Monday, 21 September 2015

Instructions: don't shake yourself too much before using

Since this blog is nearly to an average of 2000 viewings per day, I think it's the right time to issue some useless instructions to use this blog. To be honest I had done it some time ago, to full benefit of a specific person who loved reading me but almost invariably didn't understand me. Hopefully, for her sake and my peace of mind, such a person eventually has given up coming to this blog, but I strongly doubt it for a couple of caustic texts written with the clear but vain attempt to hurt me which I received in recent times. So, this time, I address all my readers. Or to say it better, I address that part of my readers, the majority, who don't know me personally. And that you don't know personally is the reason of my opening with the adjective "useless". Those who know me have the tendency to interpret what I write through their personal experience of me, through the magnifying glass of their small knowledge about me. The result is, not always but often, to misunderstand my writings. Nobody should ask for the storyteller's name: the words of the story is what matter to remember, not who utters them. But this problem, you who don't know me, is not yours.
But let's come back to business: how to use this blog. As the most perceptive of you have already grasped, this blog is quite introspective. My sentiments, my thoughts and my fears, the world and its inhabitants seen through my eyes and experienced through my other senses, my desires, my moods and my weaknesses, my scarce successes and my continuous frustrations: all these things compound the core of my relating. Now and then I digress into different topics, but rarely I'm impartial. And obviously, while I write, I judge. I try to be fair, giving to everybody what is due, but still I express a judgement. Exactly as each of you does, every day, with every of your acts and every of your words. Even when you think you're not doing it, you do it instead: in that very moment, at least, you judge yourselves, believing you are not capable of expressing a judgement. If you really never judge, you are monsters, callous creatures indifferent to somebody else's pain, cowards who refuse to take sides. And at this point, please, look on a dictionary the difference between "to judge" and "to condemn", if you already don't know it.
While you read me, always mind that I lost my universe's centre, there's no more a woman who is my firm point, but there's a woman who I believe I didn't accomplished my duty to, another one who has become the criterion for comparison I use to evaluate any other person, and many passing others, bygones or on hand, real or fictional. Well, don't make confusion with my life's women, as my life's women did, since it's of no importance for you which woman I refer to. 
Another thing to pay attention while reading me is that I like writing a lot and that writing is a cathartic act for me and help me to clarify my ideas. But:When there are many words, transgression is unavoidable. But he who restrains his tongue is wise (Proverbs 10:19). I should restrain my pen, or better my finger tips hitting the keyboard, because with some pieces of a real literary value (forgive my absence of humility) I produce loads of mediocre writings. And among many words some idiocies are unavoidable.
What to say more? Mind the dichotomy. That is what mislead the readers who know me personally. I write as Bisanzio, and maybe in my still imaginary world it's my real name; but in the world where all of you walk, the same world where I walk too the most of the time, I bear a different name. Bisanzio and the man bearing a different name are for sure the same person, but they don't perfectly overlap any more and their life's times are "out of sync". There's a woman whose voice is the only thing I really know of her, who maybe gave me her real name and maybe not, who maybe told me where she really lives and maybe not, but who is really helping me to understand some issues. And that's what matter, because the storyteller's name is less important than the story he tells. This woman once asked me: "Why do you seem a normal person when you talk at the phone, while you're like a psycho when you write?" My dear, maybe because I'm undergoing a doubling of personality. Or maybe because I have fun writing crazy things. "You shouldn't write in such a way to who doesn't know you!" And where would the fun be with those people who know me? They wouldn't get scared. It's true, written words come different from spoken words. We have more time to sharp them perfectly so that they can pierce deeper.
The same woman told me that, even if what I write is dark and sad, she likes to read it because makes her pondering since she finds something of herself in my writing. All in all it's not that I and you all are so different: we have the same fears, we have the same basic instincts, we bleed when somebody cuts us. I have, like a leper, lost the ability to feel pain when somebody cuts me. So I have no hesitations to cut myself even deeper, to expose and study the different layers of my flesh and the spilling of my blood, and come here to tell you, you who maybe are blurred by the pain, or maybe have lost that capability, sometimes lacking to me too, of put in words those sinking feelings. And I don't care if for this you judge me (judge, indeed) to be depressing and negative. You're not part of that restricted group whose judgement matters to me. Yet I can't understand why you consider normal, often arriving to exalt, obsessions which are even destructive, while you cannot accept this my desire to observe the sad and sorrow part of the human soul. To dedicate all of yourself to your own job is okay; to pledge your body and soul to study, or research, or sport is acceptable. This my fondness for what crawls or scurries on the damp soil of our life's undergrowth, instead, is deplorable.

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