Control

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Aren’t you tired of the dictator from inside you?

Aren’t you sick of that inner guardian

that commands you to be better

to love more

to love less

to move forward

to hold on

to let go

to get up from the dead

 

Aren’t you tired of this soul-predator that keeps you awake

and running

aren’t you exhausted of

running away

running inside

running around the same rusted ghosts?

 

Aren’t you bored of the tyranny of this Soul

bullying you like a prick

mocking your hunger, blaming your fears

 

Haven’t you been enough in his service

like an obedient slave

born blind and helpless

and pushed by his Master

to creep through impossible wonders?

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Essential matters

 

Stefan Caltia

Let’s wear only skins made of deep longing
And never tell long stories with big punt
Let’s be the sense-free sailors of becoming
The fools that prophets mock with every bunt

There is no room for battles between us
No place for glamour or for desert freedoms
Only for quietness, for fire, for rain’s fuss
And for the haunting sound of waves

The world should not get close to our grove
There is no place for trades no time for noise
No lover needs to understand what’s love
No happy fellow claims the right of choice

The city wants to speak its rampant grief
In my own tongue, while piercing through my chest
But I won’t carry on a false relief
I keep the silence, like under arrest

It makes no sense invoking the mistrust
The disappointment or the tempting face
Of all those things that turn next day to dust
There is no point in naming the disgrace

I leave the words unspoken, place for vows
So that the wind to pierce though their muteness
And to be heard while opening the windows
Maples’ growth to be seen with clearness

Only essential matters, I’m asking willingly
He took the tea? what does he mean by “tie”
How is he dressed, his beard has grown wildly
The light of sunrise ever made him cry?

 

Soul mates

No photo description available.

 

We could have carried huge sacks in one of the world’s harbors.

We could have been two teenagers captive in an oriental brothel.

We could have been moonstruck.

 

We could have been two fat moles digging their tunnels under the frozen land

ending up together in the skewer of an old Eskimo.

 

We could have been some irate nerds preaching the socialism to a pack of hungy dogs.

 

It’s not that bad what we have been fated to.

 

I could have had the luck to be a sleepwalker and go, through the night, to head for your lands,

like a turtle pushed towards the sea by her primordial thoughts

 

One day we’ll be meteorites

or bodies of water

trees

maybe elephants

aren’t you curious how the elephants desire might be like?

We will recognize each other instantly

and the fever will break out

 

there are other lives

don’t cry

 

Troy for instance

When I was little I imagined myself with long hair with thin arms and skinny knees

I  invented myself breasts of all shapes and sizes I was afraid they would never grow

As a teenager I screamed: Fuck ”communism” in the streets and I invoked a homeland

Flocks of mysteries and fears passed with the rage of bullets through my fabulous hair which has grown in my dreams up to my knees

Heroically I fought all the nightmares and all the chemistry exams

All the locks and ice lands

Heroically I stood the lost of springtime

Everytime I heared “No” I insisted to say: “Oh, yes”.

I dragged my imaginary sins through all catacombs

Until the day he  invaded my wonderland with his long hair, disheveled, like a savage From then I couldn’t spell certain words without blushing such as Troy, for instance

Until that moment I didn’t even have a language of my own or a truth dignified to wear my name

I had no homeland or breasts

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photo: Jen Kiaba

The Fool and the Wiseman

Photo by Sam Brenton

‘I’m free, I have nothing to prove,’ says the Wiseman.

‘The one who feels free is just as entitled to prove to himself or to others what he has to prove,’ the Fool contradicts him.

‘Freedom is when you have everything under control and are able to shape reality through your own will,’ the Wiseman says.

‘No, reality is when you lose control, if you were raised to be a rigid English man,’ the Fool concludes.

‘Freedom means giving existence a meaning and being able to live in accordance with it,’ the Wiseman ponders.

‘No, freedom is being able to live without a purpose. A form of spiritual vagrancy,’ the Fool objects.

‘Freedom is being yourself in any circumstances,’ the Wiseman speaks again.

‘Freedom is the modesty to decline any identity in a world in which all boasters compete in being more themselves,’ the Fool challenges him.

‘Freedom is independence, it is the lack of any inner or outer constraints,’ the Wiseman utters confidently.

‘But freedom is also allowing yourself to be subjugated and dominated when you feel like doing so,’ the Fool objects.

‘Freedom is when reason manages to control chaotic, turbulent or destructive feelings,’ the Wiseman states serenely.

‘No, freedom is assuming what you feel, despite any reason… Realizing that nothing worth living is subjected to the rules of reason,’ the Fool retorts, grinding his teeth.

‘Freedom is the possibility to choose, a mean of getting what you want,’ the Wiseman muses.

‘What if you don’t want anything that you are allowed to choose from?’ the Fool provokes him.

‘Freedom is questioning everything you believe you know,’ the Wiseman tries to reconcile.

‘And being able to surpass any doubt when it comes to essential matters,’ the Fool replies.

‘Freedom is honesty in a world in which everyone is phony and hypocritical,’ the Wiseman says, reflectively.

‘And it’s freedom to dissimulate in a world in which everyone is fatally honest,’ the Fool adds.

The problem with freedom is that it doesn’t have a precise object, it can be anything, therefore it is nothing. It’s a chimera that can take on any face.

 

Photo by Sam Brenton

 

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27970134-the-black-box

The Black Box

The Black Box

The three protagonists of the book are painters and the narrative follows their biographies blending together, uniting and separating at some point. Tristan and Norman were born at the beginning of the 60s, in working class families, in an English industrial town. Their friendship emerged in early childhood, in a Catholic boarding school. The story of their relationship and of the experiences they are going through is told by each one of them, so that the reader deals with the same narrative exposed and focused from two different subjective angles. The third character of the book is a Belgian female artist, two decades younger than them. She is the disciple of Norman and, through his confessions, she discovers the fascinating world of London of the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, with all its specific contrasts, temptations, fetishes, conflicts, illusions and disillusions. The plot of the book brings into the spotlight a part of the wonders, dilemmas and controversies of an entire generation of artists that had overthrown an aesthetical system of thinking that stood as a foundation for the great cultural currents of modernity and had anticipated the dawn of postmodernism as well.