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SOAP BUBBLES OVER


Ode to the life of Pablo Neruda

He or she who becomes the slave of,
repeating every day the same itineraries, who does not change the brand,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
does not talk to those who do not know.

He or she who makes of television his guru.
He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white, dotting the "i"
rather than a set of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes sparkle,
that turn a yawn a smile, those
that make the heart beat before error and feelings.

Slowly dies who does not overthrow the table
who is unhappy at work, who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to chase a dream, who would not allow, at least once in their lives, die
sensible advice.

He or she who does not travel, does not read,
who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself.
Dies slowly he who destroys self-esteem, who does not accept
help. Dies slowly he who passes his days complaining
of his bad luck or the incessant rain.

Dies slowly he who abandons a project before starting it,
who does not ask questions on subjects he does not know who
non risponde quando gli chiedono qualcosa che conosce.

Evitiamo la morte a piccole dosi, ricordando sempre che essere vivo
richiede uno sforzo di gran lunga maggiore del semplice fatto di
respirare. Soltanto l’ardente pazienza porterà al raggiungimento
di una splendida felicità.



Tanto tempo fa lessi questa poesia su di un giornale, chissà perché ne strappai la pagina. Da quel giorno la porto sempre con me, forse a ricordarmi di non morire, forse a sbandierami il fatto di esserlo ormai da tempo.. ma chi può dirsi vivo oggi? Nell’era del già detto o fatto, mi chiedo se ci sia ancora spazio per il delirio.
Io sono morta da tempo.

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Foto quartiere Brancaccio, Palermo

Oltre questa cortina di ferro, oltre gli schemi, le rappresentazioni, oltre questa barriera che separa il questo dall’altro. Sapere andare oltre, sguardi diversi per rendere la contemporaneità, al diavolo gli equilibri, le categorie, le etichette; scoprire l’altro, osservarlo, provare a raccontarlo con occhi che sono i tuoi, con modalità che ti son proprie, tu e l’altro.. tu e lui solamente, per un incontro in cui non c’è più spazio per i “se” e i “non-detto”.
Sguardi multipli per una realtà che diventa la tua, cadono gli schemi, cadono le categorie, cade la realtà oggettiva: decostruire per ri-creare, de-scrivere per re-inventare.. fosse così semplice.

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Delusions of a student: NON-PLACES

Mesi fa partecipai ad una conferenza di Marc Augé, etnologo e antropologo francese, directeur d’études all’Ecole des Hautes Etudes di Parigi. Partiamo dal presupposto che non ho mai letto nulla di quest’uomo, mai visto né conosciuto prima d’allora.. e allora, perché andare ad una sua conferenza, vi starete chiedendo?
La risposta è una sola: curiosità! e una buona dose di sadismo, ovviamente!
Mi incuriosiva questa concetto: NON-LUOGO. Come può un luogo non essere considered as such? In my mind began to emerge of the questions, first of all, the place owes its existence to what? Top
hypothetical responses: a place that is based on his being in space and time.
Another question: What 's that Augé calls non-places?

The first thing that struck me was his man to be alone in the crowd. He was there, the room was packed, the Faculty of Architecture, PhD in urban planning, students. He watched as if watching from the outside, as if everything that surrounded him did not touch him ..
take place, typically in Retrofile are those who prefer, after a brief Augé began his presentation speech. What is plain is an anthropologist, he has a tendency to bring everything from the particular concepts and much larger. Start talking about cities of center / periphery and here, in the midst of discussion, begins to emerge that the concept of no-place. It seems that he does not define these places of identity and no report so far nothing unusual, at least until the concept is repeatedly approached that of the suburbs.
As the representations that I have of these places are linked to nostalgic cliche, I could not understand how one could define without identity. In his words
was explicitly that 'image in the suburbs as non-city as a space of alienation, exclusion, deviance, places where you pass coming and going from the center .. until my attention falls to a single concept: "frustration", used as an adjective and associated Augé by the same young people who live in the suburbs, called "frustrated" because of their feeling excluded from the thing that is usually called CENTER . How long is it true his words honestly can not say, who knows maybe I fall into the category .. one thing then I would like, look up the definition in the dictionary:

agg: frustrated, disappointed, thwarted.
in psychoanalysis: a) a person who suffers from frustration; b) pulse, trendy impeded in its manifestation. Replace
: frustration, the mood of those who feel that all his work has been or would be in vain, in psychoanalysis, psychological situation that the subject feels a sense of limitation and obstacle to the free expression of his personality.

- Check again the notes of that day -

"there is no identity without alterity, no identity without report"

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Performances

The ego, the city .. a whole emotional geography. Here, an attempt to give an image of a country following the motion of the inner emotions through landscapes ..

Esco lust. I walk

pei terraced sound of the night.
I have no remorse and anxiety.
are just immensely comfortable.

Yet something has changed in me, something
out of me.

I think that the city is made immensely vast and empty, a city of stone

no clothes, where the need
only lead wagons and sounds the hours. In these ways
symmetric and deserted houses
these suits are similar.
participate in their indifference,
their immobility.

I think of being dull and opaque like them,
of being made of stone like them.
that my father and la mia sorella sono
lontani, come morti da tanti anni,
come sepolti già nella memoria.
Il nome dell'amico è un nome vano.
Tra me e loro s'è interposto il mio
peccato come immobile macigno.
E se sapessi che il mio padre è morto,
al qual pensando mi piangeva il cuore
di essere lontano ora che i giorni
della vita comune son contati,
se mi dicesser che il mio padre è morto,
sento bene che adesso non potrei
piangere.
Son come posto fuori della vita,
una macchina io stesso che obbedisce,
come il carro e la strada necessario.
Ma non riesco a dolermene.
Cammino
pei lastrici sonori nella notte.

Camillo Sbarbaro