Fabrizio Ulivieri's Blog, page 12

El espíritu de la piel

 

La piel importa
La piel te hace el ser
Que la mirada lee y cree.
El olor de la piel influye
El color también te incluye.

La piel no es un pretexto
Los seres humanos husmean
Son animales—el otro rastrean.
No buscan su espíritu, su alma
Buscan el sabor de su carne—calma.

En la piel se lleva escrito el destino
El largo andar del camino
El ser presa o cazador,
O siervo o predador. 
La sangre consigna el fin,
Roja corre abajo - y afín.

The Little Book of the Dead - IL Semplici

 

How far can a man love himself?
How far can a man accept himself?
His body, his mind, his countenance? His soul?
When I think of il Semplici, these are the questions I raise.
He was short, obese, bald, and he wore enormous trousers because he suffered from elephantiasis. When he walked, he had to keep his legs wide apart, as if carrying a huge watermelon between them.
He was round - his back and sides forming a circle. When he moved upright, it seemed he rocked backwards and forwards.
But he lived. He lived his entire life, trying to be and do what a normal person is and does.
Was he a hero? An accident of life? A prisoner of himself?
Whatever he was, he lived. He accepted to live his doomed life.

Il fantasma del nuovo

 

Il nuovo è il possibile
Che si india nel passato
E appar inaccettabile.

Una forza, una spinta
Che chiamo mano - divina
Già nel passato avvinta.

Nel presente già futuro
Che guidava e spingeva
Te andar contro - insicuro.

"Kam tą vakarą - a chi quell' estate" di Salomėja Nėris

 

Tai naktigoniai dainavo - -
Kam tą vakarą šiandie miniu?
Tai virpėjo lapas klevo
Nuo svaigių nakties bučinių.

Pagiry žėravo laužas - -
Kam tą vakarą šiandie miniu?
Šaką diemedžio nulaužus
Tau sagsčiau prie juodų garbinių.

Meilės viešnios išvažiavo - -
Kam tą vasarą nūdien miniu?
Ir pagelto lapas klevo
Nuo aitrių šalnos bučinių.
Cantan esseri la notte.
Oggi a chi della sera il ricordo?
Vibran l' alberi le foglie
D' estasi i baci la notte.
Nel bosco luce brillava.
Oggi a chi della sera il ricordo?
Rotto il ramo dell'albero
Nei tuoi neri ricci infilavo.

Ospiti d'amore vanno.
Oggi a chi dell'estate il ricordo?
Gialla se ne fa la foglia
Per gli aspri baci di gelo.

The Hollow Man and the Hollow Culture

 

Am I a pathological case, or do I surpass others because I am gifted with the special doom of disliking 99% of published books? I’m inclined to choose the second alternative.
I must divide my doom into the pre-pandemic phase and the post-pandemic phase. In the pre-pandemic phase, I had a gut feeling that my supposition was true; in the post-pandemic phase, I gained certainty.
Why certainty?
Because the post-pandemic phase made it irretrievably clear that a one-way, multifaceted propaganda exists, holds power, and guides minds toward a one-directional vision of the world—the annihilation of any originality and complete compliance with the triumph of Nihilism.
99% of what is published is the annihilation of originality - a submission to a dominant model of thinking that demands dominance. That model is Nihilism: absolute spectacle without content, surface without depth.
Thus, the spectacle reflects what it produces: nothingness, emptiness, Śūnyatā.

"Aš nenoriu mirti - Non voglio morire" di Salomėja Nėris

Amžius tu šlamėsi,
Šilkalapi uosi -
O naktim žvaigždėtom
Vasaros šiltos
Tyliame pavėsy,
Kai šakom sūpuosi,
Šimtąkart girdėtą
Meilę čia kartos -
Aš nenoriu mirti,
Nė žemelėj pūti -
Aš gyventi trokštu
Su tavim drauge! -
Aš nenoriu mirti! -
Geriau uosiu būti,
Šaltu akmens bokštu,
Mažyte sraige -

Fremerai oh vitaCome foglia al ventoIn notti stellateDi calda estateAll'ombra silenteAi rami che mossiCento volte udrànDell' amore il verso .
Non voglio morire Né in terra marcireVivere io voglioA tuo lato stare.
Non voglio morireMeglio ramo al ventoO pietra su pietra O esile lumaca.

The Little Book of the Dead - Primetta

Can a river of love, buried deep within your heart, flow silently for decades, only to one day breach the surface and reveal itself?
That’s what happened to Primetta, my mother’s sister.
I think that I was one of the reasons she was committed to a mental hospital.
I was around thirteen. I was an idiot. I have been an idiot all my life without realising it. I was blinded by my narcissism. I was beautiful, an incredibly beautiful teen, a teenager blessed by Mother Nature with a cruel, asinine beauty.
I was so vain that I was ridiculously incapable of seeing the delicate human soul of another.
My aunt Primetta was such a delicate mechanism, a light soul who always needed attention and patience.
My mother had them both, but I had none. Not a shred.
I don’t remember exactly what happened. What I recall is that I was relentlessly teasing her, almost ruthlessly teasing. Could I say without compassion for her?
She had a breakdown at last.
I do not recollect whether I was regretful or devilishly content with it (I have something in me that is horrible—I try to keep it at bay, but sometimes it overpowers me, seeping into my body, mind, and soul, unleashing its poison.)
When she was young, she was in love, crazily in love, with a young man from Montaione. She was happy, radiant.
He died of tuberculosis.
She became like a nun, a virgin forever, eternally in love with him.
No other man won her heart or touched her body.
Many years later, that river of love reached the surface after breaking its closure, and she loved me—perhaps as she had loved that young man. Did I resemble him in her eyes?
My aunt Primetta died whispering my name.

I fantasmi esistono

I fantasmi contano - oh sí, che contano.
La vita è piena di tuoi fantasmi.  Fanno parte della vita ovunque.Vai, li vedi e li senti. Fanno parte Di tua vita - che da sempre ti parlano E inquietano te notte e giorno.E hanno un fascino quotidiano.
Il fascino del languido soffriredi ricordare coloro che furono.

Youth, why are you so vain?

 

Youth, why are you so vain?
You had me years ago - I was so plain!
You swore we would make a perfect pair,
You would never leave me in despair.
As you gave away things you loved
My beauty and my young age ignored
You left my dreams in waters deep.
Far stay you now - and mock me so cheap!

Cul-de-sac è la vita

Viver in un corpo è un cul-de-sac.
L'altro da te potrà andar - ma tu che?
Come potrai mai fuggire da te?
O io da me? È un cul-de-sac.

È un cul-de-sac la parola rispetto.
Rispetto del tuo morbido corpo
Che tocco con le mani. De' tuoi occhi
E de' tuoi pensieri e delle scariche
Che vibran e pulsano e muovon te.

Par che tutto è un cul-de-sac - che guida
Chi cerchi però la vita amare
In vista di un giorno il morire.