Inverse Diversities
#DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities are a collection of poetry in divenire or as someone says instances in the continuum of oneself life.
2019 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
of loVE and recognition It is when the world clamp down that I retire Fear, pain, anxiety but most of all sorrow. How to say what have to be said? How not to retaliate? How to be , without extinguishing the others being? I know , of all sentiments , mostly RIGHTEOUSNESS How to learn , instead , compassion? How to carve it into tendons , moves , breaths? Today as tomorrow , I might exchange sharpness. Yesterday, when I did not know I have failed myself to the one-other. The arm closed , the embrace denied. Today, tears are the valueless pearls of this astonished petrified heart (@ my lost lover) - 10 December 2019
Today is social media celebration of #HumanRights The more I scroll The lest I sense. Fingers slow down heart , mind , soul ache. The list of heroines and heroes and all the ones in between and beyond in the overused pendulum of two genders get longer and longer ... their fights heavier and heavier I stop Leave the field of celebration , commemoration , anger to retire for a quiet act of recognition. Meanwhile seven buses with unwanted refugees are sent from the nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovinian border to the next designed nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovina&EU heartless leaderships Suspended in plain sight their #HumanRights stay I feel , once and again , surpassed by time 10 December 2019
A gray sky filled by rain and snow one hour ... two hours ... five hours ... Entire days spent on the surface of a keyboard The always-to-cross-border governed this time by electricity and power open the magic entrance to data-embodied-bits 0101 00110110 011010 inscrutable sequences transfer me-to-you-to-me , us-to-us-to-them-to-all Remote companions at the many ends of the many keyboards Borders ourselves of-and-to our data-embodied-bits 11 December 2019
This is my relation with memory and reality : a step in the door : the uncertainty of the future 11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021=
I do think of myself while thinking of the rest and get this self untangle from the rest a whirl of love , despair and , expectation captured in a note , a pad , an erratic typing That's when the move from the I to the We (released from the fear of T H E M) has a smile of solitude and absence 11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021)
There are days when I can only think of what next fearing the decaying body lost to the connection of the present I jump I run I scream Than occurs an accident The unexpected augments all other people's realities The contorted self become eventually redeemed by love and compassion by trust and belief 12 December 2019
Un letto troppo grande rende il cuore minuscolo e sperduto 12 December 2019
Come trovare gli angoli umidi del cuore? La capacità minuscola di essere magnifiche? 12 December 2019
Afterthoughts This morning words were of the unsaid, meanings in-between and behind A sound mirror reflection of pauses and cracks of desire and being of have and don't and get ----- Have to be honest in the everyday life I don't miss you Is just during the non-doing that your absence hit as a freezing breath of immobility ----- I would have loved you but now is too late my heart is done and you are in the afterlife 13 December 2019
It is in this way that my days pass the breakfast, the sandwiches, their school my work, my desk, my computer The Mondays, the Tuesdays, the Wednesdays all the way to the Fridays Of the Saturdays and SUndays better not to talk TV on demand, books a lot of necessary shopping and the loneliness of one-left-alone by death 14 December 2019
We sit on a tiny bench I hold your hand you hold mine the air is crisp, the green wild, the sound of the hyperactive town distant and loose I try and try the daylight breaks and so the alarm Irreversible times pushes the dream away 16 December 2019
Consumed by exposure by the work of saying and doing by the obligation to B E visible A flag to be seen A voice to be heard Submerged, drowned devoured by urgency the next heroine is E L E V A T E D 17 December 2019
A bla-bla session on human rights starts With the hope to be surprised I sit, one among the many as audience to the talk The opening is one-gender-only I stay, imagining their bodies feeling&defining different from what projected Relentless the bla-bla goes on 18 December 2019
A fixed frame a stopped image Untouched Unpaced : Dust the only proof of this me sitting next to no-one : Same day same time millions take the streets : Reality is more than perception 19 December 2019
I hear you, she says and I believe I hear you, she says and I? I am the S H E of an untied circle the she , the you , the me the one, the two, the three I am the anxious and the certain the questioning and the questioned I am I am not The line The round The hole I did love I did hate I made angered promises I stayed I left I I I . a full stop , a coma ~ a suspension Caught reflection of a pitiful self 20 December 2019
Two poetry - one for Sunday and one for the evening in wait I am passionate with words -you say It's true -I answer (I lost the one person I loved to a suicide -I whisper to myself Can you imagine how many times each words rewind with its potential wounds? And yet, I am passionate with words, the knife sharpened into what could be the next heart) ----- Poetry unsettle me and comfort Make me strong and vulnerable Poetry is the way I exist in life 23 December 2019
I live in a country where I was not born circumstances and will brought me here circumstances and will kept me here Circumstances and will are two spared earrings different in shape , purpose and strenght I wear them sometimes casually other proud and intentionally they never fail to remind me of the country and its legacy 25 December 2019
If I could leave everything I would transform in a lake hidden by mountains I would surrender my heart at its bottom surpassed by the water insurmountable and still If I could leave everything I would become the sky and clouds above the lake to look at the heart reckoning its soul 25 December 2019
the bell , the door the open , the close the right , the wrong the now , the after a pendulum a spectrum the might be the ought be the must the will a me , a she , an us , a they a room , a bed , a mirror , a shower the touch , the grip the mess , the order the mind , the body the blink , the shuttering tuning of spirals of infinite desiring 26 December 2019
Holidays Sitting in the kitchen one coffee after the other no tik tok no calendar no apps to scroll A shower some washing of clothes and dishes Purposeless luxury of not-doing Until : the brain detects the solitude of the body 26 December 2019
The story says she left but stories have as many sides as the tellers In the story she left and her she was staying alone In the story there is a flat and a cemetery In the story there is no happy ending or sorrow It is an end-story for evenings with though silences pumpkin soup black pepper and a cat and it is a story with the unnecessity of tomorrow 27 December 2019
Coming back to places never really brings anything back, is a fast forward instead into a present without (our) youth. Walking trough the streets, between the buildings, into gardens and parks where we have spent time drinking, sipping, tossing our bad and good days, the youth we see are not the youth we were. Years, similarly to passed seasons had rolled wrinkles on all faces. We traveled to rejoin the one time where we are not and, most probably, we never be. Memories like tales, live in the moment of narration, in the sparking lights reflected by the eyes of the listeners. Because of them, when re-visiting, our talks searches for the ghosts. We call upon them as calling a spell of possible going back. By surprise, the memories for one second become the door opening to the miracle. 30 December 2019
It is a private pain. A cold marble tomb. The snow. Light the lanterns. Pose the arranged flowers. Pose the silver-green new year ornament. Re-light the lanterns. One. Two. Three times. Win the wind. Take a photo from your perspective. The one of the corpse laying in the coffin under the snow, under the cold marble tomb. Tears run. I run. You stay. Under the snow. Under the flowers. Under the lanterns. Under the silver-green new year ornament. 30 December 2019
As simple as life Good morning. A cold polluted sun. Frozen snow. Last school day before the last night of the year. The mother sits in the kitchen with a cold coffee. Rap loud music fills up the little apartment. It is Coolio@s Gangast's Paradise. One of the sons is in the bathroom, the other in the bedroom. Their voices come together to sing another Eminem hit. The sons are fifteen years old. The mother is fifty-three years old or she will be soon. It is the 31st December 2019. The cat on the couch fall asleep. Outside is - 100. Inside the heating defuses it to a comfortable warmth. All three and the cat live together in the small capital of an unfinished country. Both, the country and the capital are in a permanent resistance to changes and against better. The sons and the mother are busy. Tonight for the last night of the year they will eat and drink at a friend's place. Tonight at New Year's Eve they will be together. Than alone. Than together. Than on their own. This will be as simultaneous, as parallel, as continuous as in life. 31 December 2019
Ghosts What is remembrance? What is memory? What is a personal past? A glimpse of a posture? The color of some eyes? We are solitude and companionship We are the fragile line - the tiny rope connecting the what we knew with the who we were sometimes 2019
2020 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
A new day A new day! It was already 10:25 a.m., until when a day can be considered new? Does it depend from the wake up time? Or is a clockwise thing? The woman sits in her kitchen. In front of her: coffe, tablet, sugar bowl, mobile phone. on her right the bread-red-metal-box. All before hand nails scissors, a pen, the red pot with yesterday's warmed up coffee, wholegrain crackers. No music, the player is in the sitting room. She does not like playing music from youtube or her phone app. Actually she has no music on her phone. Plenty of applications but no music. It is a productivity phone. The woman has a productivity life, that's why is so important to understand the real e x t e n s i o n of the "new-day" thing. What to do with the old was the unanswered question, looming yet still hidden. How to look at all these former new-days? How to hold what was or might have been? How to move on in the new-day-thing with no burden of the old-day-thing and the aspirations for the new-day that the old-day was carrying within? The woman understands that those are all philosophical questions, no productivity whatsoever. So, it is the past in its un-coming and un-becoming the real trouble. It is her walking onto possible futures while looking at the possible pasts. There is this pain in loneliness that just stays and never leaves. Most of the time covered by productivity noises. Messages. Animated stickers. Emails. Voice notes. So much going on to cover the un-going. Her mother would disagree. Her mother was very careful. She had no pleasure for philosophical questions. She dressed. Worked. Cooked. Here and there had plain standalone love or, so she said. Was her, the daughter, the one made for philosophical questions and pain. 01 January 2020
The woman knew her time was heading towards the end. The slowness of her thinking, the aching of her body, the uncertainty of legs and hands. No more time to pack, lock the door and start the car. Time, the precious thing everyone runs short of and, still everyone spends in empty afternoons, lonely nights, morning of repetitive actions, was moving away from her. She remembered how hard she had fought against the time but now, the fight was unimportant and late. She was unimportant and late. Life was on its course and she was late too late. 02 January 2020
The be , the love The do , the see The take , the give The how , the who The curse , the bless The hand , the eyes The other person's eyes That eyes That hand That curse That bless That who That how That do That see That be That love The unlocking , the moving on The leaving The struggle The exhausted soul has left 03 January 2020
The woman started her morning with exactly the same thinking of the day before and the one before to that one. Year after year she had learned to become bored enough to stand up and do the things that need to be done. It was not a necessity for her to do, not a necessity for her to go on. But once the waking up flow started she would complete the round. She would never stop it or break it half way trough. Toilet, turning on the heating, dressing, emptying the sink, starting the dish-washing machine, taking her notebook, lifting the blue pen ink, making the list of what to buy. Lists and lists of to-do and to-undo. Lists and lists of intentions parked on this and all previous recycled paper's notebooks. Doing! What an immense waste of time. Thinking, dreaming. The coffee getting cold. The list disappearing. The world of her imagination opening up and devouring yet another day. 05 January 2020
T. wakes up with the same dream, leaves the bed. The cat follows. T. opens the drawer, takes half hand of dray food and puts it in the cat's bowl. The cat eats. T. looks at the time on her phone to see if she can go to bed or not. The not wins. T. prepares the coffee, drinks it scrolling news and few horoscops. Than leaves. She has to work. None who knows T. knows what her job is, except that is a regular one from nine to five. It pays bills and two holidays per year, abroad. T. herself is not sure what her job is, but help her to maintain the dreaming and the cat. 06 January 2020
Worrrds Words, like essential oils rare, dispersed and difficult to choose Words, like lost familiarities parse, reused times and again Words, the one unspoken prevented breaths of gripped throats Words the ones thought in silence the ones misused and twisted Words instead of hands, arms, legs bodies of accomplished companionship 07 January 2020
Paralysis and antidotes Have you ever tried to stom moving? Have you ever tried to stop thinking? I have It was the decision of the mind the one to stop It is the reflex of the body the one to move 08/09 January 2020
There are days we wish we are two, a double There are days we know we are more than the one person people's eyes look at 08/09 January 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
A minuscule beat of the heart the winter invades the mind the system shuts down It is for the body rejoining the trembling hands to call for the spring 08/09 January 2020
Dices - numbers - probabilities deadly games - mind's plays We stay in our repetion as in secured towers following path - schemes conjecture of connections we up down right left we - tokens of the weather the seasons the years The nobody-but-young The not-suffering The full-of-hopes The megaphones-of-believes We - pledgers-of-the-change-to-happen Which did not We did not The towers now are hospices for all the W E who never become 10 January 2020
Small words require the same fatigue of long one They are neither simpler or understandable. They are small by an accident of printing. They become bigger by the force of lenses and magnifiers. 10 January 2020
Ears cannot help if the heart is deaf 10 January 2020
Absorbed by passwords typing repositories' building I had imagined myself otherwise The moment gone the room , the chair the second hand machine reveals the material essence of my own world against the digital vastity of the many others A fragmented travel of bits and dots reunites latitudes and longitudes of soreness and age 10 January 2020
It is for the love of the only-other or for the love of the lost-self that the knife cuts deep excavating life from the body? 10 January 2020
Can I ask a question? - You say Will I have the answer? - I respond And do answers really matter? or is more the pleasure of this chatting in togetherness? 10 January 2020
An acute fragment an elaborated matrix an I N C R E D I B L E thinker The ellipse intrigued by the curve - the rounded dot engulfing the multi color painting of a sequence in a dream Of a simple woman with a simple life in a simple country of a simple town with a simple flat in a simple room on a simple bed 10 and 22 January 2020
Memory What we remember of each other? The hard? The soft? The trust? The breach? Sitting at the kitchen table trying remembering the how it was the what did happened and the what not It is difficult to draw the line It is more difficult to review the details Today - tonight - tomorrow how to answer? what honesty to pull? The one of the heart? The one of the stomach? The one of the processing brain? I do know about feelings The way they flow or don't I do know I do not feel you not with me nor against Still at this table is the never to come the never to exist that hurt 10 January 2020
I sit on this odd wooden ladder and hold your hand you lie on your bed in the dark You are the son I am the mother We stay like this until you fall asleep 23 January 2020
Yesterday L O V E had come to me. A unique sign. I was there but busy. Secluded in the on demand sound of a podcast. 23 January 2020
Turning points How to recognize a turning point? It is the holding of the instant when the breath in one's body stops? Or is the illuminate minute of smile between the fading away past and the hiccup of the future? 30 January 2020
I had the pleasure of hugging her and be hugged back It was invisible to most but tactile to me I hoped to be the same for her but it was not She do not hug me back anymore Sometimes is not because of what we said Sometimes hugs are simply taken away from us 30 January 2020
And here we are in the age of connectedness isolated One from Another fearing the invasion of our bodies the take-over of the infinite small the invisible still persistent illness of one virus these will be seasons of no-travel seasons of staring at screens texts to type voices to record we are submerged by the unexpected yet known we are hostages of the unjust unfinished systems of our countries we are displaced in home mutated in permanent mirrors of our staying in our immobile rebellion we do nightmares we create them as artisans model clay the fear of the night organically swell into the morning yet as evidence of the doubting what-next pins pensive the times we live in 05 March 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
Consent, fragility, non-sense. Contained. Defined. Reproached. Limited the W E comes and explains all the same as all times before The N O questions and re-questions until the W E starts doubting. Steps back and remembers otherwise . One day the W E will start screaming and wil not stop. An endless uncontrollable scream will run from east to east. Circling the world in every direction and diagonals. It will jump meridians. Excavate mountains. Corrodes buildings. Consume Highways. 8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Those rules that you call upon belong to the forceful light I am, myself, a small force and no force at all I am the tension sitting in-between, the invisible thread in the fabric, the powder before the colors I am the feverish and the dreamer, a dismissed kernel of machine and the surrender 8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Justice Many years had passed since the first time the man told the woman he was in love with her. The same many years had passed since the woman questioned and refused the offered love: a) She was not in love with the man b) The man was married to some other The man at first nodded, seemed to understand. Than few days after cam back offended, he said, outraged. He had offered his heart to her and instead of honoring it. The woman had refused it. The woman stood her N O. Busted her voice. Than built a wall around herself. For months she made sure to never be alone with the outraged man. The woman was young. The man was in his middle age. 8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Tiny boats Tiny waves Tiny women Tiny hopes 8 March 2020
A person waits for a call No network coverage Solitude augmented to unsustainability the future, the tomorrow, the next hour collapsed At the other end of the solitude a second person the phone in her hands, on her lap, near the bed she doubts herself, her belly, her feelings the dawn, the ring, the explanation the embrace, the sex, the shower, the breakfast in the felicity of the closed distance the glimpse of each other eyes Network down: a sign for an end the drive trough buses and time the signal of a beginning technology is the excuse none of them will play 8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Second choice of any kind of love Dishonesty of some-heart Unrecognized best opportunity Parked friend Last minute invitation Most frequent consolatory arm It is a curse and to stop and break it one has to run and run and run until the one-heart is healed 8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
The oneself I hear the music the moon is playing for the lovers I see the dance the lovers are playing for the moon I am none of them I am neither around I am sitting at the bottom of the ocean replenished and still hungry I am swimming bellow the continents as the fire run trough the earth I am the unnoticed detail that can go wrong I am the too much in a satisfying talk I am the unfitting, the misplaced the unidentifiable regrettable past Surely, I was asked and required to come but than I would overdo to be the very similar the likely, the unique, the beautiful-beautiful So, I retained that yes and escaped the memory as the time and the oneself Meanwhile the moon got bigger the dancers wilder 8 March 2020
The crowd We, a plural you and the dystopian me are carrying on a conversation. The tone sounds cold, a middle anger mediated by the practice. We are many, yet not all. We look at each other, priestesses of dead rituals and weakened magic. The crowd is coming. The crowd is and will be stronger. We have to decide whether to ally or depart. You, the plural, leave. I impoverished stay. The crowd is here and than is not anymore. It did not stopped at the one. It did not noticed the one. The crowd is after the many, you. And you are not enough for the crowd. The crowd swallows, eats, devours, finishes each of the parts as you were one. Satisfied, the crowd disperses. I am were you, the many were. I have no sense or purpose. Yet, I have to find one for you, the many who were and for the crowd which still is. As priestess of a dead cult I cannot raise the power we held. I can whisper and sing. Make a story of who you were, mull the unfinished anger. Or, I can disregard the past, honoring a future where you, the many, became the crowd and the one who is me is extinguished. Years pass, the crowd becomes another crowd and yet another. Each crowd evolves with the story. Each crowd bathes by its absolute love and enchantment. Meaning is not for the crowd or the many and even less for the left-alone priestess. Meaning stays with the silent ones, in the quietness of a room away from the crowd, away from the many. Open to the ones who can prevent their anger and can transform the crowd. The priestess sings and dances and weaves the sun with the air, the air with the grass, the grass with the sky. While she dances dust transforms to fly, than to butterflies and, at the end in thousand and thousand birds. The crowds comes back to look, to touch, to talk with no voice. The crowd dances and sings. Calls for the sun and the clouds and pledges power to the priestess. The priestess is not alone. The I which is me is not alone anymore. The cult is alive and with it is the magic. YOu, the many are resurrected, beloved and renamed. This time, the priestess says to herself, no more tricks. Only love. 8 March 2020
As a drop from leaf to earth I dance precariously in life Of the fall I recount the missing light of the moon and the silent void of the birds 10 March 2020
The yes, the no, the why, the who, the how and there again the when, the what else, the why me Questions questioning questions feel the day with inconsistencies In the secluded room, answers lye unheard and undiscovered. 10 March 2020
One hand washes the other hand In the bathroom's sink, water mixes with soap Twenty seconds counted and recounted sum up worries and care of this shared accompanied lives 10 March 2020
What do I really know? Very few Very much Something Or someone Yet is not in the knowing the magic is in the awakening 10 March 2020
Today I sit waiting for what usually happens. Suddenly the mind playback a brute forces attacks against yesterday. And there I am, still collecting pieces from the metaphorical floor of my life. 10 March 2020
A framework is just a way to shape / contain / rend visible a thinking from one person to the other and, while happening, breathing the beautiful lustful circling of exchanging. 10 March 2020
The forgotten The eager west, threatened in its consumption of the world, has occupied all timelines in the news. Life reduced to one ill dimension fits full screen our minds. I wonder where are the refugees and their millions? The locked-down survivors victims of perennial wars? The poor starved by a devastated planet? In the denied justice of all continents but one Europe Whiteness recites its darkest mantra Minuscule particle in the forced treatment of a numerous minority I feel contained and overexposed How to unskin myself from their over-entitlement? 18 March 2020
Two year ago the main struggle in my life was making sense of my partner's suicide and my son's diagnosis of diabetes I entered the year with the quiet hope of resilience. Worst is a word whose echo depends form the vastity of the cave. 18 March 2020
If I ask you to name a human catastrophe, would you pick the lost lives of Europeans to the covid pandemic or the rotten bodies on the bottom of the Mediterranean and the killed by gunfire at its borders? 18 March 2020
Walking int the early morning of an awakening spring the unnatural silence of no-car hits the brain. To recognize oneself into exceptional times takes entire days Emotional the clock ticks and trembles Am I a mirror of the more or less selfish? 18 March 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
Reality mediated by the voice of power misses the human glue of solidarity I am living, fearing, resisting and many more verbs cause I am a link in a chain where love matters bodies feel and moneys are far from endless 18 March 2021
Hiding spring In the northern hemisphere spring plays hide and seek with winter The blue sky gone, the gray clouds take over The people of the land looking for repair: roof, trees, cheaper umbrellas. Under refuge only the cats stay sane while the anxiety of today trips the hope of tomorrow The one who decide who sheltered and who not face and hands corrupted beyond recurse greed as the invariant of every days have their friends, relatives, allies employed as directors of health, safety and supplying. They are people's true despair, merciless winter of egoism and arrogant rapacity Looting the land for their wealth and mansions Looking after income. Gelid and adamantly calculating and numbering acceptable losses to bust their greater good. While the people, the disposable consumable removable numbers stand still the hurling of the weather waiting and chanting for the spring holding and praying for the numbers to stay. Under the roofs, the trees, the broken umbrellas the people know the land is tired and unhappy. No winter can bar the most broken of the spring will come the time for the land and the people to name the better day of a revolution 22 March 2021
Typing is physical hands touching keyboard lips breathing on mic That's sweat anguish excitement trepidation and curiosity all intertwined by the rhythmic pressing of lungs and fingertips. I do believe we can sense them all while words or their sound become messages on each other side of our devices' tabs apps 19 April 2020
Se potessi ritirarmi in un altrove fatto di parole assennate e mormide le userei come cuscino per la testa e il corpo stanco 19 April 2020
Today I woke up in the already tomorrow intangible the days move along time-zones on my laptop Unaccomplished the body ritualizes life in transportable digital instances Surfaces to each others in this close intimacy of one-click-away 19 April 2020 reviewed 21 March
What is said in silence The minute omission of our names from accounted memories of stories We were but we are not anymore were known but we are not anymore How shall we m a n a g e? Shall we break abruptly and gracelessly? Shall we bear insightful deep smiles? Shall we distance sterilize and clean? Shall we have irrelevant yet developing lives? Silences taste at times sour at times mellow Material as we are takes place in collective troubleness 19 April 2020
The bell jar - Silvia Plath I hear you Hear your pain You are gone and I hear you I hear you in the again Death is less about sileces more about voices Sylvia Plath has brought your pain, our pain back Deaths talk deaths Riddles turn plain words Nothing is about the why Everything is about the pain The pain made you leave yourself I hear it I know it 24 may 2020
There is no such a thing as a closure Unanswered questions the companions Loss, a long perpetual diluted rite 10 June 2020
There is no time for poetry except that never is the time for poetry So poetry must be : from the small flat of the small town in this small country of this small world I invoke vastness immensity unpredictability into the ∞ of love ∞ to weave planets with stars time with space until black holes bloom the alleys of all multiverses 14 June 2020
Sensing the external that shapes my body for people's eyes I am not there othered by exhaustive selves 20 June 2020
Cats and sun are a win-win game Why I am non of them? 20 June 2020
I make sound into sentences - you say I stop, all of a sudden mute catching the last echoes of the love you had for me 20 June 2020
It is stunning the scarce fantasy of the intruders the harassers Gifs of perpetual violence their human 0101 bits mimic boxing one-two compulsive pushing Launched sequentially waves of bots hunt the personal to breach into the imaginary storage to fingerprints the brute force attack to implant the dirty contructions onto the hard memory of the bodies Destructive analogues rush the digital to shut down the feared feminists they want to harm - delete - finish We the feminist disarm - resist - bleed reconvene - reflect - name - chant Attack after attack in the interspaces of the patriarchal misogynistic architecture of the internet we build Spaces-of-Wonders 23 June 2020
The very first poetry is reading It is an metaphorical act a futuristic replay and fast-forward Daughters of desires, me, us, they, many enact ritual listening to spoken silences Is an immersion in the stupendous in the magnitude of curiosity beyond writers' worlds of words 27 June 2020
Helga did not like her name. To be honest she didn't like anything of herself or the world. And why she should had to? Words and the body were a constant failure. Unable to stick to anything. A fact. A Promise. A recipe. Helga was easy to satisfy trained by no expectations, desires or requests. Educate to listen, to obey, to preserve. Her outside was with no surprise too. A standard package of female features. The inside either. Accurately submissive, patiently fed with fear, repeatedly domesticated by immobility. Still, somewhere in Helga, N O had a place. Stubborn and hard. Impossible to eradicate. Helga knew her N O would led her to termination. Days passing, she decided termination would be her only action. The real problem was H O W? How to trigger the right command? How to be the one choosing the moment and pressing the key? Helga knew that was about imploding the machine. Calling for the highest number of operations and their exponential fastest growth. When she did it. When it happened. She was clear the world would never understand that was her. Just a massive DDOS trough millions appliances and cheap systems. The next day someone shared a discovery of a kind of zero exploit. The weirdest ever. A fail that had determined algorithm Helga to annihilate thousand and thousand of servers and shutdown herself for ever. Irreparably. 27 June 2020
Loss is the aftermath Loss is in the aftermath of life It was, it danced, it followed the wind It sat on the couch as a different body in a different day of many different years Loss is in the aftermath of motion stands invisible, intangible at the end of love, at the end of time, at the end of the longest as well of the shortest rope Loss is in the aftermath of who is or was sprout from the making of one another, from avoidance at the calm intersection of pencil, paper, scissors Loss is in the aftermath of breaths between words, rooms for outside eyes running, staying, spacing out Loss is in the aftermath of talks, memories of digested pasts hungered for the same cannot-chew-spit-taste-melt-swallow Loss is in the aftermath of daughters, sisters mothers, fathers, lovers, acquaintances or friends Loss is in the aftermath of a fact. Its consequences guessed. Pills held between fingers until throated Loss is in the aftermath of days of their ordinary calendar reputation, their fatigue fading away Loss is in the aftermath of the blanket failing the shoulders, the loneliness scolding the sun the noise glamouring prurient-visiting-relatives Loss is in the aftermath and where else? Alternate evidence of truth and un-truth, crack of unfinished lies, suggested prophecies and obtuse realities Loss is in the aftermath of litanies with parrish goddesses restless toddler, uncooked food Loss is in the aftermath of smell, in the astrological shushing of mathematical projection for the yet-to-come-yet-to-be-sensed Loss is in the aftermath of itself, antecedent to what will come the head rested on the earth, in the dirty grass of a side-park Loss is in the aftermath with no postponement, no prevention or obstruction. Nullifying and swinging Loss is in the aftermath of perennial tides bashing micro-millions grains of outstanding clouds Loss is in the aftermath of the involuntary the inescapable and yet-to-be-survived 21 July 2021
Sucked Sitting on an impractical swing the body goes up and down, up again, down again zapping from fast forward to 16x rewind Alone in the distinct solitude of the swing within the obtuse silence of the swing quiet self-reflecting beings all around produce unmanageable feeling and disbarring thoughts Higher, faster, catching shorter and shorter glimpses of the downs, the stomach tense to surpass the muscles The wind around has the chill touch of displaced corps. The body conjure to be sucked. The swing conjure to swirl vacant. The voice pray to creep in parallel multiverses the breath goes compulsory on thinking and spinning in free fall of immagination Multiverses can be reached on feet It is the same day elsewhere Sucked indeed. 29 October 2020
The island Is it true, this thing of the pandemic? Is it true, it kills some and make rich others? Is it true, it kills by census and race? I spend the time before sleep in fear. I go back and forth to my material and immaterial accounts moving and pinning them on an invisible board of privilege and dispossession. The more I look, the more the board becomes tiny, weightless and confused. That's not to say my privileges are gone, more that they are not so strong or large or heavy to boost and catapult this me into the comfort and safety of privilege's island Invariably I fall asleep while spinning and spinning on the verge of the elusive entrance, to wake up the next morning on the shore of my so-far secure-job, my so-far owned two-rooms apartment in one the main towns of the various margins of continent. In the daylight there is no shadow on any of my inherited privileges. What I fail to see, in the daylight, is the erosion the island brings onto the continent. I might find comfort in my privileges and I might imagine it is a question of time before they land me on the island where privileges never succumb. At night, the denseness and enormousness of the dispossessed tells a different story. It tells me I belong to the continent too. I am just a dispossessed-to-be cause the island cast a shadow only the night can reveal. 14 November 2020 reviewed 22 March 2021
2021 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
To be added in the coming hours / days