Fragility

I begin to appreciate the learning that life brings with it. It seemed quite pointless when I was a kid, but now, it makes sense. One thing that I have learnt is that we, living being, are also quite fragile. That life is fragile. Because it takes a very long time to build something and such a short one to destroy it. And a life can be destroyed in an instant. And our heart can be smashed to smithereens in seconds.

So I wonder how comes I am so fragile? Me, man, strong enough to have survived storms, wars and revolutions (well, metaphorically…) that crumbles on his own knees for a missing part of his desired, vividly illustrated expectation. And I try to make of this fragility a virtue. Maybe, I think, it is good to be so sensitive, actually I should use more of it for my ‘creative’ life. So, here I am, writing about it here.

Today has been a weird day. Not sure yet exactly why, but I felt like my heart was coming out from my chest to breathe some fresh air, and in the process it got hurt. Nothing major, actually, quite instructive. A missed call, a missed opportunity, a missed person…we miss, all can be missing. And that can affect our day, life, destiny.

The Turbulence of Time

At any time there is some time that we perceive as going somewhere. I have had often many questions about time. Now I wouldn’t even know what to say about it. I suppose I find myself in stupor about time. It is interesting that we all have our lives somehow regulated by time, but quite often, I’m not really sure about its sense, apart from the practical implications that we have created around time, and our lives. Oh yes, life has become a very practical thing!

It is one year since my last post. The url has changed too. From alexdimartino.com to this one on wordpress. I haven’t published anything in one year. Maybe a sabbatical. Maybe I needed some clarifications with myself. And I’m still clarifying by the way…:-). Life is a very practical thing, yes. And I often struggle with practicalities. Often I’d love to be an emir, or a sultan, with a court or servants, ready to sort out all my bits and pieces. I think this is where power lies. Whether because of money or status, power means have somebody else sorting out your practicalities for you. It’s quite incredible. We made our lives so difficult to be lived that we yearn for practical solutions at hand. Bills, cruises reservations, chauffeurs, kids school issues, pet’s maintenance, ex-spouses…”all sorted Mr/Mrs Smith…”…oh yes, my life is easy…

And the time has its turbulence too. There is the time for the poor that become rich, the rich that become poor, the rich that remain rich and the poor that stays poor. This is the time of the big banks. Now their practicalities need to sorted by mummy and daddy, they have played too much with their financial toys. They have invented amazing tools to seduce and con people. Now they have exaggerated so mummy and dad governments come and sort them out.

And figures, financial metrics, APRs, holes, debts and credits disappear. They are just conventions.

Like time.

a.

The Foundation of Absence
I find it very fascinating and inspiring, going back of a couple of thousand years to see the abundance and diversity of the then current thinking. Comparing it to the contemporary boring mainstream western credo, built around non-existing families, Cinderella’s dreams, anorexic beauty, very polluting cars, mortgages and exotic gateways, I can only find comfort in the variety and boldness of the pre-christian thinking. In that broadness and inspiring vitality that Socrates, Aristophanes, Epicure and Aristippus exude. Especially considering that our current “thinkers” are people like Bush, Brown, Cameron or Blair (that is the same thing), the Big Brother contestants (including any other reality show participant), the pope, Bin Laden, Posh Beckham, Paris Hilton, the girlfriend of Roonie (and any other WAG), some assorted individuals of East Enders, and a number of better dressed celebs.
And it is also quite sad that the embodiment of love (and its revolution), as Christ has been somehow depicted in these last 2000 years, has become the bulwark of separatism, of white and financial supremacy, of nepotism and domination. And we, common mortals with less and less moment of lucidity, obliterated by an inhuman daily life, slaves of our landlords, bankers, bosses, and often spouses, we still long for what we hardly can find in the simplicity and the mystery of our lives. We long for love. We long for life, the simple vitality that resides in life itself. We have created a system that defers love and life to better places, better times, better partners. We are fascinated by the absence of love, and this is the foundation of our daily living. Get on a cross, bleed to death, mocked and bullied, then you will find bliss and happiness in heaven. In other words, struggle to enjoy an hypothetical better future. How sad is that? I suspend myself over this polluted world very often to think on how we could be able to build a different way of living. How would be possible to awaken this army of zombies that we have become because we are living on the foundation of an eternal absence.

Writing, again
Nearly every day I have got a title for a book that I don’t know if I ‘ll ever write. Tonight, while walking through the beginning of the night, I got “The Comet Game”. Not sure yet what it will be about. But I’m sure it will deal with delusions, optical effects, telescopes, stethoscopes, dreams, stars, desires and falsity. Comets that destroy planets, comets that bring salvation, who knows.
Yes, writing is a terrible vice. I always need to invent something to placate my imagination. And each time I write, it takes away a piece of me, like a beautiful crust that doesn’t want to come off. I think it might be like sculpting, creating with words a monster or an angel made of sounds, rhythms, then concepts and stories. Yes, a terrible vice. I would take off everything out of me, tearing apart flesh and soul to reborn. Even what I don’t have anymore, what has been buried for ever, who knows where in me, that I can’t find anymore.
What a lust then when someone reads me, in this desert that life is, there is this thread that links us, it is like an ongoing conversation that never ends. That’s what I usually do.
Now I’ve got in mind another title, but I can’t write it yet. I can see it, yes. Few weeks ago, it is early morning, and I am in a cab, crossing Richmond Park. They are there, not far from me. Immobile for a while, it seems they are looking at me intensely. I feel on the edge of an infinite and immensely important moment, like if the world should end now. Then they go, probably bored.
The taxi driver tells me that the park guards ‘have’ to kill them sometimes because they are too many. Too many deers, I would have never believed it. Too many deers families in London. Yes, thats what they say.

Scrivere, ancora
Quasi ogni giorno mi viene in mente un titolo per un libro che vorrei scrivere. Stasera, camminando via per la notte appena iniziata, e’ venuto “il Gioco della Cometa”. Non so ancora di che parla. Ha a che fare con le illusioni, gli effetti ottici, i sogni, le stelle, i desideri e le finzioni. Cometa che arriva e distrugge, cometa che arriva e indica la salvezza.
Si, scrivere e’ un vizio terribile, ed ogni volta ti stacca un pezzo, come una crosta bellissima che non si vuole staccare. Credo sia come scolpire, con le parole, un mostro o un angelo fatto di suoni , ritmi e poi concetti e storie. Io mi staccherei tutto di dosso. Mi strapperei pelle e anima per rinascere. Anche quello che non ho piu’, anche quello che e’ rimasto sepolto per sempre, chissa’ dove dentro me, e che non trovo.
Che volutta’ poi quando qualcuno mi scorge, in questo deserto che la vita e’, c’e’ questo filo che unisce, come un discorso iniziato e mai concluso. Almeno io faccio cosi’ quando leggo.
Ora ho in mente un altro titolo, ma non so ancora scriverlo. Posso vederlo, si, e’ mattina, presto, sono in un taxi e attraverso Richmond Park. Loro sono li, immobili per un po’, sembra che mi guardino intensamente, mi sento sul limite di un momento infinito ed importantissimo, come se il mondo si dovesse fermare, poi se ne vanno, come annoiati. Il tassista mi racconta che ogni tanto le guardie del parco devono ucciderli perche diventano troppi. Troppi cervi, non ci avrei mai creduto, troppe famiglie di cervi nel centro di Londra, si sono troppi, dicono.
a.

Postsecrets
“I can’t forget the little siren that sung for me so tenderly. It was a beautiful ghost that lives among the ruins of my broken heart. I’m pretty sure no one can tell”
This beautiful poem was a secret. Secrets are like small leaps of freedom. They remind me of childhood, when there is still so much to discover. So much enthusiasm, uncovering shades and layers of separation from what it will be then, later, considered the truth. We will have to cover the uncovered again and again to learn that it wasn’t the truth what we found. So we build secrets as an act of inner revolution against this quest for truth. And holding and getting to know secrets gives power, it makes us feeling full of magic, like knights of the darkness, or demons of the will.
Today I discovered postsecret , in my opinion, one of the most interesting blogs around. It tells minute stories born from the secrets posted in on hand-made postcards. I wish I had my hands on all those secrets…
a.

Breakfast with friends

Still in Venice. I was supposed to have breakfast with some new friends I made on a TV program I worked on, but I missed them. We never made an appointment though. I just set my alarm in time to say goodbye but their boat for the airport left earlier.

New friends. I think a lot of us call a friend even somebody we make a quick connection with. I think many are desperate for friends. I am. When romance and families become war zone, friendship is a miracle.

Anyway, I made more new friends this morning. They waited some minutes to check if anyone showed up, then they came to my table. They had a bit of a croissant, their favourites, I understood.
I had a knot in my throat watching them. The simple, sweet yet powerful expression of their “face” (can you say face for a sparrow?) . The simplicity of nature they represents. Pure life, bold and precarious. I wanted to ask them to take me with them. To teach me to fly and to grab a piece of ‘cornetto‘ from a table there. A stupid table of a a stupid hotel, where we think we are rich because we pay thousands to eat and sleep. What a foolishness human life can be…
My dear new friends, I know that you will never read this, but I wanted to thank you today for teaching me something, again. I’m sure my gratitude will reach you somehow. I’ll keep in mind how to just “BE”, like you do.
a.

Grace for the ears

I’m in Venice these days and today I walked through San Marco. Nothing unusual, you rarely want to avoid San Marco square when in Venice. But today I saw this man, actually I first found myself cradled by his music, then, after the rehersal, I pictured him backstage. This 78 man is Ennio Morricone. He is here in Venice today and tomorrow for a “concert against all the carnages of human history”. Only his music can aim so high. I walked by and it was like I was sliding on a crystal. I thought of broken hearts, I saw smiles and tears, but I couldn’t find forgiveness.

Needs

I have always had problems with this word. Just the sound of it annoys me, let alone the meaning. It reminds me of winging babies, nappies and hot milk smell. I don’t know why but I immediately associate a “need” with a sense of precariousness and invariably this means to me vulnerability then, surely, death, destructiveness, end. But maybe I am wrong. After having invested many efforts and years in banishing needs, and rather nurturing desires in my life, today I am rethinking this choice, and this gives me a different perspective on things. Maybe – I’m thinking – needs fuel passions, and passions generate creativity, and creativity is what regenerate life. And I “need” to regenerate my life (who doesn’t…). So, I want to think of constructive ways of needing, maybe in loving? Is it possible to need love and to need loving at the same time? Or do we trade in our love just to get it from the other part? I mean, I have been probably arrogant. I have been trying to avoid many “needs” but then my life has skimmed, a number of times, the dullness and loneliness of arrogance. So, now I’m glad to allow some needs in my life…gently though…;-)

a.

Corpi Estranei
Parlavo con una mia amica psicologa questa sera la quale mi accennava ad un lavoro di sua madre (psicologa e ricercatrice anche lei) sui “corpi estranei”, ovvero su tutte quelle “intrusioni”, prevalentemente dalle famiglie di origine, che ci portiamo addosso. “Ma io che c’entro con questo o quest’altro?” – mi sono domandato. In effetti, se ci pensiamo bene ci ‘accolliamo’ un sacco di cose che non sono nostre. Ed allora, c’e’ si una differenza tra valori e modelli che ci ispirano nei comportamenti e quelli che ci ‘castrano’ – o no? E mi viene di pensare alla grandiosita’ della vita, che con tutte le individuali avventure/disavventure ha pur sempre un potere puro ed illimitato. Ma allora mi domando cosa potrebbe accadere se lasciassimo disatteso questo bagaglio di cose che non ci appartiene, e che sopratutto non ci aiuta a creare valore nelle vita nostra e di chi ci sta intorno. Paure, complessi, pregiudizi, condizionamenti, spesso tutte verita’ assolute acquisite ma mai verificate…e se poi fossero solo delle scuse per non darci il permesso di essere noi stessi?

London 1

This is the first of a series of videos that I want to do to celebrate London, the way I see it and live it. They will, normally, be including something written, maybe subtitled, maybe no.
Like:

“La paura di uomo e’ una paura muta, muta da cane anziano.
E la solitudine che non ci siamo detti, e’ tra questi viali, che tu amasti.
Ma tra le nostre mani da bambini, unite, fresche e umide, da timore giovane,
Sentii un fiordo d’amore, sprizzato,
Che ci restitui’ vita tolta, e dannazioni da occhi bassi.
Bassi, si, quando vago per questa citta’, per scappare ai sensi,
Con fughe precise dalla corrente invisibile e micidiale,
Di genti, di cose tante e cose vuote.

Poi mi fermo fuori a quella porta, con la finestra accesa,
Nella prima sera, per guardarti di nascosto, mentre parli a figlie
Bellissime e quasi adulte.
E mi sale un caldo nodo tra gola e petto.
E mi ricordo poi, che la vita si trova proprio li, tra gola e petto.”
a.

* * *

“A man’s fear, is a mute one, mute as an old dog.
And the solitude we didn’t mention, sits here,
Among these roads that you loved.

Yet, in our minute hands, moist and cool, as for a youthful worry,
I felt a fiord of love, sparkling,
That gave us back our missing lives, and bleak damnations.
Bleak, yes, when I wander for this city, to escape senses,
With precise getaways from invisible and venomous streams,
Of people, of many things and empty things.

Then I hold on that door, and the window is alight,
At the outset of the evening, to look at you,
While you speak to your children, beautiful, nearly grown up.
And a warm cluster rises between my throat and chest.
Then I remember that life is just there, between throat and chest.”
a.