Eve dream. Chapter two. Halved – part one


Picture by Beth Hokhmah, found here

Eve dream first episode (Lilith part one)

Previous episode (Lilith part four)

2 Halved – part one

Everything came back to her memory with such vivid colour and such meticulous detail that the hypothesis of having been prey to a dream – or a terrifying nightmare – was not likely.

Nevertheless, it seemed paradoxical and impossible that it really happened as she remembered.

Did what she kept in such a richly detailed memory, therefore, really happen or was it carried out within the limits of a delirium, when heat and sleep and tiredness made her unconscious?

She analysed again what appeared to be the facts.

As much as she found herself alone now and how what happened appeared to be far-fetched and absurd, her Shadow had detached from her or, rather, had gone out of her. Coming from a remote and unknown recess of her deep self, for some incomprehensible and unknown reason, her Shadow had emerged into the light of day, had taken on its own shape and flesh and movements, rising to a life of its own, and had enjoyed her.

Eve now saw clearly that the dream had such real features that it really could not be merely relegated to the dream range; she ran her red tongue over her lips and she felt that they were still impregnated with the aroma of the fruit and that they retained – or seemed to retain – even traces of another aroma, the aroma of the other one.

She looked down at her chest and thought she saw some small yellow or black scales on it, but they quickly dissolved and dripped to the ground.

A phrase, still whispered by that voice which had however become low and hoarse, persistently overflowed in her mind, as though it wanted to trap her: “Why are you thinking about a nightmare? At night we do not have our own self, or, better: it is as if we did not own it. During the night, when we lose any control, we are not only one woman, but many women… during the night we are lost in our bright and inner splendour, which the light and the normality of the day reject. At night we are what we really are, free from any constriction and pleonastic components. The night we can really be what we are, which is not only light but also darkness. At night we can pretend to be and to dare everything. At night we have the true knowledge of good and evil, because we can look at them both, without trembling. The Shadow is part of you and there is nothing wrong with knowing it, admitting it, allowing it to be. To truly be yourself and not just a part of who you are meant to be, you need to welcome your dark side. You have to let her out, giving her your body. She must emerge from you so that you can truly express yourself and express your gifts, your beauty, your desire for love, your ability to give love.”

She was bewitched and at the same time terrified by that phrase, which seemed to be injected into her mind by others and certainly not by the Creator. She thought back to the Serpent, she saw him again. She almost seemed to touch him and she felt him cold, slimy, deadly. She shivered. She knew that in that sentence and in that presumed better awareness there was something out of tune, something wrong. Something perverse and hopelessly bad.

Finally, she recognized in those words the spell and the evil power of the Enemy and then her self-awareness became more strong-willed: she raised her arms to the blue sky, screaming desperately: No!

She had been duped.

She had certainly been duped.

Once again, the Enemy had imposed on sentient creatures, on herself, his own will and his own vision of the universe, weaving a plot of falsehood so captivating as to deceive, convince and pervert the Woman, dragging her into another life, into a second life, that is into a different and weird yet possible life; however, doing thus, he contradicted the reality or, better, he defined a new reality where he promised to the Woman emancipation from all obligations and laws. By designing, building and proposing an alternative reality made solely by right to pleasure, to powerful self-realization, to absolute freedom.

Yes: he promised the knowledge of good and evil.

The possibility to choose always and in any case, in spite of every possible link.

In spite of Love.

In spite of the truth.

She thought she heard that recommendation, that one recommendation with which the Creator placed the Woman and the Man in the garden, in the magnificent core of Eden: “Do not delude yourselves that you know Good and Evil according to yourselves, because otherwise your weakness it will lose you and you will become slaves of yourselves and your desires, losing your peace and hastening your death. In fact, you are not at the centre of the Uni-verse, whose everything points to Me and only to Me, the One who did it. Therefore, do not feed on the fruits of that tree, which also exists, because you would not be able to bear the consequences. That tree and its fruits are necessary to allow your freedom. But trust in Me, entrust Me, trust in My Love. In any case, whatever you do, I will respect your choice and your freedom, because I wanted you and I love you”.



(to be continued)


Rain on the windows


max richterMax Richter – On The Nature Of Daylight.


Some years ago I discovered the world of the chats and I found some friends; one of them, that I named Annapiccola (little Annie), made me love the adagio from the Piano Concerto in G by Maurice Ravel: so I wrote this stuff.

Some days ago, another web friend, Janus Fall, asked me to listen to Max Richter’s On The Nature Of Daylight. This music made me remember Ravel’s one and Annapiccola.  


Rusty dripping
grimly oozes
using spun around sad thoughts
vitreous bedroom

A recursive trimming now
contracts into
cold tears that
only other one recalls

trails of boredom trace so much
a stagnate sad motif …

It doesn’t change, it doesn’t move,
obsessively tags itself.

It survives.


Translated on August, 27th 2022


Italian (original) version

A knot (to Eucie)


She, Judy, that place, that day

Light and air made you as a cute sylph,
golden matter and diaphanous too
warmth to hug to not sense to be alone.
Trying to love sometimes seems to hug ghosts

There’s a knot between right and left side
There’s a knot bounding your light thin silk
There’s a knot hiding shy female things
where your body becomes left or right

Into a knot there are sweet secret things
that knot makes walk and dream my poor mind
so I feel weak and silly my heart.
There’s a knot before intimacy

I need places to rest, putting face
in safe soft friendly warm alive place
as a child, as a pet looking for
a nice and pleasant shelter to sleep

I perceive a knot into my flesh
rooted there, where I need love and breaths,
a knot rooted so much into me
to force my soul to think sinful thoughts

I’ve a knot deeply into my deep
I see a knot hiding shivers of love
I’m a knot between heaven and hells
Solve that knot, let me walk on safe ways

Light and air made you as a cute sylph,
gentle matter and diaphanous too
warmth to hug to not sense to be alone.
Dreaming love sometimes is as hug ghosts

SL, Elven Forest, May, 13th 2022

Rain. A tribute to Terrygold by Kristine Blackadder

Rain by Terrygold. Machinima

I already told you here something about this Terry’s beautiful and moving work.

There, I already tried to say something about a so nice Kristine’s machinima about “Rain”, the last art installation built shared by Terrygold into Second Life.
Well, this beautiful friend, Kristine, was not satisfied by her machinima, and felt her need to make more and better: thus, another video was born: “Rain by Terrygold”.
These so dear and clever two friends, Kristine and Terry, go on to grow better and better as artists.

This time Kristine gives space and dignity to the words used by Terry in her work. Kristine makes a beautiful machinima where Terry’s words are in great evidence, while into the original art installation our eyes and our minds are so captured by pics and landscapes that words are subordinate and for instance I self really did not give them their real importance and beauty.
The translation into English from the original Italian text was made by another dear friend, Annalisa Mulialina, while a fourth friend, Shyla, enhanced those words with her so pleasant voice.

Four clever and gentle and dear friend, four women from both the sides of Atlantic Ocean made this wonderful work.

I enjoy their work so much; I enjoy more and more their friendship with Judy.

This machinima was accepted into that so great SL event that is FantasyFaire 2022: it will be presented during the event scheduled on Saturday, April 30th, as showed below here.

Rain FF schedule

And this is the event SLURL

Sangu miu (My blood)

sangu miu

As I told in my main Italian blog, Terry built a very interesting and moving art installation in Second Life: Rain. It is dedicated to her mom and shows us something about Terry’s memories and thoughts about her and her death.
If you are interested to know more about Rain, see this post by Inara Pey. Here I underline only that a previous Terry’s similar work, Empty chairs, started considering the death of Terry’s dad yet after it went on applying feelings and extending considerations, emotions and sensations more widely, on the theme of the absence itself.

Well… another dear friend, Kristine Blackadder, liked Rain so much that she shot one of her beautiful machinimas in the garden made by Terry, after it was modified: also Kristine’s work shares her feelings about the absence theme.

This machinima is much more complex than it seems. It is beautiful, up to make shiver.
Kristine perverted the white or coloured Terry’s flowers to crimson, blood ones, and turns on herself in a tiny space drawn by a column of light. Nothing around it.
She shook up those pale yet somehow gentle flowers made by Terry, those flowers that after their so pale and cold beginning in Terry’s work get beautiful colours, as hopes have. Here those flowers are too much big, too much red, too much upsetting.
Here those flowers aren’t a landscape but only a narrow scene in which Kristine and only Kristine dances her pain. She’s alone, even without memories: that’s the absence.
This is a strong and hard reflection about herself, filled with that obsessive crimson: blood and rose, rose petals becoming blood, her bloodlike coloured dress (she always is black dressed in her machinimas) and those so upsetting blood flowers. There’s a bad red scar on her face.
Terry with her work told us something about her blood: her mother. Kristine keeps her eyes on her pain due to the absence, as a monster detail and everything becomes a real blood flow.
If you pay attention, at time 2:47, there is a voice citation from Mulholland Drive, where the anchor-man (a terrifying one) on the stage of a theatre says “It is an illusion”. Of course, this consideration could change definitively the meaning of the whole machinima, as to say “Well, I’m only joking”. Really, in my opinion, it is not so: Kristine tells us that also pain can be something like play, acting, a recital: in such cases we live in a so little and perverted space and we can only feel pain.

Yes: this is pain. Yet, please, we must not be defined only by it.

Another prompt: if that absence were truly absence of sense for our way, work, moving, living?

February, 5th 2022


Eucie, by Armadir

Eucie, in a photo by Armadir Woodelf.

Gorgeous girl as a fresh spring pure breeze
near me dances and bounces so that
I’m upset, I am puzzled, aroused
as a morning ground waiting for rain

You are a sylph made with gentle sweet breath
nature’s strength, pure essence yet a woman
please embrace me, hug me as a cloud
so I’ll be less dark and sad, heavy, bad

Wrap your skin around me, feel my one
do protect my soul from nasty thoughts
see how much I need sweet honey things,
see how much I am only desire.

Then my reason gets control again
and I feel myself silly, dumb, poor
as if I hadn’t seen my soul safe.
Thank you sweet gorgeous girl, anyway

SL, Elven Forest, January, 27th 2022

Terry’s Empty chairs

Terry empty chairs Cover

My friend Terry made into Second Life this art installation, where as usual she is her model. It moved me, especially for the sweet sadness and the melancholy of all the installation, that looks at something no more (or not yet?) there.

After I wrote my text, I knew that Terry dedicated her installation to her dad.

(to Terry with affection)

White smooth skin, baked clay,                    1 Terry empty chairs Terry
modest and statuesque, you wear
only crimson nail polish.
A mask always occludes your mouth

No words and no caresses,
no kiss can warm your lips
sealed in stunned stasis.
Each thing is only silence of absence

You’re alone, wandering empty rooms,
with no friends, mates, companions around.
Antique pink on the walls contrasts with
your so pale, delicate, marble flower

2 Terry empty chairs Frames

Black frames say deep dark space:
they tell it as thick, worrying
empty sockets that lost any memories
about who lived there, into their picture

3 Terry empty chairs Garden

You do live a green dream, colours and
gentle birds hovering in the air
like a breeze thickening nice presences,
chirps that are given to joyful love

4 Terry empty chairs prospects 3

Then a spectrum of empty prospects,
lifeless too, follows the garden where
there are colours and light and birds, joy:
follows it, closes it with stress, anguish

Benches sit down inside a dark park
and so many chairs stacked or spread
through the empty night streets, waiting for,
without one who enjoys or lives them

5 Terry empty chairs Vespa

Like those chairs, an alone empty Vespa.
You watch it, maybe thinking of someone
dead, not here, maybe a friend that taught you
to fish,
when you were only a child

A strange feeling makes turgid my breasts
as I look at your so gorgeous body
I’m lame and very small and I feel
your skin close to me and it’s ice cold

SL, Osta Nimosa, August, 24th 2021

Italian version

Rag doll


It’s a machinima by Kristine.

My friend Aola showed me a poetry she wrote about Second Life Rag dolls; it was really impressive for me, so that I asked her permission to stole and corrupt her nice work; after it, Kristine remembered me her short video… Then I wrote this post.

As a rag doll I go
across my second life,
a soft puppet made with threadbare rags
an old stuff built with pieces of cloth

If I’m here
that’s because life broke me like it did
to you too

I’ve my Love and my faith
I am blessed and lucky and I …
I was lucky till now … and thus why
do I need something else?

As rag dolls all we go
across each life we have,
like soft weak, fragile puppet that are
really unable to stand up alone

We are here
because we look for what
each of us cannot gain without help…
What is it? Our way, our peace.
Our sense


SL, Elven Forest, April, 1st 2021


Passage of opportunity

Passage of opportunity, by Solfrid

My friend Lanora let me find her paintings. I am really not into not figurative art, yet some of her works are really moving and full of colours. This is one of them. Thank you, Lanora.


There’s a bridge, somewhere, there in the sky.
When I’m happy and life is my friend
I can see it, bright red. It’s my way:
it’s a clear path and leads to your eyes

Someone says it’s a nonsense, weird bridge
that connects no land to nowhere place
because it seems to fly in the air
with no ground where it rises alone

There’s a bridge. It’s somewhere in the sky.
When I’m sad in a foggy grey world
I can imagine it, even when
I close my eyes I know it’s just there

Someone says it’s a coloured dream
and no more: silly, senseless and without purpose …
I know it exists so that my heart
may come to your one and to your God

So you painted that bridge, in the sky.
It’s my own and it’s there, as warm sign
into cold light blue tones. Yellow splash
like sun forces us to watch up, up to Heaven

February, 11th 2021

Today (May, 7th 2021) I updated my stuff above according to my dear friend Leda suggestions



When I feel myself as a black witch
your warm skin is my usual night wish
making my body crazy and your lips
warm and sweet eat my flesh so I twitch

I’m full often of dirty night wish
when dark cloud ends so fast every day
covering hopes and too dreams and I’m selfish
like a baby child that needs to play

Black and angry like that so bad bitch
that scared Dante and tried to him slay,
my lust grows as alone and weird birch
to whip my weak soul dreams while I liey

Without hide every worry and grief
I lie down on my bed, I’m a wait.
You are what I need on this poor Earth,
you are my only beautiful
                                           night wish

SL, Galadriel Mirror,
January, 20th 2019-October,10th 2020