danny

The highest good is like water.
Water give life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.
It flows in places men reject and so is like the Tao.

In dwelling, be close to the land.
In meditation, go deep in the heart.
In dealing with others, be gentle and kind.
In speech, be true.
In ruling, be just.
In daily life, be competent.
In action, be aware of the time and the season.

No fight: No blame.

— Eight – Tao Te King

thanks. you are an angel to me. you’re uplifting and consoling and cheering and sublime. you really sweep me off my feet. your voice soothes me, makes me feel like everything was right. your giggles give me hope. and your glimpses are a promise of wellbeing and joy
 

i’d say: happiness doesn’t write of itself. is like photography, for me.

there is one way to take a picture, and it is, proverbially, “being outside”: you can only photograph what you’re not part of.

happiness does not photograph itself because it draws you in. sadness, loneliness, despair, in its displacement, opens a keen eye, and camera in hand, we start shooting.

in every picture there are two things present: a memorable moment, and the absence of it. and the longing, in a way.

i’m driven here by desire, as many times before, as ever i might argue if you courage a debate.

why? it would be the first question. why, i will respond the first.

simple: it is nothing but desire that draws us to what we want, and nothing but despair, came from betray or not, that draws us back to reason. but reason cannot come alive from despair, hence prose has to mediate. it is this prose, the manifest of lost paradise that has driven bards, for centuries, into prose and rhyme, as there are two things unavoidable in life: the centripetal love and the centrifugal despair.

and it is the centrifugue forces that push me into the written word, once and again, as the soul would not find rest until the brain does not open the valve of words, and anathema as it might be, saying what is not to be but has been will open, again and for a brief moment, the doors of heaven for someone that, might or might not, deserve it.

as i believe heaven was once mine, for a brief moment, i cross those doors again, pain in hand and heart left behind…

i saw you today, in an old picture from when we were in italy, and i suddenly understand some things i couldn’t before.

you’re a little beautiful cloud that hovered in my once clear blue sky. you passed, showed yourself in such a marvellous way i couldn’t but dip myself, until it was your time to disappear… and i tried to catch you… like you try to catch a little beautiful cloud… in one impossible way, so i had to let you go, with some pain in my heart…

now i see you again as you are, in the eye of my most cherished memories, and i cherish them the more.

hope you’re having a beautiful trip wherever you are and wherever you wonder these days, my little beautiful cloud.

i am, i do like a little boy. i just want you to look at me.

i jump, i raise my voice, i run in front of you, i laugh loud and cross the hall a million times, i just want you to look at me. i’ll say anything, i say things that call your attention. i look for one thing to comment to you, something clever and witty and fun, just to catch your attention, to surprise you, to impress you, to make you look at me. i come up with things, i exaggerate, i read and write, i search and research, i pretend i know, i never lie, for you to want to look at me. i lose hours, now and then, minute by minute, turning slightly, to see if you’re there, if you’re looking at me. and if i glimpse at you and you are, if i see you and you’re looking at me, if my eyes meet your eyes, then i’ll be happy, so happy.

it is that simple to make me happy. like a little boy.

i turn, i see her. i turn back, in shame and sadness. it is almost a tick.

there’s something going on, and i even prefer not to even think what’s it all about. we talked about it, but it was a rather sincere talk, and now sincerity obstruct the way, the way that anyway does not exist.

however, it is too late. my mind is already bewitched, possessed. it wonders and wanders every nth minute, about her, about her. i lost to my mind, she has control, absolute control, and roams through every idea, every possibility, every instant. but it is not only my mind that has been conquered. it is also my speech, which has been down and out, lost in countless unsaid words every minute i just cannot talk to her. cause i just cannot talk to her anymore. don’t ask me why, it is so.

i start to know what being a puppet might taste like. the threads pull me forth and back, thrusting me into every imaginable situation of not being myself, and every embarrasment, every cowardness, every muteness.

i just can sit, sigh, and watch the decline, the pomp and the shame of me.

you walk, you walk along a road in the cold, still winter air. you get to a corner, you turn left and continue walking. you see shops and bars, one hairdresser, many streetlights aligned and all yellow, like caution.

you watch a cross-path and follow a man in a trench coat. you know you must turn in the next corner but you don’t really know where you are. you cross another street and then she’s there. there all over the place, for a second. she disappears. you keep walking, noticing a new smell in the air, one that is not dampened by the chill and the mist. you see a bookstore and it reminds you of a book you bought there once. alone? with her, you know. you walk away and continue towards a small passage and then a tunnel and to a high street with all its buses and taxis. you cross it frantically as the cars that bewilder you. you arrive to a small corner and a small restaurant, one that she once showed to you. you keep walking.

amid the streets and corners there’s one that is familiar enough and you walk towards it. upon arrival you see a bike locked at the corner pole, a bike with familiar colours, a bike you have known and you still do, her bike. her door. her canal in front of her building on her street in her borough. her smell and her hairstyle, her hands and her smell, her kisses and her embrace and her skin and her bed and her. her silent dismissal, her leaving you alone. her lost.

you keep walking down the road, looking at the corners and the walls and the lights looking for a familiar one. you keep walking away from something, perhaps her. suddenly but softly you’re back to yourself. you realise you know a shorter path towards your destination, and you cross left, wondering down the road, in a peculiarly fast pace…

“me veras volar por la ciudad de la furia”
— Soda Stereo

hoy vuelvo de la ciudad y me recuesto en mi cama, abatido y sumiso, exprimido de casi cualquier pretexto, de cualquier pasión o deseo.

hoy siento que la ciudad me ha quitado el hálito, me ha desvestido de toda intención y me ha empujado a un vacío de ansiedades y compromisos.

he vertido mis mejores dias en obras estériles, con la firme intención de hacerme valioso. he descontado días y horas en el tumulto de proyectos y empeños uno tras el otro, sin clemencia y sin salida, solo el hacer para ver hecho. mis metas desde el principio fueron claras, mas erradas en el creer que me portaban hacia mi deseo, cuando era mi deseo mismo el que se alejaba de mi, transmutado en alegoría de ambición.

he creído mi alma inmune al fuego, en mas de una ocasión, solo para luego encontrarla chamuscada y olorosa a ceniza. he pensado dar de comer a los unicornios solo para encontrar que eran cuervos los que picaban en mis generosos manjares. he creído amar cuando lo único que he hecho es ultrajar y desenvainar futiles corajes e insulsas, insípidas bravatas.

he faltado al honor y a la razón, a la cordura y a la dedicación, la fiel disciplina del diario quehacer, de la humilde, laboriosa construcción. he dado aquello que creí lo mejor de mi, solo para hoy ver que he perdido el paraíso en la soberbia del querer gobernarlo,y he caído desde la nube, rojo y en cóleras, gritando, lento y mancillado, hacia mi infierno.

mañana, con calma y con tesón, me levantaré, me sacudiré las ligeras llamas y el hedor de azufre, y, como siempre, como cada vez, intentaré hacer lo que solo un hombre puede hacer: redimirse.

e’ bello, ma fa un po’ paura—dissi lui—che la citta’ diventi piu’ bella solo perche si sa che essa nasconde quella persona che vuoi trovare. la citta’ subito diventa il laberinto, e lei, senza volere proprio, il grande tesoro.

ma adesso mi spiego—continuai—perche forse non si puo’ capire solo da questo che dico. lei, nascosta dentro la citta’, automaticamente si rende piu’ amabile. essa, la citta’, solo nel nacondere lei, si rende piu’ amabile. entrambe, nel continuo giocare insieme, si prendono il nostro cuore. non si sa dove comincia il trucco, ma almeno, si sa dove finisce.

come l’amore, finira’ nel amare stesso, e poi nella dolce memoria dell’aver amato.