Monthly Archives: February 2013
Per favore non votatelo. Tra oggi e domani fate quello che volete, meno una cosa: votare Berlusconi.
A quest’uomo non importa nulla di Voi, dell’Italia, dei Vostri Figli, delle Vostre Pensioni, di quei Quattro Soldi che faticosamente avete messo da parte. A quest’uomo non importa delle Donne, dell’Economia, dell’Europa, del Rispetto Internazionale, di una Ripresa economica seria.
Come potete votare un uomo di 78 anni che si comporta da buffone, che va in giro con ragazze che potrebbero essere sue bis-nipoti, che ha subito centinaia di processi e altri seri ne ha in corso. Che ha il volto sfatto e rifatto, che e’ volgare, che mente su tutto e tutti. Un magliaro che ha fatto la sua fortuna grazie a intrighi con banche sul finire degli anni sessanta, con la massoneria negli anni settanta, con la politica corrotta degli anni ottanta, con il delirio degli Italiani negli anni novanta e con l’assenza di cultura politica del duemila. Come potete votare un uomo che mente così’ spudoratamente su cose che se eletto, non riuscirà’ mai a fare; come cancellare le tasse, creare quattro milioni di posti lavoro, l’azzeramento del finanziamento pubblico ai partiti, tagli per sedici miliardi di Euro per le spese di Stato, niente patrimoniale e nessun aumento dell’Iva e via dicendo.
Aveva gia’ promesso queste cose negli anni passati: nel duemila promise di eliminare le tasse ai poveri. Mai fatto. Nel 2004 stessa promessa non mantenuta, e così’ nel 2005 e 2006 e financo nel 2010.
Berlusconi non e’ un caimano, e’ peggio, molto peggio. E’un cancro per l’Italia e per l’Europa. Vuole ( considerati i suoi guai giudiziari) e deve essere eletto. E’ l’unico motivo per cui continua a candidarsi, per continuare a stare a galla, per non affondare.
Odia tutto quello che non fa parte delle sue bugie e del suo delirio e che non riesce a comprare, a ricattare oppure a corrompere. Anche il mercato finanziario (che dovrebbe invece essergli alleato essendo lui un super-capitalista), lo disprezza. Da anni ormai appena corre voce che Berlusconi vuole candidarsi , si candida o addirittura vince le elezioni i mercati vanno a picco e non solo quelli Italiani.
Continua a non rendersi conto che il Comunismo e’ finito da un quarto di secolo. Che le donne non sono solo puttane da fottere. Che l’Economia e’ una cosa seria. Che la crisi mondiale del 2008 ha significato il fallimento di quelle allucinanti teorie economiche che lui cerca di scimmiottare e mi riferisco al super liberalismo finanziario degli economisti della Scuola dell’Università’ di Chicago.
Berlusconi e’ la Peste Nera della politica e della finanza europea e italiana.
Tra oggi e domani fate quello che volete. Bevete vino. Fatevi una canna, andate a Messa.
Ma non votatelo.
(This is my first attempt to literary glory at age 16. I just translated in English. I hope you will enjoy it).
The Man Dog.
After his wife died Gipo was alone. But it wasn’t until after the funeral that he was able to embrace solitude. During those first unreal days he had, for the first time in his life, felt truly important. All his friends (few) and relatives (too many) were trying to outdo each other in the attention and consolation they gave him.
It was a few days before the gravesite would be ready so that the heavy mahogany casket was placed in its final waiting room at the cemetery that Gipo went through a liberating experience. In that surreal room, were tears flowed and took with them the pain of regret, of love, where his feelings traversed the entire rainbow of sentiments from hypocrisy to desperation, Gipo was sure that his life would change. But he had not idea how much.
During the burial everyone was mute. Gipo thought they must have run out of ideas and words to consol him. Good!
The eulogy was finally coming to an end. Soon the curtain would drop, the actors take their final bows and leave him in peace. He was glad.
The last few moments at his doorway were the worst. He couldn’t get rid of them. The last advice, phony entreaties to be called at any time, for any reasons…and finally the door closed on the people of his former life.
Gipo was about to start his new life. Alone. Free.
He leaned with his back against the door and gazed down the long corridor of his apartment. A few moments passed. Gipo stood quite still; he didn’t know what to do. Sure, everyone had promised to call on him, but he knew they wouldn’t. Even when his wife was alive they rarely received visitors or invitations, nor did they go visiting or extend invitations. This wouldn’t change. Not now.
Finally he moved away from the door. He walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. He decided to have an espresso. He fussed with the coffee pot for a bit, got the stove lit after two or three matches, sat down, stared fixedly at the apparatus and patiently waited.
The neon lighting (which his wife had had installed for reasons of economy) cast a disconcerting glow in the room. He hated that light, it was like if he was still at the morgue. Gipo gave a sudden start as the coffee pot began to rumble like a thunderstorm heard in a distance, signaling that it was ready. He inhaled deeply as he poured the ebony liquid into a small cup. The aroma and taste of coffee were two things he couldn’t resist.
Gipo noticed that strangely enough, he wasn’t thinking much about his wife and her loss didn’t cause him any grief at all. Instead he thought of how he wouldn’t have to suffer her reprimands, her sarcasm and her constant gossip on any and every subject anymore. He felt almost happy. It had been a long time since Gipo had felt anything like happy. And maybe best of all Gipo wouldn’t have to put up with the vast array of wheezing, rasping, rattling and other noises she made every night. It seemed that in whatever position she slept, indecent sounds were emitted through every orifice of her body.
Finishing his coffee, Gipo lit a cigarette. With joy he thought how he could now smoke what, when and how he wanted. And if the curtains stank of tobacco, well: he didn’t care. With the last puff on his smoke Gipo admitted that he was happy his wife was gone. He was a widower. “A happy one” he confessed to himself surprisingly without guilt.
He put on his cap and went out.
Of all months, November was somehow the saddest. It wasn’t cold but the damp air made him shiver just the same. He adjusted his scarf and then remembered it had been a gift from his wife. He tore it off and tossed into a trashcan.
He felt warmer.
He walked slowly, watching with childlike wonder the mist formed by the contact of his breath with the humid nocturnal air. The long boulevard was deserted. The naked trees stood like giant prisoners with their feet chained to the earth. The pavement was wet and sticky despite the lack of rain and the white light of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate and win against the dim evening. Occasionally a car raced down the street, came down to the corner going too fast and managed to stop only with a squealing of brakes and frantic downshifting.
Gipo looked at the piles of garbage overflowing from the too few containers on the roadside. He thought that even if his city was one of the most beautiful in the world, it certainly wasn’t one of the cleanest. A bunch of cats were intent on the feast in the pile of rubbish. When they heard Gipo’s steps they turned to look. Like two tiny green lights their eyes were focused on the walking man for an instant. Then they turned back to the business at hand.
At the end of the road Gipo saw a light. It was an all-night coffee bar. Going in, he asked for a coffee. Lazily, the man at the bar fiddled with the machine, slid a cup under the spout and waited. Gipo looked around. It was a dark and squalid place. He drank the coffee, which was horrible, asked for a glass of water to wash the taste from his mouth, paid and left.
A big dog was standing just outside the door. It seemed to have been waiting. It stared at him. Gipo always liked dogs very much. But his wife had never allowed one. “They are SOO dirty!” she would wine in her nervous and acidic voice. Well, now that she was gone, he was the master of the house and if he wanted a dog, who was going to stop him?
He stretched out his hand and caressed it on its head. The dog was docile and let him do it.
So Gipo’s solitude only lasted a short time. Now he had a friend. Didn’t they always say that a dog was man’s best friend? They became virtually inseparable, and Rey (the name Gipo gave him) was an exceptional dog; he never barked, never got in Gipo’s way. Didn’t make the apartment dirty. In short, he had all the qualities that a man could hope to find in a dog. At the same time Gipo had all the positive traits a dog could wish for in a man; he was a good man, never demanding, gave him plenty of food, was punctual in talking him for walks. You know how it is… certain beings seem to be made for each other. With the passage of time the man and the animal grew even closer. Gipo could speak for hours to Rey; Rey always listened.
But one day something extraordinary happened.
Gipo was in the armchair, watching TV. Rey lay at his feet, dozing placidly like only dogs can do it. Then, as he often did, Gipo began to talk to his dog.
“…You see Rey, if you could speak, you’d be perfect, not like my wife who could speak but had none of your good qualities. I sure was lucky to find you that night…”
“…I was lucky too, to find you, Gipo…”
For a moment Gipo felt he had followed his wife to the otherworld. Where did that voice come from? Dogs don’t talk!
“…don’t flip out old friend, it is really me, your dog Rey that’s speaking to you; you see, you humans have always thought that we dogs can’t talk, but you’ve always been wrong…”
“…But…but…dogs bark…” Gipo murmured in a trembling voice
“…It’s you humans that say we bark and you speak but from our point of view, we speak and you bark…”
Gipo couldn’t accept what he was hearing. “…I must have had too much to drink or I am going crazy…or maybe…I am just dreaming…Yes, that’s got too be it. It’s a nightmare…”
“…Nightmare or not dear Gipo, it’s true that I am talking to you and you are listening to me. You are not the only one. It happens from time to time…”
“…What happens?…” asked Gipo.
“…Well, have you ever seen a dog that remind you of someone you once knew?…”
“…You see…those aren’t actually dogs…they are mandogs…”
“…Mandogs! What does that mean?…” demanded Gipo, beginning to panic about what was happening.
“…it means that certain men, like you for example, that are particularly good to dogs can, in turn, become dogs, but can still talk to human if they want to help them become other mandogs too…”
“…You mean you were once a man…?”
“…Exactly…I was an accountant in a small village. I was alone. The society of men had cast me out, or at least I was never considered by other people but amongst the dogs I am an important fellow, and above all I am not judged…”
“…Oh, my God…”
“…Now Gipo do you want to become a mandog? You will never be alone. There’ll always be somebody to help you, either a dog or a man. We dogs always help each other and we sometimes find help from a human…”
Gipo made no response. He let out a whistle and fell back into the armchair.
Outside, the rain was gently knocking at the window. Sad, lonely drops, begging for help.
A long time passed and Gipo wasn’t seen. One day a niece of his wife’s was out for a stroll with her husband and she pointed out a stray dog to him.
“…Doesn’t that dog look like the husband of my dear departed aunt, God bless her?…”
“…What?…” he replied “…But yes, I guess it’s true. Funny, but out of all men he could look like it would be that half-wit uncle of yours…”
“…He’s not my uncle anymore! Who knows what has happened to him…living just like a dog…”
“…Just like a human…” thought the dog as he turned and trotted off down the street.
“…The only thing I miss is coffee and cigarettes…”
“…at the intersection near Saint-Eustache, the opening to the Rue Rambuteau was blocked by a barricade of orange pumpkins in two rows, sprawling at their ease and swelling out their bellies. Here and there gleamed the varnished golden brown of a basket of onions, the blood-red of a heap of tomatoes, the soft yellow of a display of cucumbers, and the deep mauve of aubergines; while large black radish, laid down in funereal carpets, formed dark patches in the brilliance of the early morning…”
This beautiful passage was written by Emile Zola in his La Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris). An immensely descriptive, humorous and exciting novel, it is the third of his twenty-volume series of Les Rougon-Maquart novels; still little known in this country.
La Ventre de Paris captures the essence of Le Forum des Halles: the central gathering place and traditional market integral to the lives of Parisians for 800 years.
In 1971 the food stalls of Les Halles were removed. Intricate glass and metal sculptures were built-in their place, which though controversial, create the strong impression that you are standing in a former open-air market -and it is today every bit as colorful and chaotic as it was in Zola’s day.
I love this bustling nucleus of Paris: its noise and confusion; the filthy, arrogant pigeons that march around us as if they own the place (which of course they do in their little bird brains). I am fond of the restaurants where I spent innumerable hours in (in another life and many years ago) like La Poule au Pot and Au Pied de Cochon, which is open 24 hours.
Here, at the tip of Rue Montorgueil, in the midst of the bailemme that is Les Halles sits Saint Eustache church, a masterpiece of late Gothic architecture. Designed by Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, the construction was lengthy (1532-1637). During that period the gothic style fell out of fashion in favor of renaissance, which explains why a gothic church features unexpected renaissance details. It has a ground-plan analogous to that of Notre Dame with a nave of five bays and a choir aisle with 24 chapels. The high cupola reaches a height of 190 feet.
So, I was in Paris -breathing in the city rather than exploring her, and casually I strolled inside Saint Eustache. It was the first time in almost 20 years that I ventured within its sacred walls. No, I did not take a trip down memory lane. I just admired my surrounding silently. Saint Eustache has not changed much.
The beautiful stained glass windows, which were created by Antoine Soulignac, and likely modeled after drawings by Philippe de Champaigne were still there. Intact and with the perfect radiance of a minor masterpiece.
The pipe organ, containing 8,000 pipes, is the largest in France. It was silent during my visit, but it is a sleeping giant capable of producing some of the world’s perfect music.
And of course I admired the paintings by Santi di Tito, fellow renaissance brethren to Piero della Francesca (and fellow citizen) and Rubens.
The church was mainly empty. A couple of tourists were looking around with tired faces and uninspired expressions. The silence was covering the gorgeous interior like a warm blanket. A beautiful woman with striking red hair was admiring the expansive interior, walking slowly, her figure occasionally obscured by the shadow created by the game of light.
I sat in a chair, thinking of the young Louis XIV taking his first Communion here. In my mind I saw the Cardinal Richelieu and Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson (the future madame de Pompadour) being baptized, and I saw the distressed face of Mozart at the funeral of his mother. I also saw the happy expression of Moliere getting married to Armande Claire Bejarde. I thought of all of them, all of the events that have happened here at Saint Eustache.
One thing has become clear since my last visit. Saint Eustache requires a great deal of love and attention. Centuries of smoke from the candles have left a dirty gray coat on the walls; the marble pillars are chipped in many places; chairs are scattered around like fallen leaves. Many of the 24 chapels are as unkempt as the hair of a rock star.
Saint Eustache parish hosts numerous activities, and touches the lives of many in the phantasmagorical surrounding that is Les Halles. Music, both sacred and contemporary can be heard here regularly, and the rotations of expositions and events make Saint Eustache as busy as an American airport on Thanksgiving. Social justice and community outreach also play a fundamental role in the life of the parish; and the Center Cerise, a cultural hub for artists and arts group (some well-known) is housed here.
Sancerre is a great white wine. Produced in the easter region of the Loire Valley, it is a semi-dry variety that comes from Sauvignon-Blanc grapes. In my opinion it is also a perfect aperitif. It is what I was drinking in the evening after my visit to Saint Eustache, sitting at a cafe’ across from the church and the Rue Montorgueil. As I was sipping that flawless, cold Sancerre, I thought about the universal value of art and architecture. Of how sacred places of worship are fundamental pieces of the community everywhere, and beautiful architecture is the mirror of an intense community life.
Yes, indeed universal.
Just like those pigeons that were lazily moving about outside Saint Eustache.
Alle 6:48 di stamattina ora di Chicago un amico mi ha inviato un messaggio al cellulare: “…The Pope Abdicated…”.
Chiaramente ho pensato ad uno scherzo. Ho lasciato passare alcuni minuti e da altri amici che vivono nella parte del mondo dove il giorno era ormai bene avanzato ho continuato a ricever più’ o meno la stessa notizia. A quel punto avevo già letto da più’ parti la notizia storica che Benedetto XVI abdichera’ e non sara’ dunque Pontefice dopo il 28 Febbraio.
Non siamo abituati a vedere troppo spesso la storia in divenire di fronte ai nostri occhi. A volte scambiamo piccoli eventi, come l’elezione di un presidente o la morte di un beniamino della società come un fatto storico. Ma di solito essi non lo sono. Sono invece dei semplici eventi di piccole comparse che sfumeranno presto nella nebbia del tempo.
Io credo che con l’abdicazione del suo ruolo petrino Benedetto XVI e’ passato alla Storia. Quella con la S maiuscola. Quella che si studia a scuola e che e’ in fondo troppo grande da comprendere appieno e immediatamente. E’ stato un buon Papa? Io credo di si. Tutto sommato dignitoso in questi tempi così’ complessi. Sicuramente molto piu’ coraggioso di altri che hanno riempito la cultura popolare.
“Basta, non ne posso piu’ ” a un certo punto si sara’ detto. Il peso dell’eta’ lo ha raggiunto diventando anche piu’ forte di tradizioni millenarie, di potere teocratico e assoluto. Questo non e’ stato un Papa eroico e popolare come il suo precedessore eppure nel suo gesto umano di abbandono, di stanchezza, di paura, di ineluttabilità’ della fine egli si e’ rivelato forse piu’ vicino di tutti a quel Cristo che impaurito nel Getsemani ha implorato Dio di liberarlo dalla fine sulla Croce.
Forse stanotte Joseph Ratzinger si e’ addormentato più’ serenamente.
Un uomo a quasi 87 anni in fondo, se lo merita.
In fondo Silvio Berlusconi fa il suo mestiere. Che e’ poi quello di pensare agli affari suoi. Non certo a quelli dell’Italia. Per lui, in fondo questa deve essere solo un’espressione geografica come disse una volta Klemens von Metternich riferendosi alla lunga appendice a sud dell’Austria. O forse, adesso che ci penso per Silvio Berlusconi l’Italia e’ solo un’espressione bancaria-finanziaria. Insomma una miniera d’oro (per lui solo).
E’ dagli anni sessanta che il nostro piccolo corsaro di Arcore che indossa le scarpe con i tacchi vende fumo e provoca danni usando strane alleanze. Vedi massoneria alla matriciana e socialismo rampante della Milano da Bere (o ingurgitare). Attuando un sistematico lavaggio del cervello agli Italiani secondo solo a quello dell’estinto Kim-Jong Il. Senza naturalmente tralasciare i suoi grandi successi amorosi con giovani pulzelle innamorate della sua evidente bellezza virile. Egli, L’Unto ha portato la scienza della politica a livelli dei vari Platone, Hobbes, Popper o che so io, Rawls (leggete della sua Teoria della Giustizia). Noi Italiani ci dobbiamo sentire fortunati di avere nel nostro paese un genio del suo calibro.
Egli solca i mari della nostra esistenza e ci difende sia dai mostri comunisti sia dai bruti in toga che si nascondono nell’ombra dei palazzi di giustizia.
Eppure nonostante i miei sforzi (di cui avete appena letto) quando lo vedo parlare mi sembra che egli dica quello che Alberto Sordi vestito da Marchese del Grillo nel film omonimo disse ai poveri che lo circondavano: “Io so io, e voi nun sete un cazzo”
E’ tornato e nemmeno tanto all’improvviso.
Il Terrorista e’ ritornato sulla scena da qualche settimana e già’ i danni che ha provocato stanno squassando l’Europa. Lo spread e’ aumentato. I mercati europei hanno subito perdite importanti. Tutto questo perché il Terrorista e’ sceso in campo ancora.
Il Terrorista mette paura. Ha orecchie enormi, Luciferine. Guardatelo bene, fate attenzione. Ha il viso levigato dalla chirurgia plastica e i pochi capelli che gli rimangono sono attaccati al cranio tristi e stanchi, come lo dovrebbero essere in molti mentre lo ascoltano ancora promettere l’impossibile. La bocca e’ enorme. Mostruosa, atteggiata ora in un ghigno satanico, ora in una smorfia capricciosa. Il Terrorista si batte perche’ sia eletto ancora. Ancora una volta così che possa far danni ancora peggiori non solo all’Italia ma anche all’Europa stessa. Il Terrorista non si cura del resto del paese. Della vergogna e imbarazzo che provoca a tutti gli Italiani perbene.
Lui parla parla parla. Il Terrorista parla sempre, e’ in fondo una delle sue tattiche: riempirti di parole, anche senza senso purché’ il suo rumore copra la tua civiltà’. Spero solo che gli Italiani almeno questa volta siano stanchi di lui e comprendano il danno che eleggere Berlusconi farà’ non solo all’Italia ma anche all’Europa.
Il Terrorista, tale Silvio Berlusconi, non può essere eletto, per il semplice fatto che la sua elezione porterà il paese in una situazione forse senza ritorno. Non e’ possibile che tutti gli osservatori politici e finanziari del mondo si sbaglino. Non e’ più’ il momento di scherzare, questo non e’ più’ un fatto di costume semplicemente dell’Italia, paese di mignotte e Arlecchini, bensì’ e’ un problema di tutti.
Non fidatevi mai del Terrorista.
Di voi, a lui non interessa assolutamente nulla.