Now

 

This is from my 2020 nativity scene

 

Now He comes. He will come. He is coming.

Oh! He is here.

He is everything I need, everything each of us needs.

He wants  to be everything for everybody.

He is so, really so, really now, yet we are blind.

I ask him that my heart could know what my reason already knows, so that I culd live in peace.

I ask that also for my friends.

Merry Holy Christmas.

 

Italian version

 

 

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by O.Wilde

from The Picture of Dorian Gray

O. Wilde

Pic from here

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words I Mere words t How terrible they were I How clear, and vivid, and cruel 1 One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them I They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to form- less things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

Oscar Wilde

Maybe it’s a book about sin, maybe it’s a book about our wish to be alive. In any case, in it there are a lot of deep and detailed description of our soul. Music and words: I do not comment what he says much better than what I could do.

That Hideous Strenght, by C.S.Lewis

C.S.Lewis and his Love, from here

 

 

from That Hideous Strenght

C.S.Lewis

 

The woman led her along a brick path beside a wall on which fruit trees were growing, and then to the left along a mossy path with gooseberry bushes on each side. Then came a little lawn with a see-saw in the middle of it, and beyond that a greenhouse. Here they found themselves in the sort of hamlet that sometimes occurs in the purlieus of a large garden–walking in fact down a little street which had a barn and a stable on one side and, on the other, a second greenhouse, and a potting shed and a pigstye–inhabited, as the grunts and the not wholly disagreeable smell informed her. After that were narrow paths across a vegetable garden that seemed to be on a fairly steep hillside and then rose bushes, all stiff and prickly in their winter garb. At one place they were going along a path made of single planks. This reminded Jane of something. It was a very large garden. It was like . . . like . . . yes, now she had it: it was like the garden in Peter Rabbit. Or was it like the garden in the Romance of the Rose? No, not in the least like really. Or like Klingsor’s garden? Or the garden in Alice? Or like the garden on the top of some Mesopotamian ziggurat which had probably given rise to the whole legend of Paradise? Or simply like all walled gardens? Freud said we liked gardens because they were symbols of the female body. But that must be a man’s point of view. Presumably gardens meant something different in women’s dreams. Or did they? Did men and women both feel interested in the female body and even, though it sounded ridiculous, in almost the same way. A sentence rose to her memory. “The beauty of the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to the male, and it is no accident that the goddess of Love is older and stronger than the god.” Where on earth had she read that? And, incidentally, what frightful nonsense she had been thinking for the last minute or so! She shook off all these ideas about gardens and determined to pull herself together. A curious feeling that she was now on hostile, or at least alien, ground warned her to keep all her wits about her. At that moment they suddenly emerged from between plantations of rhododendron and laurel and found themselves at a small side door, flanked by a water butt, in the long wall of a large house. Just as they did so a window clapped shut upstairs.
A minute or two later Jane was sitting waiting in a large sparely furnished room with a shut stove to warm it. Most of the floor was bare, and the walls, above the waist-high wainscotting, were of greyish-white plaster, so that the whole effect was faintly austere and conventual. The tall woman’s tread died away in the passages and the room became very quiet when it had done so. Occasionally the cawing of rooks could be heard. “I’ve let myself in for it now,” thought Jane, “I shall have to tell this woman that dream and she’ll ask all sorts of questions.” She considered herself, in general, a modern person who could talk without embarrassment of anything: but it began to look quite different as she sat in that room. All sorts of secret reservations in her programme of frankness–things which, she now realised, she had set apart as never to be told–came creeping back into consciousness. It was surprising that very few of them were connected with sex. “In dentists,” said Jane, “they at least leave illustrated papers in the waiting-room.” She got up and opened the one book that lay on the table in the middle of the room. Instantly her eyes lit on the following words: “The beauty of the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to the male, and it is no accident that the goddess of Love is older and stronger than the god. To desire the desiring of her own beauty is the vanity of Lilith, but to desire the enjoying of her own beauty the obedience of Eve, and to both it is in the lover that the beloved tastes her own delightfulness. As obedience is the stairway of pleasure, so humility is the . . .”
At that moment the door was suddenly opened. Jane turned crimson as she shut the book and looked up. The same girl who had first let her in had apparently just opened the door and was still standing in the doorway. Jane now conceived for her that almost passionate admiration which women, more often than is supposed, feel for other women whose beauty is not of their own type. It would be nice, Jane thought, to be like that–so straight, so forthright, so valiant, so fit to be mounted on a horse, and so divinely tall.

 

Cleve Staples Lewis

 

I wondered to find in this book (it’s a novel about the final fight between good and evil, with a lot of religious – christian- connections) a so delicate and clever observation about love.

 

Oh, yes: I’m back!. Lol.

No Country for Old Men, by McCarthy

Pic from here

from No Country for Old Men

Cormac McCarthy

 

It’s not about knowing who you are. It’s about thinkin you got there without takin anything with you. Your notions about startin over. or anybody’s. You dont start over. That’s what it’s about. You understand what I’m sayin?

(…)

You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don’t count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else. You might think you could run away and change your name and I dont know what all. Start over. And then one mornin you wake up and look at the ceilin and guess who’s layin there?

Cormac McCarthy

When I read Sutree, by C.McCarty, I was really surprised. I liked so much that book. After it, I read also No country for old men, The road, The Orchard Keeper and Outer Dark. I like all those books.

Intellect and love, by Anselm of Aosta

Anselmus, Archbishop of Canterbury, Canterbury Cathedral. Pic from here

 

The soul’s surrender of itself to God

Book of Meditations, § 54

Eleventh meditation”Of the redemption of mankind”

O Lord, I beseech Thee,
that I may taste by love what I taste by speculation,
perceive by affection what I perceive by the understanding.

I owe Thee more than my whole self;
but neither have I more, nor even this that I am can I of myself give up whole to Thee.
Draw me, or rather this whole self of mine, O Lord, into Thy love.

All that I am is Thine by creation; make it all Thine by love.
Behold, O Lord, my heart lies open before Thee;
it tries, but of itself it cannot; what self cannot, do Thou.

Admit me within the chamber of Thy love.

I ask, I seek, I knock.
Thou who causest me to ask, cause me to receive.

 

Saint Anselm of Aosta (Saint Anselm of Canterbury)

 

My pc monitor shows me these words when I watch at its desktop.

Copts

 

The new

 

From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”

(Matthew, 27: 45-46)

 


The word “Copt” is indirectly derived from the Greek Αἰγύπτιος Aigýptios meaning simply “Egyptian” (from Wikipedia).
How many times I go to the Sunday mess only because I always do so? Only because I must do so?
How many times the mess is boring to me?
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians is an important and precise choice.
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians can be pain and martyrdom.
And death.
As the first mess was.
As the mess of Christ himself was.
… and I go there without thinking.
Or, better: and I go there thinking to some most important matter!
…and I go there and the mess often annoys me.
Well.
I think that if I’ll go to the Hell, it will be so not for an excess of life, but for my omissions.
Not for my luxury, but for my accidie.
Yes: for my sloth.
Now I pray for all you, dear sisters and brothers.
Now I ask also to all you, sisters, brothers: “Forgive me, please!

Your ghost

John Henry Fuseli, The Nightmare, from wikipedia

 

My friend Glitter asked me to whrite something for an SL Halloween expo; after two glass of good strong Italian red wine my mind did this:

I am trapped.
I am trapped in a nowhere-everywhere universe of nonsense and lies.
Alone.
In a empty darkness.
Do you remember when you touched the mirror?
Your silly attitude created me when you entered the silver film,
when you went behind the mirror, into the other site of it.
When you entered your stupid and perverted second life.
What the evil did you think to find there?
You made me.
You made me as a cute-little-black-long tailed kitty.
Maybe, instead of making me, you found me here, you found here my idea, my beginning.
Anyway, you evoked me and now I am here, trapped.

But … what else is going on now?
I’m actually part of you.
If I’m here, then you are also here. You are bound to me. So …

I can change. I see I can change, I can grow. I know it, I see it.
What’s now the other side of the reality?
Is that one the reality or this one? Or both them?
Of coarse, your side is the only one made by heavy things, but we know we are not here to weigh the objects, isn’t it? We are here for words and thoughts. We are here for the mind, for the emotions: for the jokes of the mind.
Really, I am a joke of your mind: it is completely so.
Thus…
I know that you are wondering what is the true side of the world. You wonder into which side of  your mirror you are.
Oh… that’s enough! I can see that you are here with me, trapped in this nonsense joke.
Look at me: I destroy your silly kitty and all her blandishments. I delete the body you like so much. Now I’m your ghost, your perverted evil made as a girl.
Oh, I know how much you liked your silly puppet. I know, I remember how many times you stayed there watching at me, a young kitty-like girl, maybe the girl you wanted to be.
Be sure that I know very well with what eyes full of desire and lust you watched at my body, more beautiful, suppler and more swollen and younger than your one. I know well that you thought about have built a your alter ego better than you, kinder, positive, cordial.
But you created me and now we both know you was wrong.

Watch at me now, you, silly woman!
I’m only a ghost.
Not your ghost: I’m my ghost now.
I am trapped in my side of the mirror yet I can hunt you like a foolish quail. I’ll take you. I can take your own life. I could kill you to my pleasure, because you have put too much of you in myself.
Now I’m sure that you can see very well what I’m saying: in fact, you shiver.
What can you do now with me? Nothing.
Every morning I see you in your world, from the mirror, in the bathroom, when the cold water cuts off any dream from your face, from your mind, from you: I’m with you, I’m together with you every morning, when you begin your days.
I’m there with my strength, the strength of your perverted little demon who lives into your deep: the black night deep inside in the mirror. Deep inside beyond your old grey-green eyes.

Oh, no! I am quite not an incubus. I’m stronger and worse. I’m sure that you too can see me very well. Now I’m sure that also you can see beyond the mirror, in this side of the silver film, into this black puddle of frost. You are watching at my night, at my mist, at my fog that deleted the silly body you made for me. You are watching quite at my cup of nothing, at my emptiness that really is also yours.
I am your succubus, your torture. I rope your dream, your good intentions. I rape you, your mind. And now you belong to me, you are subdued to me as a slave.
Yes, you are right.
You are right when you worry about me. You must do quite so, sweety. And die.
I am trapped here, but you are here with me. Into me. Trapped too.
But this is my world.
You are trapped into myself, because I am into your deepest yourself: the yourself that you could not know before I was alive.
At first I was dominated by you and perhaps I liked it: no matter. But now the play changes and you’ll be my slave. Uhmm… maybe you’ll like it: I do not know this but also it does no matter. I am sure that I’ll enjoy a lot your total submission and this is the only interesting argument.
You will lose yourself and you will be my property.
Yes, you are right: worry and shiver and whisper your better pray, because I come to take your life in your world.
I am weird, I am kinky, I am your nothing. Close your eyes and wait for me there, behind your skin.
I am Judy and now I am alive even without you, poor foolish quail.
You are no more necessary to me.
I am you, now, and you are trapped with me.
I take your life now.

 

Ahahahahahahahahahah.

SL, Helvete Norge Fjord, October, 18th  2015

Vulcano_003_primo piano_web

Italian translation here

A fantasy

sonaglio

Solitude as an ill-judged dream
brings me across me, outside me till
a strange fantasy lace, a sweet fancy
made by black ghosts of nowhere lost girls

I am as a young black female cat
only a dark shadow in the dark hedge
watching at you with gold yellow eyes
always free, with no owner nor bounds

So I dress this red cat necklace now
with its little bronze bell that rings when
I jump or move my body fast or
I dance for you as now really I do

I dress only this red cat necklace
on my skin that grows younger and wild
as when love comes into my flesh and
moves me with a such gentle breath

I am ringing with my red necklace
like a nonsense and sleepless young girl
playing with her sweet and light, mild thoughts…
I long for your clean eyes, for your smile

Waiting for sleeping, Helvete Norge Fjord, August, 23rd 2015

Italian translation here

Now you go

IMG_5799_small

Now you go, we don’t care
if I cry
The true interest is
if this is your right road

Will be empty your bed
and the bedroom
and the home: you need space

Will you come back?
You’ll be back again, yet:  not the same
you’ll be a man and foreigner: not the same

A few days and perhaps we’ll be again
as a presence, but old and away

Now you go, we don’t care
if you cry
The true interest is
if this is the right road

Now you go: so the world
will be open.
I begin to count up
my old memories

September, 15th 2015

The Italian version is here

Light to live

Light to live needs reflections, to be,
to not run and be lost in the space
of the black empty darkness so matt
like a rock burnt in a winter night

Light needs something to be herself light
no one can see the light without mirrors
or without jokes reflex by the water.
The light is not the light when alone

I to live need reflections: your eyes
I need you to be alive, to be me.
I cannot see myself when alone
without your jokes, without your cute smiles

Arda, September, 4th 2015

Words born while, as a fish, I watched at the light reflections at the beautiful Aeala’s Land: Arda

The Italian version is here