High Voltage

I live in Asymmetry:
the means by which charge is built up.

The farther life stretches me,
the more thunderous will my lightning be.

Exorcism N. 1: The Parabola

It starts from Surprise:
An open attitude to the world of humans makes for the base ingredient.
The marvel at having been found by another beautiful, intelligent, connecting human being, makes for having been taken aback all of a sudden.

It raises to Hope:
The projection of my needs upon that human being.
The transfiguration of a very finite essence into an all powerful, all good, demi-god.

It itches into the first Doubts:
The early attempts to communication fall short.
A rethink of my strategy is in order.
It has to be me.

It grows into apparent Understanding:
We phase a bit, I open up and do communicate.
She seems to get more things nearly right, all of a sudden.

It peaks into Love:
I give her a night of Love (capital, L), she receives a night of "very good sex" (citation, here).
I give myself entirely, and never get caught, not even in bits.
But it is a night of very good sex, what a comfort that is.
She obviously isn't aware of the price I am paying.

It rapidly decreases into Insult:
Got a foot over the heart's door, and that's way too invasive.
Sex is over, my head standing as a beautiful mantelpiece by the Owls and Deers.
Nothing's due anymore.

It changes into Abuse:
I am useful, limited to her needs.
What is lurking here, behind the beautiful image?
Why am I being thrown and tossed, shaken and ultimately whipped into doing what she wants,
and that alone?

It becomes Strive, mine, for her, or her image:
I out-try myself, find new meanings to patience and understanding,
condone, pardon, forgive the lot, and pay the price myself.
I can not let go of her.

It Ends as it ought to:
I lose patience, spit it out as for what it is,
She closes, and drops me dead in the blink of an eye.
Someone as fascinating, but more useful, has come around.
Time to revolve the doors.

There's no turning a Parabola into a perfect Circle.
'ave it, you twat: you deserved it.
Really this is the fool's corner.

Ridere...

Le lettere d'amore (chevalier de pas)

Fernando Pessoa chiuse gli occhiali
e si addormentò
e quelli che scrivevano per lui
lo lasciarono solo
finalmente solo...

Così la pioggia obliqua di Lisbona
lo abbandonò
e finalmente la finì di fingere ai fogli
di fare male ai fogli...

E la finì di mascherarsi dietro tanti nomi,
dimenticando Ophelia
per cercare un senso che non c'è
e alla fine chiederle:
"scusa se ho lasciato le tue mani,
ma io dovevo solo scrivere, scrivere
e scrivere di me..."

E le lettere d'amore,
le lettere d'amore
fanno solo ridere.
Le lettere d'amore
non sarebbero d'amore
se non facessero ridere.
Anch'io scrivevo un tempo lettere d'amore
anch'io facevo ridere;
le lettere d'amore, quando c'è l'amore,
per forza fanno ridere.

E costruì
un delirante universo senza amore,
dove tutte le cose
hanno stanchezza di esistere
e spalancato dolore.

Ma gli sfuggì che il senso delle stelle
non è quello di un uomo,
e si rivide nella pena di quel brillare inutile,
di quel brillare lontano...

E capì tardi che dentro
quel negozio di tabaccheria
c'era più vita di quanta ce ne fosse
in tutta la sua poesia;
e che invece di continuare a tormentarsi
con un mondo assurdo
basterebbe toccare il corpo di una donna,
rispondere a uno sguardo...

E scrivere d'amore,
e scrivere d'amore,
anche se si fa ridere;
anche quando la guardi,
anche mentre la perdi
quello che conta è scrivere.
E non aver paura
non aver mai paura
di essere ridicoli;
solo chi non ha scritto mai
lettere d'amore
fa veramente ridere.

Le lettere d'amore,
le lettere d'amore,
di un amore invisibile;
le lettere d'amore
che avevo cominciato
magari senza accorgermi;
le lettere d'amore
che avevo immaginato,
ma mi facevan ridere
magari fossi in tempo
se avessi ancora il tempo
per potertele scrivere...

©:Roberto Vecchioni

Leggero', nel tempo a venire,
queste pagine ricche di intensità,
slanci e cadute.

Riderò di me,
amaro,
a riempire il buco lasciato da te.

Blinded

Blinded by too much light,
I am now in the dark.

Still, feeling with my hands,
I gain a new kind of sight.

Stupidity

Like a blind man, awkwardly,
I poke, probe and prod.

Willing to be part of the solution,
I make myself the problem.

Trying to understand,
I only ever manage to tire the hell out of you.

If only I could leave you alone,
like the careless, selfish, old bastard that I was,

knowing deep within you'd be better off,
or not caring about you at all anymore,

without a second thought I would.

Stupidity isn't about being able to do so:
stupidity is telling you I can not.

The Intoxication

"I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of fire
Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
And in the flames
Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire

This desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

And as she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realize that nothing's as it seems

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of rain
I lift my gaze to empty skies above
I close my eyes
This rare perfume is the sweet intoxication of her love

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower
This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the fall"

©:Sting

The Fool pt.2

In the end,
I did indeed
make a fool of myself.

ah well.

Onward and upward!

Seasons

Because

well
Because i fear terribly to get way too involved sentimentally.
hence lose reason.

So far, you're just like Mother Nature to my eyes.
which one does not possess.
You're Beautiful, of the kind with a capital B.
and i draw joy from it.

when from autumn, winter comes, amen to it, end of colours. it's Mother Nature.
it does hurt, but can be survived.
another autumn will eventually come.
but if I get too emotionally involved, if I end tied up, well, then it would be pretty different.
then it would hurt too much to see the season go.
i wouldn't want another one.
i would want precisely the one just come to pass.
that very one, not any other.
and for such things, well, you need some good time to heal.
time i don't have.

The (wrong?) Instructions

Oh come on.
Stop the mooning,
quell the riots,
leave the abandonment,
bring in reason,
and go back being free.

...

Of the magic?

The Fool

"Are you Gay?", you asked.
"You are a Sociopath", you stated.
"You're mad, plain mad.", you enthused.

Well, I can only answer that I am simply a Fool.
A Love Fool.

Vorrei

Vorrei conoscer l' odore del tuo paese,
camminare di casa nel tuo giardino,
respirare nell' aria sale e maggese,
gli aromi della tua salvia e del rosmarino.
Vorrei che tutti gli anziani mi salutassero
parlando con me del tempo e dei giorni andati,
vorrei che gli amici tuoi tutti mi parlassero,
come se amici fossimo sempre stati.
Vorrei incontrare le pietre, le strade, gli usci
e i ciuffi di parietaria attaccati ai muri,
le strisce delle lumache nei loro gusci,
capire tutti gli sguardi dietro agli scuri

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...

Vorrei con te da solo sempre viaggiare,
scoprire quello che intorno c'è da scoprire
per raccontarti e poi farmi raccontare
il senso d' un rabbuiarsi e del tuo gioire;
vorrei tornare nei posti dove son stato,
spiegarti di quanto tutto sia poi diverso
e per farmi da te spiegare cos'è cambiato
e quale sapore nuovo abbia l' universo.
Vedere di nuovo Istanbul o Barcellona
o il mare di una remota spiaggia cubana
o un greppe dell' Appennino dove risuona
fra gli alberi un' usata e semplice tramontana

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...

Vorrei restare per sempre in un posto solo
per ascoltare il suono del tuo parlare
e guardare stupito il lancio, la grazia, il volo
impliciti dentro al semplice tuo camminare
e restare in silenzio al suono della tua voce
o parlare, parlare, parlare, parlarmi addosso
dimenticando il tempo troppo veloce
o nascondere in due sciocchezze che son commosso.
Vorrei cantare il canto delle tue mani,
giocare con te un eterno gioco proibito
che l' oggi restasse oggi senza domani
o domani potesse tendere all' infinito

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...


©:Francesco Guccini, Vorrei, 1996

Vuoi?

The Unexpected

Which powers, I wonder, conjure such events?
Chaos alone can't be this powerful.
Luck, well, I don't believe in.
A supernatural being, I'm afraid, I don't believe in either.

What then?

What can turn a night where I do not wish to search, into a night where I am found?

I have been told by a very good and wise friend that I should definitely NOT think about it, and just let go.

Right.

If only I could find sleep,
or could stop bouncing between the wish to scream in happiness,
and that of shedding tears on the inevitable, eventual loss.

If only I could rewind to yesternight,
choose a different spot at the brewery,
not wish for a cigarette,
nor ask for company while smoking it.
If I just chose to stand,
or met someone else and fluttered away in chitchats.
If only my words were not what they were,
and yours were different too.
If only your eyes were not so deep,
your beauty not so radiant,
your without not such a mirror of your within.
If only I didn't ask for one more goodbye hug,
and you didn't brush your lips against mine.

Then I could erase you.

Unexpectedly I can not.
And unexpectedly I'm not my own anymore.

Thank you.

Serendipity

Dark, almost ten in the evening,
the sound of passing cars on the autobahn
dirtying the artificial light of a monitor.

I can still smell vanilla,
perspiration and humors
like if you never left.

The sound of a passing tram,
down below,
reminding me of duties
I imposed to myself
in the name of achievements.

And all I feel is the distance,
tugging,
like an overstretched umbilical cord,
aching, the pull already too hard to fathom.

How, on earth, skies and depths,
did I manage to latch on to you
like so?

Most importantly,
how did you?

Answers I may one day find,
if only you were to stay
close,
if you only were not to ever take myself away from myself.

Serendipity finally here,
there with your hugs
I miss the moment they stop.

Left and Leaving

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.
The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say " I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.
I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.

©:The Weakerthans

To you all, each of you individually, which I had the bliss, the luck, the surprise and joy to meet here.
Warmth, genuine, priceless, human richness I'll take with me long after this day.
Long, after this pain in my chest will have finally dulled.
Thank you for it all.
Thank you.

The foolishness of the Mathematician

Why ask numbers to talk,
when it's us being the numbers which talk?

La triste rinuncia

Le luci dentro al buio sono andate via
e l' allegria comprata è già sparita:
il giorno dopo è sempre la malinconia
che spezza la magia di un' altra vita.

La forza che ti lega è grande più di te,
l'anello al collo si stringe sempre più:
non dare più la colpa al mondo, o a lei,
per la rinuncia triste a quello che non sei...

Lo sai cosa vuol dire stare giorni interi
a buttar via nel niente solo il niente;
fai mille cose, ma sono sempre i tuoi pensieri
che scelgono per te diversamente.

Son stanco d' aver detto le cose che dirò,
di aver già fatto le cose che farò,
ma è tardi, troppo tardi, per piangere ormai
sulla rinuncia triste a quello che non fai...

Credevo l' incertezza possibilità
e il dubbio assiduo l' unica ragione,
ma quali scelte hai fatto in piena libertà:
ti muovi sempre dentro a una prigione...

Non è la luce o il buio, né l' ero ed il sarò,
non è il coraggio che ti fa dir "vivrò",
è solo un' altra scusa che usare vuoi
per la rinuncia triste a quello che non puoi...

Non voglio prender niente se non so di dare,
io e chissà chi decidon ciò che posso,
non ho la voglia, o la forza, per poter cambiare
me stesso e il mondo che mi vive addosso...

E forse sto morendo e non lo so capire
o l'ho capito e non lo voglio dire.
Rimangono le cose senza falso o vero,
e la rinuncia triste a quello che io ero...

©:Francesco Guccini, Canzone della triste rinuncia, 1974

The Night Pt.2

It used to be the time of mysteries and marvels,
time for waking up to look out of the window and listening to night birds,
or watching dawn approach with that untamable sense of purpose.

When, i wonder, did it become just darkness and dreamless sleep?
Is it just a coincidence, or is it an inescapable pattern?

I'll need to watch over myself, and out of the window, more.

One Great City Pt.2

The Notre Dame Cathedral in St. Boniface.
Looking towards SW on the Red River.
And looking straight East: tracks of boots on snow over the river.
Crossing the Provencher Bridge.
Looking under the Bridge: black ice.
More ice under the bridge.
Looking back towards the cathedral.
Snow Bank.
Wasteland.
Yes, Snow as well.