Qohelet

Vedi, questo ho scoperto, dice Qoèlet, confrontando a una a una le cose, per arrivare a una conclusione certa. Quello che io ancora sto cercando e non ho trovato è questo: un uomo fra mille l’ho trovato, ma una donna fra tutte non l’ho trovata. Vedi, solo questo ho trovato: Dio ha creato gli esseri umani retti, ma essi vanno in cerca di infinite complicazioni. 

Behold, this is what I found, says the Preacher, while adding one thing to another to find the scheme of things— which my soul has sought repeatedly, but I have not found. One man among a thousand I found, but a woman among all these I have not found. See, this alone I found, that God made man upright, but they have sought out many schemes.

Livelli di coccolina nel sangue

Recenti studi medici hanno portato a collegare alcuni comportamenti umani coi livelli presenti nel sangue dell'ormone coccolina. Una carenza di tale ormone conduce le persone, in genere, ad accettare e scusare da parte di altre persone comportamenti che sono, in altre circostanze, considerati inaccetabili. Elenchiamo, senza pretesa alcuna di stilare un elenco esaustivo, fra i comportamenti inaccettabili ma che vengono scusati dall'individuo con carenza di coccolina: egoismo, voltafaccia, inaffidabilita', menzogne, ritardo cronico. Tale accettazione ha lo scopo inconscio di ovviare alla mancanza dell'ormone tramite la creazione di una fonte surrogata della coccolina. Praticamente la mancanza di una dose quotidiana, dose che ovviamente varia da individuo ad individuo, di coccole porta le persone a cercare di soddisfare il loro bisogno ormonale con l'accettazione di prevaricazioni e ingiustizie nel tentativo di combattere la depressione indotta dalla carenza di coccolina. Tale tentativo e' ovviamente destinato a fallire e la persona rischia di deprimersi maggiormente.

Oggigiorno, per chi non abbia la possibilita' di ottenere la giusta dose quotidiana di coccole, sono disponibili metodi sviluppati in laboratorio per ovviare alla carenza dell' ormone. Alcune di queste tecniche sono spiegate nell'opera Metodi artificiali di regolazione dei livelli di coccolina nel sangue, edizioni BastardiDentro. Le tecniche piu' comuni e semplici da attuare includono lo sviluppo di atteggiamenti psicologici quali narcisismo e menefreghismo, altre piu' sviluppate prevedono la costante alimentazione di una rabbia contenuta e di interessi culturali vari. Tutte, comunque, se praticate sufficientemente a lungo, garantiscono l'eliminazione delle persone inutili dalla propria vita.

Io sono gia' morto

Apertosi la via oltre lePorte di Ferro

Sconfitti i Guardiani delle Mura d'Ombra

Camminando fin oltre il Pozzo del Sangue

Giunto e' il Guerriero dei Sogni,il monaco-guerriero

A fronteggiare il Trono Nero, su cui assiso e' il

Signore del Dolore.

Rossa di sangue la spada, nera di tenebre e'

la vasta sala.

Unica testimone la luna - riversa il suo sguardo

luminoso ai piedi dei due contendenti.

>>Io sono il Guerriero dei Sogni, monaco-guerriero

Io sono un ideale, e tu sei gia' morto. Non serve ti trafugga.<<

La lama torna a riposare nel suo fodero

Mai piu' sara'sguainata - perche' un ideale e' piu' forte

di qualunque armata.

E il monaco-guerriero si siede, incrocia le gambe e riposa.

Non si teme colui che gia' e' morto - il Signore del

Dolore niente puo'

Perche' un ideale non si puo' fermare.

Con tre passi giunge a portata del suo bersaglio. Ma la lama rientra nel fodero e i raggi di luna spengono i loro riflessi sul suo filo. L' ombra sul trono non si rilassa, ne' si fa piu' tesa. Nella luce lunare che si riversa dai lucernari, le due figure sono ombre nelle tenebre, una assisa sul trono, l'altra in piedi di fronte alla prima. Entrambe immobili. Le tenebre nascondono i confini della sala. Un ultimo movimento nel buio, un rantolo di morte, poi torna il silenzio.

Sporgendosi verso il guerriero, l'ombra assisa sul trono raschia la tenebra con la sua voce: -Infine il Guerriero dei Sogni e' giunto.- Una vena di divertimento conferisce minaccia alla voce.

-Non il Guerriero dei Sogni, ma il monaco-guerriero e' ora davanti a te,

-Guerriero dei Sogni... monaco-guerriero... non cambia niente.- Un tono quasi annoiato. -Posso ucciderti prima che tu riesca a fare una singola mossa.

-Tu non puoi uccidermi, perche' io sono gia' morto.

Un breve silenzio, poi la voce raschia il buio nuovamente, venata di rabbia questa volta. -Posso annichilire il tuo corpo, posso riempirlo di cosi' tanto dolore che la tua mente esplodera' in migliaia di frammenti. Cosi' tanti che non potrai mai ricomporla. Non hai nessuna possibilita' di uccidermi!

-Io non sono qui per ucciderti. Sono qui per sconfiggerti. E questo l'ho gia' fatto, senza bisogno di ucciderti.

-E come puoi rovesciarmi da questo trono?- chiede l'ombra divertita.

-Non te ne rendi conto, ma il processo e' gia' cominciato. In molti mi hanno visto entrare, in questo momento c'e' chi vede che io sono arrivato fino a te. La sfida e' stata lanciata, e tu non sei stato in grado di fermarla. Uccidi pure il mio corpo, ma non mi fermerai. Perche' io non sono questo corpo, ma un ideale. Se uccidi il mio corpo, altri raccoglieranno l'ideale. In molti sanno gia' che non sei irraggiungibile, che non sei intoccabile, e la voce viaggera' veloce.

"Sei gia' stato sconfitto, anche se non lo vuoi accettare.

Un sospiro, quasi un grugnito. La figura sul trono torna ad appoggiarsi indietro contro lo schienale.

-Uccidendoti-, pondera poi nel buio, -farei di te un martire, e gli uomini correrebbero a raccogliere la tua bandiera. Ma posso imprigionarti ed esporti come un trofeo, e gli uomini compatirebbero la tua debolezza.

-Hanno visto che sono arrivato sufficientemente vicino per infliggerti il colpo finale e che ho deciso di non farlo. Catturami, e tutti penseranno che ne sei stato capace solo perche' io l'ho permesso. Imprigiona pure questo corpo, ma non potrai umiliarlo col dolore ne' con la paura di sottrargli qualcosa, perche' essendo gia' morto non c'e' niente che io tema di perdere. Rinchiudimi e non otterrai alcunche', perche' non puoi impedire a un'idea di correre libera.

Il silenzio cala una volta ancora e si protrae nelle tenebre. Le due ombre, l'una seduta e l'altra in piedi, si fronteggiano immobili. Un rivolo di sangue, lentamente, scorre dall'oscurita' nella pozza di luce lunare. Unica prova di un confronto mortale da poco conclusosi.

-Entra al mio servizio-, mormora l'ombra sul trono. -Avrai poteri superiori a quelli di ogni altro uomo mai vissuto in questo Impero. Dovrai solo indicare cio' che desideri e lo avrai: uomo, oggetto o animale. Potrai avere qualsiasi cosa si trovi fra i Bordi del Cielo e i Confini del Sottomondo. Ti daro' l'immortalita' e sarai adorato come un Dio!

-Tu non hai niente che possa interessare un morto.

-Tu non puoi colpirmi! Non hai mai avuto la possibilita' di infierire quell'ultimo colpo!

Con un movimento lento e fluido, senza muovere le braccia ma solo piegando le gambe, il monaco-guerriero si abbassa a sedere. Incrocia le gambe e resta immobile davanti al trono. -Io ti ho gia' ucciso. Ho ucciso la paura che dominava il cuore degli uomini e li obbligava ad obbedirti. Adesso sono liberi, perche' sanno che ti si puo' sfidare. E cio' che puo' essere sfidato puo' anche essere sconfitto. Non avranno piu' paura di morire, perche' l'ideale e' in loro. Non ti saranno piu' asserviti, perche' non erano asserviti a te ma alla loro paura: io ho ucciso la loro paura ed uccidendo quella parola ho ucciso te.

Le due figure sono nuovamente immobili: una in alto sul trono, l'altra seduta in terra. Nuovamente le tenebre sono silenziose. Il sangue, nero nella luce lunare, ha smesso di scorrere.

Starbucks

Un sottile filo lega, attraverso i secoli e attraverso un oceano, Starbucks, la nota catena americana che spaccia acqua sporca come caffe', Moby Dick, il capodoglio mangiagambe, e i vichinghi, razziatori delle coste britanniche. Seguiamolo a ritroso nella storia del nome stesso.

Quando un gruppo di caffe'-dipendenti americani decise di aprire la catena di coffee-shop, vollero darle un nome estratto dal romanzo Moby Dick di Melville. Inizialmente fu proposto il nome Pequod, ovvero il nome della nave baleniera capitanata da Akab, ma per l'opposizione di uno dei co-fondatori fu scartato. E meno male dico io. Ve lo immaginate? Pequod coffee. Suona proprio male. La scelta, allora, ricadde su Starbuck, che era il primo ufficiale della Pequod, un quacchero dell'isola di Nuntucked (MA), la cui popolazione si sostentava con la caccia alle balene e dove il cognome era alquanto comune.

L'origine di questo cognome e' nello Yorkshire, qui in Inghilterra, dove si trova il paese di Starbeck, che compare come Starbok nel Domesday Book del 1086. Quando fu introdotta la tassazione delle persone, conosciuta come Poll Tax e che si aggiunse a quella delle terre, l'introduzione dei cognomi si rese necessaria per distinguere i diversi contribuenti, e in molti casi il nome del luogo di nascita o di residenza fu usato a tale scopo. Starbok divenne cosi' nome di famiglia, per poi evolversi in varie forme: “Starbocki”, “Starbock”, “Stirbock,” “Stalbrook”, “Sturbock”, “Styrbuck”, fino alla forma definitiva di Starbuck perche' la pronuncia "stah'back" era la piu' facile.

Andando piu' indietro nell'origine del nome, si risale al primo insediamento di Starbeck, un villaggio vichingo precedente al IX sec., chiamato Stor-bokki. Riguardo il significato di questo nome ho trovato due fonti. La prima gli attribuisce il significato di "grande fiume", che potrebbe riferirsi al vicino fiume Wharfe, uno dei maggiori fiumi navigabili della regione e che all'epoca era molto piu' grande di oggigiorno. La seconda fonte, invece, assegna al nome il significato di “grande uomo”, nel senso di persona dotata di un alto status sociale, e che potrebbe riferirsi a qualche capo norreno residente la'.

E cosi', partendo dall'America, siamo arrivati in Scandinavia a dorso di balena. Voi scegliete il significato che piu' vi piace per il vostro coffee-shop preferito, tanto non cambia il fatto che il caffe' di Starbuck fa schifo.

There's a thread, linking through centuries and through an ocean, the American Starbucks chains, selling dirty water as coffee, Moby Dick, the leg-eater whale, and the Vikings, riders of the British shores. Let's follow it backwards through the history of the name itself.

When a group of American coffee-addicts decided to open the coffee-shop chain, they wanted to call it by a name coming from Melville's novel Moby Dick. At the beginning the name Pequod, Captain Ahab's whaling ship, was proposed, but due to the opposition of one of the co-founders it was dropped in favour of Starbuck, who was the first mate on the Pequod, a Quaker from Nantucket Island (MA), where whale hunting was the main industry. Starbuck is a much better name, in my opinion: Pequod coffee sounds really bad.

This surname's origin dates backs to the Middle Age, in Yorkshire, where a settlement called Starbeck is. It's formerly registered in the Domesday Book of 1086 with the spelling of Starbok, and when the governments introduced the Poll Tax, beginning to tax the person in addition to the lands, and a family name became necessary to distinguish between different tax-payers, birth or residence places' names were picked to name some families. Starbok became in this way a family name, then developed in different forms: “Starbocki”, “Starbock”, “Stirbock,” “Stalbrook”, “Sturbock”, “Styrbuck”. Starbuck, someone suggests, was finally settled upon just because it was easier to pronounce: “stah'buck”.

Going more back in the name's origin, we arrive to the first settlement of Starbeck, a Norse-Viking pre 9th-century village called Stor-bokki. Regarding the name's meaning, I found two different sources which give different meanings. The first one attributes to the name the meaning of “great river”, probably referring to the Wharfe River, formerly a major navigable river in that area, and very much larger than today. The second source, instead, translates the name as “great man”, somebody with higher status and ranking, maybe some Norse chief ruling the area.

And so, moving from America we have arrived in Scandinavia, riding a whale. Now you can choose the meaning you prefer for your favourite coffee-shop, it won't change the fact that Starbucks' coffee is disgusting.

Blasphemous prayer

Our Mother, who walk on Earth,
we curse your name.
Your chaos come, our will be done,
tomorrow as today.
Let's size more than we need when we trespass, 
without forgiving who trespasses against us.
Lead us to satisfy our carnal sins
and deliver us to evil.
Yours are the command, the strength, the celebration
till the final time's fire.
Amen.

Preghiera blasfema

Madre Nostra che cammini in Terra,
noi malediciamo il tuo nome.
Venga il tuo caos e sia fatta la nostra volonta', 
oggi e domani. 
Facci prendere piu' di quel che abbisogniamo, 
facci sfuggire ai nostri creditori
ed esigere dai nostri debitori.
Esaudisci i nostri peccati carnali 
ed intrappolaci nel miele del male.
Tuoi sono il comando, la forza e la celebrazione,
ma solo fino al fuoco finale.
Amen.

Beautiful victims, sweet deaths

-I won't be one of your victims-, she said with a coquettish simper.
-Why?- I did say, smiling in my turn. -All my victims had a sweet death.

Demons Dance In The Castle Hall

At last! you enter the Electric Castle! 

Here in this vast hall where even shadows fear the
light - here you must confront your past. 

If you have killed, beware of the Gathering of Spirits
for they do fish for men. 

Here, the disembodied Astral World becomes flesh once more. 

I pity the men of swords.
For here blood runs cold...

[barbarian]
cries from the grave resound in my ears
they hail from beyond my darkest fears
faces of the past are etched in my brain
the women I raped, the men I've slain

shades of the dead are sliding on the wall
demons dance in the castle hall

[knight]
I call upon the sword, the mighty Excalibur
grant me the skill to fulfill my quest

I call upon my king and the knights of the table round
grant me the courage to stand to this test

I call upon the seer, Merlin the sorcerer
grant me the magic to end my pain

I call upon the spirit that lives in a noble heart
grant me the passion that's within my veins

shades of the dead are sliding on the wall
demons dance in the castle hall

[repeat hall]

Read more: Ayreon - The Castle Hall Lyrics | MetroLyrics 

Brigands

The root of the Italian division between the North (wealthy) and the South (poor). Something which is not taught in the Italian schools: the resistance of the southern people against the Piedmontese invaders.

This version of "Brigante se more" (MusicaStoria) differs from the original version, written by Bennato/D'Angio' (Musicanova):

"We don't give a fuck about the Bourbon King" (Musicanova)
"We fight for the Bourboun King" (MusicaStoria)

"And a swear for this freedom" (Musicanova)
"And a pray for this freedom" (MusicaStoria)

Historically both versions are correct. There were who fought for the King (many partisan chiefs were former Bourbon soldiers) and who fought just for his land. There were partisan fighting for their cultural and religious background and those who didn't. 

This song recalls the fight of the Two Sicilies' partisans, called brigands by the winners.

Per noi che siamo fuggiti 2

Abbiamo un appuntamento...

con i diavoli del flamenco e le streghe di Benevento.

E il mio cuore sta emigrando verso i Sud di tutto il mondo.

Road to Hell

Stood still on a highway
I saw a woman
By the side of the road
With a face that I knew like my own
Reflected in my window
Well she walked up to my quarterlight
And she bent down real slow
A fearful pressure paralysed me in my shadow
She said 'son what are you doing here
My fear for you has turned me in my grave'
I said 'mama I come to the valley of the rich
Myself to sell'
She said 'son this is the road to hell'

On your journey cross the wilderness
From the desert to the well
You have strayed upon the motorway to hell

Well I'm standing by the river
But the water doesn't flow
It boils with every poison you can think of
And I'm underneath the streetlight
But the light of joy I know
Scared beyond belief way down in the shadows
And the perverted fear of violence
Chokes the smile on every face
And common sense is ringing out the bell
This ain't no technological breakdown
Oh no, this is the road to hell

And all the roads jam up with credit
And there's nothing you can do
It's all just bits of paper flying away from you
Oh look out world, take a good look
What comes down here
You must learn this lesson fast and learn it well
This ain't no upwardly mobile freeway
Oh no, this is the road
Said this is the road
This is the road to hell

 

Vinculum

Ci sono legami che non puoi tagliare. Neanche il tempo puo'. Ci sono condivisioni che legano due persone indissolubilmente, che lo si voglia o meno. E quei lacci saranno sempre li', a tirarti nei momenti piu' inaspettati. Ti faranno commettere errori, ti faranno ferire altre persone. Ci sono legami che non puoi tagliare ed e' molto meglio venire a patti con questo dolore che portare avanti una inutile resistenza.

There are bonds you cannot sever. Neither the time can. There are sharings bounding two people indissolubly, that we want it or not. And those strings will be always there, and they will pull at you at the least expected moment. They will make you to get wrong, they will make you to hurt other people. There are bonds that you cannot sever and it's much better to accept this sorrow that carrying on an useless resistance.  

Like broken shells

Sand. Broken shells. Shells under the feet. Yielding sand. Broken shells like people. Walk slowly along the shore. Think. Pick up what you find, discard it. Pick up what you find, collect it. Try to think. Backwash, seagulls calling: confused voices. People talking, useless words: weathering my thoughts. Feeling of weariness, the action's futility. The sea, an empty stretch. Grey sky, cold cover. And the void, inside. Thanks. The emptiness, outside. Thanks you all: little joys, big loves, partners for few hours. A pier, tries to reach for something. Thanks to the sycophants, thanks to the night-man. There's nothing to reach for. Thanks to those few real friends. Aimless. I am aimless. You taught me an important lesson: I need a target. Use this city, don't let people using you. Looking around me. People come after, the purpose comes first. I see just wordless strangers. Suffer, believe. Empty streets and damp houses. Broken shells. Thrown over your shoulder. And void. And weariness. Nobody is worth more than my goal.

I am not worth more than your targets.

People as useless as broken shells.

Idea

C'e' una cosa piu' forte di tutti gli eserciti del mondo, e questa e' un'idea il cui momento e' ormai giunto.

Victor Hugo

Il tempo della nostra idea non e' ancora giunto.

There's a thing stronger than all the armies of the world, and this is an idea whose time has come.

Victor Hugo

Our own idea's time hasn't come yet.

Brotherhood of Man

Monsters rule your world are you too scare to understand?

Now your time has come a storm of iron in the sky,
War and murder come again, lucky if you die.
No way to rescue destiny, scream and curse in vain,
You will never be remembered, no one knows your name.

When the music changes then all is broken down,
Mighty cities laid to ruin, burning to the ground.
Murder is become the law; you cannot make a stand,
Chaos rules the world now mortal, brotherhood of man.

You cannot hide the truth from me I know what's in your heart,
Greed and jealousy each equal, all your days now dark.
Mighty mountains fall in dust the world falls into hell,
Faith in lying prophets, no one to lift the spell.

Monsters rule your world are you too scared to understand?
You shall be forever judged and you shall surely hang,
We live and scrape in misery; we die by our own hand,
And still we murder our own children, brotherhood of man.

Blood on all our hands we cannot hope to wash them clean,
History is mystery do you know what it means?
Slaughter, kill and fighting still and murdered where we stand,
Our legacy is lunacy, brotherhood of man.

We are worse than animals, we hunger for the kill.
We put our faith in maniacs the triumph of the will,
We kill for money, wealth and lust, for this we should be damned.
We are disease upon the world, brotherhood of man.

Let Me Bring You Down 7

Dedicated to some friends of mine, all beautiful women well under way on the road to spinsterhood.

In life, sometimes, you need to know how to 
make do with what you have.

Medusa

Perseus kills Medusa; Greek vase - British Museum

Carry the weight...

...or crush under it.

Let Me Bring You Down 6

Never did I wanna be here again

And I don't remember why I came...

GODSMACK

"Voodoo"

[Chorus:]
I'm not the one who's so far away
When I feel the snake bite enter my veins
Never did I wanna be here again
And I don't remember why I came

Candles raise my desire
Why I'm so far away
No more meaning to my life
No more reason to stay
Freezing feeling,
Breathe in, breathe in
I'm coming back again

[Chorus]

Hazing clouds rain on my head
Empty thoughts fill my ears
Find my shade by the moon light
Why my thoughts aren't so clear
Demons dreaming
Breathe in, breathe in
I'm coming back again

[Chorus x4]

Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo, voodoo.
[Repeat]

So far away...
I'm not the one who's so far away...
I'm not the one who's so far away...
I'm not the one who's so far away...

No more meaning to my life

No more reason to stay

Quanto costa un grammo di felicita'?

Quanto costa un grammo di felicita'?

Un grammo?! E che ci fai con cosi' tanta roba? Ci vuoi rendere felice il mondo
intero? A te ne basta un granel di senape. Un granel di senape per spostare
le montagne, fidati! Beh, comunque non credo tu sia in grado di pagare il
prezzo neppure per un granel di senape. Ma dimmi, cosa ci vorresti ottenere? 

Cosa? Niente di particolare. Voglio solo una banale, noiosa routine quotidiana.
Voglio lavorare duro, tornare a casa con la schiena a pezzi e le mani insensibili.
Voglio sedermi a tavola con mia moglie e mio figlio. Voglio intorno persone
a cui mi sento legato. Voglio assaporare il mio cibo e voglio sentire il profumo
della terra. Non voglio glorie oppure divertimenti. Ne' avvenimenti eclatanti.

Voglio l'anonimato, voglio un cane e voglio un gatto.

Ma tu le puoi avere queste cose! La felicita' e' semplice da ottenere: basta volerla. Basta che smetti di essere negativo. 

E come si fa a non essere negativi in questo mondo? Come si fa
quando sai di essere a due mensilita' di distanza dall'insolvenza?
Come si fa quando esci per strada e vedi persone a vivere ridotte
come bestie, o bestie ubriache che fingono di essere persone?
Come si puo' essere positivi quando voi tutti fingete di non vederle 
queste cose e se ci sbattete contro per sbaglio poi le accantonate

come niente fosse? Alla fine io sono piu' positivo di voi! Vado
avanti anche se quelle cose le ho continuamente davanti agli occhi.

Voi dovete ignorarle o vi tagliereste le vene. Correte in ogni direzione

solo per non dover ammettere che c'e' solo il vuoto ad aspettarvi.

Io lo ammetto. E' questo che vi crea tanti problemi?

Avevo tutto quello che volevo. Avevo tutto e l'ho perso.

Se mi sai dire come posso essere nuovamente felice dimmelo.
Ma tieniti le tue critiche perche' sono stufo di stare ad ascoltarle.

The magic is in the words

You know that your magic is in your words. In your words lies your ability to enthral the people, to make them love you, to make them to dream, to give solace or sorrow. But to give this power to your words you need to infuse them with what of most intimate you have. So you stretch inwards, going deeply down towards your heart, and from there you draw fully to begin to narrate. You unfold your fears and your joys, your places, your life's story, your sorrows. You tell of the time you walked in the wood, stopping and staying still and silent to contemplate the colourful carpet made of mushrooms stretching all around you in every direction. You tell about the colours' explosion transforming the trees in Autumn, or about the Winter and a white landscape where yellow-green small bird flocks landed to eat the bread you had left in the snow. You describe the flavours of different foods you collected around in small farms and the pleasure you felt baking the bread at home or making the yoghurt or potting mushrooms under oil. You narrate about the works you deed to renovate that old house in the wood, working its wood and stone, a bond between you and a land which you felt to belong to, even if you were born on a different ground. In that soil, you thought to receive burial.

And while you're unfolding your story you feel you have the public under control. You understand it from how they watch you in silence, you perceive it in the change of their breathing. You see them relaxing and dreaming and becoming part of that land, of that story. Even if it's just for a moment. You shared yourself, you gave them some beauty, and you know you've fulfilled your purpose. What they don't see it's the toll that you pay. Every word, every memory, every sentiment and emotion you give to them through your narration is a tear where your flesh begins to bleed from, is a pain chewing deeply. Because you know that all of that is lost, it's something you'll never be able to go back to. And even if you would go back you would find it different, hostile, a poisoned place, and you would be just a stranger to it.

With such an awareness where can you find solace? How can your spirit not be veined with sadness? That vein of sadness is always there: now just a thread that nobody notices, then a swollen river brimming over your eyes. It's a bitter taste that never leaves your mouth: it doesn't matter how much sweet are the joys you savour, you well know that always, at the end, that bitter taste will come up again to your tongue. And who notices it doesn't understand, or doesn't want to understand, or doesn't know how to understand. That person is offended by it. Your sadness is an insult, it's the proof that you live stick to the past, that you live for someone else, it's your rejection of happiness. It's like if, after you lost your legs in an accident, someone would blame you for refusing to run together. It doesn't make sense, but it's what happens. Your magic is still there, but now it's sorrow what your magic dispenses. So you let the blame be laid at your feet, you let them put you at the bar, you bend your head and allow that the shame is put on as a mantle on your shoulders, a shame you know you don't deserve. But since it must always be a culprit, why not you? You let them saying and don't retort anymore. Who doesn't want to understand never will.

Adam lost stupidly his right to dwell in the Eden. He has been chased away, his return was forbidden. Can you imagine his frame of mind ascertaining that all his efforts were not enough to obtain something equally satisfying as before? He cultivated the land, but its fruits didn't have the same taste as before. He made artefacts, but they weren't perfect anymore. He slept but didn't rest. He ate but was never sated. He contemplated the skyline, but that beauty wasn't as perfect as the landscape he could admire from the top of the Eden mountain. But did he love his wife less for this reason? Did he hate his children? Did he stop trying, gave up his life? But how could he be completely happy with the Eden mountain standing out against the horizon, the memento of what he had and had lost?

You will walk towards places where you'll never find real satisfaction. Your hands will strive to build what is doomed to not last. What is it than if a love you believed sweet disclosed to be bitter? What is it if a person refuses solace to you? As much more pain can do it than knowing that you'll never feel at home again? Can such a wound be worse that all the wounds your memory inflicts you? But despite all this, you're still able to love, to savour the good of life, to appreciate the beauty. You're still able to get on with your life and even if you know that there's nowhere to go for you, you know also that you will meet someone who needs to lean on you. Your magic is there for those people, that they would stay with you for a long time or for a short while. For this reason, you get on, looking just for temporary solace, picking up what you find along the road and getting as much satisfaction as possible from it. Because all that you are able to give will never suffice. Because whoever says that wants to stay close to you will watch always what you are not able to do.

Would be easier, indeed...

A voice from the past

 

A second hand book is a voice from the past. A voice from the past telling us something about its former owner. Sometimes you can find a dedication revealing how much the person was important to the donor, or just a statement saying "this book belongs to..." which, together with the book state itself, will tell us what kind of person the owner was. Was it a precise person? Or was just a possessive person? Did the owner care about the book? Have the book been kept on a shelf or taken around? The book may be just worn out, as it always happen when you carry one in a bag. Or it may be literally spoiled due to careless. And sometimes you can find objects or notes among the pages. 

Browsing my new copy of the Uysses, I found the receipt of the purchase. Two minutes later then 1pm of 22nd of September 2010, a Thursday, in Charing Cross Road. Maybe a clerk on his lunch break? I cannot think really well about the former owner. The corners and the edges of the pages are bent, but the pages are clean, so it wasn't a "used" book. And there are stains due to a damp. Probably the purchaser has never read it. The Ulysses is a classic, one of those books that you buy just to show them on your bookshelf. Inside there was a Tube map, also. Brand new, of the year 2006. Four years older than the book.

Apparently, at that time, the zones were 6 plus other 4 named A, B, C and D. I've never heard anything about it.

  There was an envelop inside the book, with two tickets for a concert. Tuesday the 5th of October, 1:00pm, at Wigmore Hall in Wigmore Street. 

The Young Classical Artist trust's lunchtime concert. Less expensive than a normal concert, or this person had a son or a daughter playing that day, or just had a long lunchtime break. Or was a retired person. I could find it out, with a bit of work, since on the envelop there was the name of "him".

  Books speak to us in many different ways. It's up to us listening or not.

Books for free

Happiness is a house full of books 

and a garden full of flowers.

-Arab proverb

"Would you like to speak to Susie or Mary?" Igor asked me while we were heading off to the station. Why not? I like to talk with women. Actually, I don't like it, I love it. But... "Why?"

"They are giving away 150 books for free. I thought you could be interested in." Women are good, but women with books are the best in life. Of course I'd like to speak to them. 

Half an hour later or so I was wondering not far from Chancery Lane station, swearing to my new iPhone: its map shows all the most useless shops (from my point of view) but doesn't show the tube stations! I roamed between  the stations of Chancery Lane and Holborn for a long while before being able to pinpoint my position. The only bookshop, standing exactly at the corner of the turn I was looking for, wasn't shown on the iPhone's map... the only shop I would have noticed. Technology is supposed to make our life easier, bloody hell, not more miserable...

But I made it, in the end. I found the office, a school for American students coming to London for a semester, and Marie shown me the huge piles of books.

"Are you interested in politic books or novels?" she asked me. "I... I'm interested in books", I answered with a smile. I started to rummage everywhere, till another guy came to take the whole stock. "Let the fight for the books start!" said Marie, introducing us to each other. Well, no blood was shed. I left with some books, a web site address to help me in my search of a philological club or association, and no phone numbers. 

On my way back to the station I sent a message to a friend: "Books for free! It's a shame I don't have a van." "Where? Where?" she asked me in turn. Eh, a little bit too far from where you're right now, sweetheart.

I would make that Arab proverb one line longer: 

Happiness is a house full of books, 

a garden full of flowers 

and a sweet woman in your bed.

Would it be the time has come!

The sheep look up

On Tuesday evening, going to the gym, I noticed numerous police officers in front of the Southwark Council Hall. Someone had dumped rubble in front of the access. adorning them with signs: "Southwark Council: smashing our homes", "Fuck your regeneration!" In that moment I thought: "The sheep look up!" A group of protester have taken action against the regeneration programme of Aylesbury Estate, where council houses had been left empty and to get in ruin and now are going to be demolished. Luxurious estates and massive shopping centres will get their place. Cross Rail is almost ready: benefit people and common workers deportation is about to happen.

Yes, the sheep look up...

 

The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,	125
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,                                Lycidas, John Milton (1608-1674)