the government has sent, and keep sending people to die for their agenda. It is, as we know, multi-zillion business but, when they come back, if the come back, the government hasn’t got any more money to look after them (and I have got a personal experience of that) to the point that a charity–therefore funded by common people–provides support to them!

Governments have managed to fool common people around with the “hero” story up to  WWI–that’s it. After that, the trick hasn’t worked any more. Things changes (apart wars, of course) and people cannot be fooled so easily. Look at the Vietnam. We all know what a disaster it was. Even past, present and future politicians and governments and military know it–we all know that. The trick doesn’t work any more but they keep taking us for a ride.

My father was a top military guy, I was in the military, other people in my family where even at the very top of the military. I have lived that game. I know the rules. But at least they–the military–are coherent, strong, well trained and, most importantly, not hypocrites. They know that they go there to kill and to possibly get killed and they are prepared for that. And they know the difference between a hero and a casualty.

My father hated politicians, now I understand why. And he taught me what a hero means, and what really means to die for a cause, for a country, to protect your people. And a country is made of people, not politicians.

In fact, there is no country to die for.  There should be a country to live for, instead. But I can’t see any at the horizon…

(adm)

La Bellezza e la Vita

E’ per la bellezza che cercai anche te. Parte di vita che sembra mancasse.

Circondato da acque limpide con dentro riflessi di sole e sassolini colorati, e sfumature di azzurro che dal cielo si rovesciano a terra per divenire manto verde brillante, pezzato di corolle di tutti i colori, io cerco la perfezione. Io cerco disperatamante di riempire il vuoto che io sono, e mi sento, in tutto cio’.Un pezzo incompleto, solo e fuori posto.

Ed e’ per questo, allora, che devo replicare la meraviglia di questa creazione che continua, cosi’, naturalmente.

Poi mi volto, e vedo uccelli turchesi che stanno nel cielo e nei rami senza cadere, e pellicce lucide di tigri che sfilano sibilando in quest’aria che ancora pizzica nel naso.
Ma come faccio a dire cosa e’ tutto cio’? Tutto sembra cosi’ semplice e perfetto, non ci sono “incidenti”, nulla e’ fuori posto. Ma l’armonia mi sovrasta, e mi fa sentire inadeguato.

Ed e’ per questo che in una valle morbida feci il nostro nido. Profumato di legni freschi, ornato di pietre dure e lucide. Li ti portai, nelle pieghe delle ombre che ricavai, tra anfratti di grotte, pietre e frasche. E con i nasi ci esplorammo, languidi e madidi di corse e cacce.
Non so cosa accadde e perche’. Non capisco ancora perche’ da quella pelle esposta venni richiamato. E non seppi resistere al movimento. Movimento di mani, teste, labbra, lingue, ossa, cuori, gambe ed anche. Tutto si muove qui dentro col ritmo di fuori. Tutto e’ perfetto. Ma non sapro’ mai perche’.
Ci sfinimmo cosi’ di fiati e sudori, leccandoci labbra e umori.
E cosi’ ci lasciammo, umidi e confusi, perduti nell’eterno desiderio di riunirci, e ritornare ad essere parte del tutto.

Beauty and Technology

I am beginning  a series of articles on Beauty and Technology for an Italian magazine (in Italian, possibly translated and/or edited into English). Quite an ambitious project. Will keep you posted with more details. In the meanwhile, if you got any idea, suggestion or comment, please post it!

ax.

The Ferocity of Perfection

It is an absurdity. Yet, it is one of the dominant theme of our lives. It is what we inherit by the concept of the divine. We feel too small and insignificant to be “just” human, we need to be super-human, perfect, divine-like. And so life becomes an endless painful research for perfection. We even tell each other that perfection does not exist, but, deep down, we want to believe that it exists.

When I will be a grown up man I wanna have a perfect job, a perfect family, a perfect woman, a perfect life – children say – and in order to be prepared for that, I will obey to all of these “wise” adults who mark me for everything I do. Study, sport, behaviors,…and life starts to take its shape of what is going to continue to be: just lists, marks, grading…you have been short-listed, low mark, high score, credit rating, IQ,…listed to get a job, listed to get a house, a mortgage, a kidney transplant, just listed, and if you are lucky, maybe shortlisted.

But the true reality is that perfection does not exist. That is a fact. Everyone and everything has its own value and intrinsic “perfection” for what it is. Too good to be true and, of course, too dangerous to be accepted.

But then I sit in a bus and I want to scream. I want to tell the person near to me that I love her, even if she is huge, poorly looking and unattractive. I just love her because she is a human being and she does not need to be “perfect” to be loved.

And I know, that if we get used to see value in others, we will get used to see it in ourselves. And to perceive value, doesn’t mean not wanting to change or to improve.

ax.