naufraghi nella notte
la mia nave prendeva acqua, acqua scura che entrava da una falla grossa come una testa di bue
e sono approdato qui.
un appartamento di 20 mq.
naufrago io e naufraga lei
la barca prendeva acqua.
mi ricordo, sì, quella paura che come un pus è scoppiata lasciandomi addosso una strana serenità.
adesso sono qui nella mia isola di 4 mura di cemento
esco la notte, gli indigeni mi inquietano. i loro sorrisi gentili, le loro premure mi evocano quelle dei cannibali che ingrassano il loro pasto.
aspetto. mi muovo solo quando vanno a dormire.
e le tenebre mi coprono in un fresco abbraccio.
guardo il mare e le barche passare
oltre quell'orizzonte c'è la terra da cui sono venuto
e adesso sono qui con a testa sulle sue cosce
lei canta di guerre e di amori
la voce mi culla e mi fa ricordare:
la mia nave e l'acqua che entrava e l'ascia che picchiava e le tavole che si rompevano
le sue gambe sono fresche come una spiaggia tropicale lambita dal mare,
poggio l'orecchio sul suo petto e lo sento:
il sussurro del mare
e le sue rauche risacche :
tum tum
e l'ascia che sbriciola assi e acqua che entra
e la nave che affonda
sorrido e butto l'ascia al mare
le acque sono calme ora
il sole sorge sul mio rifugio da naufrago
castaways in the night
my ship was embarking water, dark water that entered through a hole as big as a head of an ox
and I landed here.
an apartment of 20 sqm.
a shipwrecked me and a shipwrecked her
the water was coming into the boat.
I remember clearly the fear that as a pus broke out, leaving me with a strange serenity.
now I'm here on my island of 4 concrete walls
I go out at night: the indigene worry me. their gentle smile, their kindness remind me of the cannibals who fatten their meal.
I wait and move only when they go to sleep.
darkness covers me in a cool embrace.
I watch the sea and the boats passing by
far beyond that horizon is the land i came from
and now I'm here with my head on her thighs
She sings of wars and loves
her voice rocks me and makes me remember
my ship, and the water coming in and beating up of the axe and tables breaking
her legs are as fresh as a tropical beach lapped by the ocean
i lay my ear on her chest and I feel it:
the whisper of the sea
and the undertow: tum tum
and the axe, the wood crumbling and water entering
the ship was sinking
my laughter and the axe thrown into the sea
the water are calm now
the sun is rising on my castaway island
(australia, shipwreck coast)
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
public life
public image limited: adelaide zoo
public image: adelaide zoo
Private image: the dark side of the life
Monday, January 4, 2010
kandido new blog on blabbing and drawing
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
kill kill kill
kandido reflections on top of the hill: hoping for a quick end of the world so australia will became the paradise it was before and not a amusement park.
"why do bhudda say don't kill?
our life is mad(e) of death. we are living on a pile of skulls and bones.
we live thanks to the death of plants, animals and other people that worked for it.
(vegetarians that say that they dont want to kill makes me laugh. do they know how their vegebale are grown, and the pesticide being used? and the bird being killed? do they know that to make a field sometimes a whole forest or a bush has being destroyed, with all its inhabitant?)
we uses roads and train that people build dying, we use car that uses petrol still dirty of blood from wars,
we pollute: we kill
we take madicine: we kill
we kill all the time. and we comes and we live thanks to killing and dying.
so, why don't kill? just realize that you kill, and the best you can do is to be grateful to your victim.
this is life: born and die. kill or be killed.
no escape. this is life, this is nature...
nature doesn't have moral laws. life is just life.
when you save a butterfly form a spiderweb. maybe you kill the spider...
choosing is killing and not choosing is killing as well. so? nothing to do. just be aware.
if you don't want to kill, kill yourself and free the world from your presence (a good site full of hints how suicide: www.churchofeuthanasia.com )
we are better than animals because we lie (better) to ourselves. our biggest lie consists that we are better tha animals.
who cares?
when you realize the million of people and the million of lives make you what you are now. here.
oh fuck, maybe you are grateful. somebody die for you having a car, a road and your food. and you don't know. so the best you can do is to take care of this life that cost so many of others...
so enjoy. enjoy your daily killing!"
big horses
kandido is sited on the ridge of the ocean.
the sun is going down painting around with its yellow light.
the big ocean waves on the distance looks like wild horses with long luminescent hair in the wind. running crazily, jumping one on top of the other, restless.
in Italy they call these big waves "cavalloni" big horses. but here, in Australia, they are just small.
even the waves of the typhoon in Okinawa weren't bigger...
and then he recalled the image of the ocean from the airplane.
the ocean was looking like an unpolished stone. full of lines and ripples. the only thing that was breaking the surface was some path left by boats. they have a different luminosity. they can stay there for long time.
the ocean the waves are fixed from the airplane. stable like a stone. and the roads that boats draw on it stay as well... for days maybe they stay, but then they disappear...
his mind goes to Angkor Wat, or to Manchu Picchiu... the tracks that the men left on the earth don't survive for long, everything become again nature. just question of time.
just question of prospective. the amazing waves that break on the shore, and that seem so lively, always changing, from the airplane are fixed. no any visible movement. no strenght, no craziness.
everything in order and stable.
even his mind sometimes when he look at it too near... it seem like the waves of the ocean, crazy like wild horses, but form the distance... only peace. the ideas come and go in fixed and stable ways, like the ocean. stable in in movement, stable in it's apparent instability. dead like a stone in its apparent liveliness.
kandido looks at this huge beautiful land, transformed in an English garden. green, squared, shaped...
he tries to imagine how it was before, the forests, the bushes, and the lakes without the bench on the side...
everything look like a garden for the joy of Australian people. BBQ places everywhere, even with gas, walking path where every risk is erased, helicopter that check all the time the shore to protect the surfers... enjoy your amusement park!
a flock of black bird is flying in the sky. peacefully... kandido smiles. sooner or later everything will be like it was before.
people here love nature, at the same way you can love a horse: taming it.
people tend to forget that we are nature, we cannot fight against it, because we are it. everything we do is natural.
we still believe that god give the earth to the men to use it and enjoy it. instead we are a product of the nature. that continue its path... and the men is a step along its path...
men can only draw straight lines, because it knows only two point: the beginning and the end. he can think only like this.
god draws curve lines that don't begin nor end.
...
big waves, small waves, ripples, beaches, desert, dunes... waves? still waves?... or something different?
maybe just sea. it's all sea. inside outside. the sea that smells like sex. just sea. like life.
the sun is going down painting around with its yellow light.
the big ocean waves on the distance looks like wild horses with long luminescent hair in the wind. running crazily, jumping one on top of the other, restless.
in Italy they call these big waves "cavalloni" big horses. but here, in Australia, they are just small.
even the waves of the typhoon in Okinawa weren't bigger...
and then he recalled the image of the ocean from the airplane.
the ocean was looking like an unpolished stone. full of lines and ripples. the only thing that was breaking the surface was some path left by boats. they have a different luminosity. they can stay there for long time.
the ocean the waves are fixed from the airplane. stable like a stone. and the roads that boats draw on it stay as well... for days maybe they stay, but then they disappear...
his mind goes to Angkor Wat, or to Manchu Picchiu... the tracks that the men left on the earth don't survive for long, everything become again nature. just question of time.
just question of prospective. the amazing waves that break on the shore, and that seem so lively, always changing, from the airplane are fixed. no any visible movement. no strenght, no craziness.
everything in order and stable.
even his mind sometimes when he look at it too near... it seem like the waves of the ocean, crazy like wild horses, but form the distance... only peace. the ideas come and go in fixed and stable ways, like the ocean. stable in in movement, stable in it's apparent instability. dead like a stone in its apparent liveliness.
kandido looks at this huge beautiful land, transformed in an English garden. green, squared, shaped...
he tries to imagine how it was before, the forests, the bushes, and the lakes without the bench on the side...
everything look like a garden for the joy of Australian people. BBQ places everywhere, even with gas, walking path where every risk is erased, helicopter that check all the time the shore to protect the surfers... enjoy your amusement park!
a flock of black bird is flying in the sky. peacefully... kandido smiles. sooner or later everything will be like it was before.
people here love nature, at the same way you can love a horse: taming it.
people tend to forget that we are nature, we cannot fight against it, because we are it. everything we do is natural.
we still believe that god give the earth to the men to use it and enjoy it. instead we are a product of the nature. that continue its path... and the men is a step along its path...
men can only draw straight lines, because it knows only two point: the beginning and the end. he can think only like this.
god draws curve lines that don't begin nor end.
...
big waves, small waves, ripples, beaches, desert, dunes... waves? still waves?... or something different?
maybe just sea. it's all sea. inside outside. the sea that smells like sex. just sea. like life.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
vagabond life: alone or not really?
kandido is living like a vagabond.
sleeping in some else's houses, living on the charity of some drinks or a dream of woman warm hug.
his life is in his bag: a pc, few undies (founded), 2 pair of trousers, and a warm sweater and one book of poetry. light, easy to move.
moving from one country to another, following some dreams: dreams of love, dreams of work, dreams of finding something that is never there.
something else is there, as beautiful as his disillusioned dream.
moving alone, gotten nourished by stranger's smiles. by strangers kindness.
beautiful life? cursed life?
everything is happy and everything is sad at the same time.
like a sadu or an old fashioned adventurer or like the mariner of the poetry of Neruda that will find only rest in the arms of lady death.
when you take away some sticks that hold your life you see that everything around starts crumble, like a card castle. nothing last.
sometimes everything seems meaningless.
"what am i doing here?"
"where is my love, where are my friend, my family?"
alone we are born and alone we'll die. like everybody. but he doesn't live the masquerade.
he cannot anymore. even if sometimes he would like it. but it will mean die. another kind of death, the life of a living dead.
it's a warrior life. fighting everyday against one's mind. against one's illusions.
trying to avoid traps, running, jumping...
everyday battles, some he looses and some he wins...
the body full of scars...
is there an end for this war?
is there peace somewhere that is not in death?
it's not dramatic:
kandido rises his eyes and see the beautiful house he lives in."look at this house, so beautiful, and i don't even be bother of paying the rent", "look at this woman love. i can have it without see it fading away."
he saw so much that sometimes i get scared. why all this beauty only for me? why i'm so lucky to live through all of this and see all this things... it's too much. it's too much for just me. why i cannot share all this greatness? why being happy alone? happiness is greater in sharing... sharing is love. life should be beautiful for everybody, not just me."
i hope when i'll die some of my smiles will keep on echoing in the world...making more and more people smile."
life like a clown. life like a vagabond. life like a warrior. life like a sadu. life like a gypsy.
"you are not made for marriage" a drunk woman told him in a bar "you are not made for a settled down life? the dragon looks for the heaven alone. alone." maybe. "maybe it's just words, maybe it's just superstitions." maybe.
impatience is a prison, the prison of looking for something in the near future... and don't see the now...
but when you are a vagabond, you live day by day, you live thanks to other, you see how small we are without others... how dependant we are from all the things around us... and you become humble, and thankful....
"cry and you'l cry alone, smile and you'll smile with others"
sleeping in some else's houses, living on the charity of some drinks or a dream of woman warm hug.
his life is in his bag: a pc, few undies (founded), 2 pair of trousers, and a warm sweater and one book of poetry. light, easy to move.
moving from one country to another, following some dreams: dreams of love, dreams of work, dreams of finding something that is never there.
something else is there, as beautiful as his disillusioned dream.
moving alone, gotten nourished by stranger's smiles. by strangers kindness.
beautiful life? cursed life?
everything is happy and everything is sad at the same time.
like a sadu or an old fashioned adventurer or like the mariner of the poetry of Neruda that will find only rest in the arms of lady death.
when you take away some sticks that hold your life you see that everything around starts crumble, like a card castle. nothing last.
sometimes everything seems meaningless.
"what am i doing here?"
"where is my love, where are my friend, my family?"
alone we are born and alone we'll die. like everybody. but he doesn't live the masquerade.
he cannot anymore. even if sometimes he would like it. but it will mean die. another kind of death, the life of a living dead.
it's a warrior life. fighting everyday against one's mind. against one's illusions.
trying to avoid traps, running, jumping...
everyday battles, some he looses and some he wins...
the body full of scars...
is there an end for this war?
is there peace somewhere that is not in death?
it's not dramatic:
kandido rises his eyes and see the beautiful house he lives in."look at this house, so beautiful, and i don't even be bother of paying the rent", "look at this woman love. i can have it without see it fading away."
he saw so much that sometimes i get scared. why all this beauty only for me? why i'm so lucky to live through all of this and see all this things... it's too much. it's too much for just me. why i cannot share all this greatness? why being happy alone? happiness is greater in sharing... sharing is love. life should be beautiful for everybody, not just me."
i hope when i'll die some of my smiles will keep on echoing in the world...making more and more people smile."
life like a clown. life like a vagabond. life like a warrior. life like a sadu. life like a gypsy.
"you are not made for marriage" a drunk woman told him in a bar "you are not made for a settled down life? the dragon looks for the heaven alone. alone." maybe. "maybe it's just words, maybe it's just superstitions." maybe.
impatience is a prison, the prison of looking for something in the near future... and don't see the now...
but when you are a vagabond, you live day by day, you live thanks to other, you see how small we are without others... how dependant we are from all the things around us... and you become humble, and thankful....
"cry and you'l cry alone, smile and you'll smile with others"
Monday, October 19, 2009
symphony of the deep sea
kandido is on the deck of the ferry that brings him back from okinawa to osaka.
the wind tickles his skin. the sun draws shiny spots on the blue sea.
and the vibration under the feet
and the rays coming out of the clouds
and the music on the ipod is playing an air of bach
and the taste of iron in the mouth.
and the smell of salt on the air
and every hair of his body shaking
and the wind playing with the water drawaing million of one second raibows
and some islands far away like a paper painting
and the pulsating noise of the engines
and his vein pulsating as well
some black clouds are running fast over his head, on a carpet of white distant clouds. dancing at the same rhythm of the music.
a white pencil keep on drawing in the sky magical figures of dragons, monsters in the eternal fight of the transformation.
kandido looks at the waves that the ferry draws, they keep on forming and destroying some roundish white foam shapes. and his mind flies to his father dead on a tropical sea. he faded away. this life is make of born and die. forming and reforming same shapes. he feels gratitude for that silent man that made of him a more free man.
kandido starts jumping and dancing. some punk tunes are playing
the sun is shining reddish now. and the wind more intense.
he spins crazily, open arm and playing with the wind.
kandido keeps on dancing, playing, flying for 3 hours till the sunset.
alone on the deck
the other passengers are locked in their cabins reading manga.
the black sea can be also scary to see sometimes...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
