venerdì 5 novembre 2021

her kind

Sono uscita, una strega posseduta
che caccia l’aria nera, più intrepida di notte
che sogna il male, ho fatto il mio dovere
al di sopra delle case normali, luce per luce:
creatura solitaria, con dodici dita, fuori di sè.
Una donna così non è una donna, del tutto.
Io sono stata come lei.

Ho trovato le caverne calde nei boschi,
le ho riempite di tegami, intagli, ripiani,
stanzini, sete, innumerevoli oggetti;
ho preparato cene per i vermi e gli elfi:
lamentandomi, riordinando il disallineato.
Una donna così è fraintesa.
Io sono stata come lei.

Ho viaggiato nel tuo carro, conducente,
ho salutato con le mie braccia nude i villaggi che passavano,
imparando gli ultimi luminosi tragitti, sopravvissuta
dove le tue fiamme ancora mordono la mia coscia
e le mie costole si incrinano dove turbinano le tue ruote.
Una donna così non si vergogna di morire.
Io sono stata come lei.

Anne Sexton.

Perché io scelgo chi scrive come son io.

Io. A Milano. Abito color fondente, tailor-made.
🎧 T.B. Sheets. Van Morrison.

lunedì 20 settembre 2021


The windows from which I looked at the world are not enough. I want to look (for) again and again.

🎧The outsider. Blur.

martedì 7 settembre 2021

The run.

 Trafelati, ansiosi, agguerriti, terrorizzati. Una folla scalmanata di richiedenti un posto, il posto. Io in mezzo. E non vorrei esserci. Dovrei sgomitare, scalciare, spingere per conquistarmene uno anch'io. Ma io non lo voglio. Non l'ho mai voluto. La normalità, quella a cui ambiscono tutti, o quasi, io non la cerco. E quando c'era io la sfuggivo. Li vedevo i limiti, li vedevo benissimo, ma sognavo di scavalcarli. E di passare oltre. E in questa eterna fuga, ogni tanto, solo ogni tanto, ti sembra di riconoscere qualcuno diverso, come te, ma poi sul serio? O è solo il desiderio di immaginarlo diverso? Si uniscono, si accoppiano, si moltiplicano. Ma sono solo sovrapposti: uno sull'altro, per scalare la cima, per arrivare più in alto, più lavoro, più denaro, più bellezza, più potere, più ricchezza, più fama, più successo. Io li guardo. Prima è un nodo. Amarezza. Delusione. Poi è nausea. Manca l'aria. Mi piego, mi abbasso. Non sgomiterò, non scalcerò, non spingerò. Rimango giù, mi faccio largo tanto quanto basta. Per venirne fuori. Non sono normale. Non ho mai voluto esserlo. Non lo sarò. Libera. Ciò che voglio essere. Se si può esserlo. Non lo so.

Breathless, eager, aggressive, scared. A lynch mob demanding somewhere, the seat. I am in the middle and hate to be there. I'd to elbow, to kick, to push, to capture one, me too. But I don't want it. I never wanted it. Normalcy is what they seek, but I don't look for it either. And when it was I run away from it. I could see this limitation, I see very well, and I dreamed of jumping over them. I dreamed of crossing over. In this eternal flight, sometimes you seem to recognize someone who's different from other people, who like you. But then is this really true? Or is it just my imagination? They come together, they mate, they breed. But it's just overlapping: living on top of each other to climb the top, to soar higher than anyone… more work, more money, more beauty, more power, more richness, more success, more fame. I look to them. At first I feel this knot: bitter, disappointment. Then they make me sick, i can't breathe, I bend over, I will not push, I will not kick, I will not elbow. I make my way just enough to get out. I'm not normal. I never wanted to be normal. I won't be. Free, that's what I want to be. If you can. I don't know.

Mixmedia Drawing, chalk and ink paints, 

You complete me. Surface and deep.

🎧 World full of nothing. Depeche Mode.

mercoledì 1 settembre 2021


 In my confused dreams, for some time, there is a broken mirror. And in mirror my reflection. Broken it too. Humiliated, tired, disappointed, scarred. I was right, instinctive, kind, direct. More than usual. But in the wrong way. How do you correct the shot? How do you know when you are with the kind person that repays your kindness? Someone would answer: Doing good without expecting anything in return. Totally Free. I answer too. Fuck you. When are you going to stop being humiliated? Now I get the pieces, and put them back together. Perhaps I can.

Ink and gold paints illustration Broken Mirror.

🎧 Untitled #1. Spain.

lunedì 2 agosto 2021


When I saw this film months ago it had the same effect as seeing Victoria years ago: the feeling of perfect wonderment which the simple story, but not an easy one to tell, was able to inspire in us. Every person has a story to be offered, studded with strong and painful experiences, daily difficulties and obstacles, in total uncertainty.

Last year I had a very few flawless conception. In my country, and also outside it, appearances win over reality. I confirmed it: selfishness, weakness, falseness, shallowness, easy shortcuts are widespread. In a year nothing has changed. Indeed it increased. Violence, suffering, will for power over people and things, cruelty and many other evil situations have become a normality.

The events of the past year have made me more suspicious and more sensitive to the issue. I've changed in the last few years. Me and my take on the stuff of life came out strengthened, reinforced… While outside there are winter storms and snow, you may relax in the pleasant atmosphere of our small sauna paradise. I'm heading out.

Beyond is cold, freezing, but is solid, harmonious and the finish is consistent, varied and very deep. Is confirmed that Noomi Rapace is one of my favourite actresses. It's so difficult to understand to fund the reality that's hidden behind the appearance of the look. I know this. On my skin. Against my skin. And beyond.

venerdì 9 luglio 2021


When I first arrived on the net world is different. When I first started this blog things were different. Me, I was different, very quiet, but with many ideas in my head. Or perhaps with many heads and a single crazy idea: I had to leave. Vital need for me. Travel is always been escape, passion, consciousness, learning. I wouldn't want it to be over. Because location is important to me. And where I'm staying is a prison to me. Too many bounds. For some people they represent a challenge, but for me they are just limits. Weak, flatness… Killing my life.

I had trouble staying in the lines.

I'm looking for other colors like mine, or a dark background that will make my soul stand out, the shadow that emphasizes my skin.

I don’t know what perfection is. I'm looking for…

I am this and this is me.

 I'm not going to apologize for being me. One man said me: 'You are like your works. All emotion. All emotions'. It's true.

I AM WMultiform. Acrilic paints on paper. 50 x 60. Made on commission. Painting in step. Journey painting.

🎧Exodus. Bob Marley & The Wailers.

sabato 19 giugno 2021


Non è il nero il colore del lutto. Il nero è uno dei miei colori preferiti, insieme al viola, al rosso, al verde del mare, o a quello delle chiome degli ulivi, al blu dell'imbrunire. No, il colore del lutto non esiste. Ché non esiste una tonalità che possa tingere quel vuoto, riempire la mancanza, coprire il senso di impotenza e sfumare la rabbia. Ché non sono tutti uguali, anzi, in mezzo a tanti ce n'è sempre qualcuno un po' più particolare, strano, speciale, eccessivo, irrazionale come te. Ti ci ritrovi, ci stai bene, sempre. E non vorresti lasciarlo andar via, anche fosse per poco, anche se sai che lo rivedrai, non subito, ma il più presto possibile. Quando te lo portano via per sempre ti s'apre un buco che non è rimarginabile, te lo porti addosso, sembra ricucito insieme al dolore sopito e poi, invece, un giorno, ricompare, ti scoppia dentro, al livello dello stomaco e si propaga più su a pulsare sulle tempie. Non è come dite voi, il tempo non cura, anzi. Ché più tempo trascorre e più ti rendi conto. Quella persona era irripetibile. Per me e per l'uomo che era l'amore della sua vita e al quale non ho saputo dire nulla che potesse confortarlo, se non la verità, che sia lui che io una così possiamo solo sognarla. Ecco, il lutto ha il colore del sogno: fosse bello o cattivo lo ricordo poco, a tratti, o per nulla. Ti svegli. Ma non c'è più. Cenere.

Black is not the color of the mourning. Black is one of my preferred colors, as purple, red, green of sea, deep green of woods, silver green of ulive trees, blue at dusk. The color of mourning does not exist. Because there is no pitch that can dye the void, fill the lack, cover the sense of powerlessness, blur the anger. People are not all the same: among too many there is someone in particular, weird, interesting, special, irrational, excessive. As you. You're getting along with her. You never want to leave, although it was for a short period of time, even if you know you'll see her again, as soon as possible. When she leaves forever a wound opens up, a wound that will not heal, you carry it on yourself, it's as good as stitched and the sadness that subsides, but one day shows up, burst and spreads. Time is not the healer, as you said. More time passes and I realize that person was unique. The only one for me and for her partner, the love of her life, one to whom I couldn't say anything but the truth: we can just dream about her. So, the mourning is just like a dream: I'm not sure if it was good or bad, I remember little, at times, for nothing. I wake up and it's gone. Ash-colored.

🎧Blood fire death. Bathory - In bloom. Nirvana - The seventeenth Parallel. In the nursery. - Cornflake girl. Tori Amos. - Last dance. The Cure. - Good morning captain. Slint. - New grass. Talk Talk. - Sugar kane. Sonic Youth.

My brother took your picture. 
Our final journey. Jan. 2020. Milan. Basilicata. Puglia.
See you A. My last goodbye 19.06.2020.