Le rime martellanti in à sottolineano la fermezza del proposito, che non ho capito bene in cosa consiste. Comunque è un buon testo. Troppo concettoso, forse. E anche Complesso. Troppe rifrazioni.

Rileggo.
Hai scritto di molto meglio, lasciatelo dire.
Per la poesia ci vuole tempo. Tempo e dedizione. Come per la parmigiana.

OT
Dopo la regata, dopo l'inaugurazione della mostra del cinema, quali altre ricorrenze ti impediranno di prendere in mano il telefono?
... Ce ne sarebbe un'altra.

altro OT
I turisti mi stanno sulle palle, da sempre.

turistipercasa.

I don’t know what I am but I want to be what you think I am.
(Naima2)

The tale beyond this sentence.


Now she looks like a woman in her mid-forties. But if you look better you can still see the hungry little thing that she is and has been all her life.
The true story is that since the birth of self-awareness she's looking for the true self of herself, because inside her she feels just a kind of desolate silence. Silence, nothingness.
She has got an extraordinary sense of objectiveness, though, a kind of estrangement to this helpless feeling of infinite emptiness.
She is to herself a kind of “aleph”, a being who doesn't feel at all the burden of a cumbersome sense of identity, a hidden place for the hunt.
Body and mind, the ones she happens to have, don't belong to her more than the fanciful clothes she usually wears. She doesn't know much about the world around but, from her very first explorations of human nature, she understands that people are so stupid that she can have all they have by her means of managing their deep feelings. Moreover, during an early session of behaviourist training for successful swindlers that she happens to attend, she probably conceives the idea that one can use any any any means to get what he wants (needs) from others.
Things as guilt, ethics, or nemesis, or hindsight, or even human destiny, simply don't exist. Not to speak of the few apparently sacred “items” that one happens to perceive in the fleeting strain of human existence. They are (and I agree) pure illusion.
Pure creations of the human mind. For the sake of her struggle for life, just means of manipulation, weapons of which she can immediately understand the power.

She feels she's intelligent, she's got a superior mind, that’s all.

The point is, of course, that she fails to know, if not the basics, the most crucial part of the tons of production of the human mind about those topics. Not to mention the ones where some of the "unbearable secrets" are almost unveiled. Almost, for the sake of the infinite thousands of sides of the so called truth.
So, as it is, her point of view about life is decidedly fascinating.
Empty and free, like a bird, like a hen, like a kite...
When she's alone, she tells herself a special fairy tale, a tale made of thousands of bits, all the glittering collection of a life as a magpie.

In fact she spends her time getting someone else's money, living in someone's else's house, writing someone's verses, thinking someone's thoughts, drinking someone's wine and, of course sleeping with someone's lover. Focusing attention on it, this behaviour looks like that of someone who cannot really relay on his own criteria of evaluation. Something is worth only if someone else has, in a way or another, previously demonstrated some kind of appreciation of it.
Nothingness inside. Desolate emptiness.
But one day, trying her best to writhe from a very difficult situation, she does something more.
Thrilled by a little, very tiny, inner vibration (maybe of alarm) nonetheless she takes, she steals, something that since the most ancient taboos is considered very radioactive, dangerously radioactive....



“Col tempo ti rassegnerai all'idea che sei una donna dolce e sensibile, maria leonora. O te ne sei già convinta e il cane che ti manca è una metafora? Vuoi dire che ti manca l'altra te stessa, quella rabbiosa e dispettosa?
Sento che ti stai strofinando su ruvide pietre per liberarti della vecchia spoglia, adorabile serpe.”

(with special thanks to Giovanni Monasteri)

Nothingness inside outcomes in a kind of blindness to reality. Sentimental love, an embarrassingly primitive yearning, remains the only feeling perceived and it stands like a feeble signal of a never born identity.
I don’t know what I am but I want to be what you think I am.

The end

Oh, mi ha rubbatto persino il nome, e vollette che stto tranqquilla?
Io quella....la sfascio, tanto è scema.
Be' ho un nome altro. Inventato. Ero geniale, all'epoca.

O.K.
Cinque anni di pilates per sviluppare il culo.
Guarda, lascia perdere. Nemmeno ti immagini come sarà il mondo fra cinque anni.

swiushhh di una coda.
Love.

Ciao chi sssssssssssssssssei?

Too Late.

Sorry, that's life.

1.500 storie.
Lei copia incolla la storia del culo perchè è convinta che stia parlando di lei.

Lui copia e incolla perchè STA parlando di lei.

Soreta copia incolla perchè fondamentalmente è d'accordo con me.


L'unico dato obiettivo, certo, è il culo. Ti ricordi?

e' o non è quella specie di frittata dentro i pantaloni da giaguaro?

Sì.
Be'...allora. Questo è l'unico dato.

E' una frittata dentro i pantaloni da giaguaro. Sì, perfettamente, confermo.
(Uno di passaggio)

Non è una cosa gradevole tornare in casa propria o trovarci, ogni volta, uno sconosciuto esagitato che parla da solo, o non si capisce con chi e di che.
Non vorrei apparire scortese, ma sono costretta a filtrare i commenti.