Está tan bonita la sensación
que me da el viento cuando se mueve
entre mis cabellos, acariciándome
de manera tan erótica, tan eléctrica y suave
que nada más por eso me los dejo crecer
…y los tengo siempre bien limpios
esperando el beso del amado aire
que me acuerde de cuanto me amo
A new true story in english published on teatromagico.us:
READ -> The Day After Christmas 1998 (2011) <- READ
Our space pirates team on Orion, on the quest of the Oroin (ORO = GOLD) stolen from the humanity, after a long and difficult coming back from the inner core of the planet, hurt by the Machines’ Riot, finally found a way out to the surface: two twin caves.
Once in the open they found themselves on the top of an incredibly high mountain with an abysm in front of them: an impressive view of a complete world developing downstairs. So familiar.
Each one of the team realizes to be on the top of his own nose and that the planet in front is nothing else that his own body, a sort of a cosmic body, so huge to fill up the entire universe, that doesn’t exist out of it.
After a timeless meditation, they were attracted by some human voices coming from backward, where the nose/mountain slopes down more swiftly and so it would have been possible to walk down, just to find out a lot of euphoric barnacles flying around the forefront producing such a perfect imitation of the voices of the people more cherished by anyone of the pirates.
Our experienced team, more and more expert in the trick of the deep space dwellers, didn’t fall into the trap of running into the enemy occupied territory, and with the abysm in the back had no other way that re-enter the enormous nostrils caves.
After a very long half circle walk, they found refuge in a very ancient cave so welcoming warm homely and easy to be defended that they made base camp there to reorganize. Actually they sit inside the cave in a deep state of meditation in front of a very huge endless pillar of white light coming vertically from the deepness and going up….
acabandose el 2010 en la enferma obscuridad novembrina las facetas existenciales politicas me inspiraban exploraciónes de situaciones inquietantes: Ex-Amen
They take me to the court, handcuffed again together with Raju, the young Indian already sentenced for various murders, 14 years for each one of them, sentences run concurrently, so all together he may stay less than nine years in jail, if counting with the remission for good behaviour (i.e. spying on me and reporting that I was smuggling my personal doses inside through a kiss from Anita) while for two very small packets of drug I’m risking 10 years each, not concurrent no remission, so actually 20 years… more whatever fine the judge decides. The fine may amount to so much that you don’t have the money and so has to be paid with many more years of imprisonment; and in case you’ll get out alive and should be busted another time, the second one with drugs, you’ll be sentenced to death.
The security van arrives to take us to the city: some go to court others to the various hospitals. It arrives already with prisoners from Fort Aguada, another medieval Portuguese castle now used as a jail, bigger than Reis Magos (The Magi) in which I am detained.
Inside the van is always a party going on: meetings, laughing, greetings and all an exchanging of small many-folded letters to be stashed and consigned to the addressees by the secret prisoners’ postal service.
A big talking goes on during all the trip of an hour and so: the news, the very important jail news.
Only two western girls are detained: Icka, a beautiful German, and a very nice girl from Holland who tried suicide already four times, each one followed by half an year at least in the psychiatric criminal ward under heavy sedation, and then back to the jail with the case to be started again.
Icka and I are always managing to get appointments from doctors whenever the other one has to be brought to the court or to another doctor, so to meet in the van where we sit near and hug so long and sweetly, kiss, touch, talk so much, laugh, kiss again, and whisper about B plan.
Arrived at Panjim, the capital city, I am brought to the horrible cage of the Judicial lock up, that look less bad when you know you have to spend there only few hours. In these occasions I take my pill of valium. We are given tons of pills to keep us quiet, even very strong medicines, I actually don’t eat them, but instead of declining the treatment I’m collecting daily my doses and stash them, I have hundreds of them already, just in case: all the guards are my friends, and against any rule they are accepting the coffee and cigarettes I offer to them, and one day, if everything else go bad, I might fill up their cups and put them to sleep…
Anyway I eat 5 mg of valium whenever I have to meet the judge, once every so many weeks, the terrible Batta who against any expectation of a fair judgment continuously remind me that he will sentence me to 20 years… and it’s better that I shut up.
After sleeping the morning in my solitary, in the afternoon I’m brought to the court where I wait for my case to be discussed. When the judge Batta, black as his name, calls my case he waves a piece of paper saying he has received a letter from Mother Teresa of Calcutta, a letter about me. Mother Teresa is friend and collaborator of a clergyman very good friend of mine, the one who celebrated my marriage, and with whom I worked various years teaching yoga in his communities, and once I was the guide of a group of Italian Christian spiritual tourists in a trip he organized in India through holy shrines, ending in Mother Teresa’s monastery.
The judge shows the handwriting of Mother Teresa and reads it loudly: “Mr Judge, Anita is dying, please let Rodolfo free, other ways Parvati will be brought up as an orphan.”
The judge states very clearly: “Better orphan than with a father like this one.” handling the paper to his assistant who buries it in a big folder.
Valium and dignity forbid me to yell and cry… but my heart stops painfully… I can’t breath anymore, I am lost, without any ground under my feet only a white endless abysm that is not the afterworld but a cosmic psychiatric ward where you are always alone even in the midst of people.
Actually I was not thinking to get free today, this isn’t the problem now, what is throbbing my head are the words of Mother Teresa: Anita is dying! If she says so, it is true! No hope anymore! Doctors and relatives are nurturing us with illusions of cures and survival, but the words of the Saint cannot be challenged: in that very moment I know Anita will die soon, therefore I am more in the urge to reunite with her, who is in Italy, so far.
I spend the rest of the endless day crying in my confinement cell.
The only thought helping me is the acknowledgement that I was right when I resolved not to suicide during those long three nights when I got for the first time a shaving blade in the jail: three nights awake with the blade in the hand, a candle, and a big swollen jugular vein in my neck claiming for freedom.
Only me the candle the blade and the jugular in deep communication and meditation: three endless nights of extreme attraction for the sweet arms of Our Lady the Death.
In the end I resisted the call wondering that may be, even 20 years after, Parvati could be needing me.
For a while the story of the letter of Mother Teresa looks like working against me: it is used politically in the never ending conflict between the two halves of the Goan population, the Hindu and the Christian (Goa was a Portuguese colony for 600 years).The Hindu fundamentalism rises, screaming at the scandal: How does she dare to challenge our justice?
The next day the vice-director of the jail brings me the funny newspaper: covering nearly half of the front page, in the midst of incomprehensible Sanskrit characters, there is a caricature of mine! Yes doubtless is me that guy with long hair, bear and glasses, sitting at a coffee shop in front of a table literary covered with grass, cigarette papers, pipes, syringes, tablets of any type and size, drug-packets and so on… while I’m answering proudly to the policeman busting me: “Arrest me if you like so, however Mother Teresa will set me scot free!”
quando il gioco si fa duro
i duri iniziano a giocare:
clikka sul link per leggere il racconto mio vietato ai minori, e sconsigliato a stomaci deboli, che ho scritto il giorno dei Re Magi, e quel giorno non ero il solo a pensare a queste cose:
Wishing sincerely all my bests to the couple.
Video by Rodolfo de Matteis.
Music: A Brief Conversation Ending in Divorce, by David Sylvian.
cazzu piergió!
semu fattu just n’tempu st’estate a rencontrasse dopu de na vita!
e a passá nu par’e jurnate a casta a ‘mbriacasse senza mai durmí…
coju vinu biancu a culazzió… maé, è statu nu veru raffiatu!
… e affanculu ju mercatinu!
ci vulivi tu pe accordarme nu pezzu de mi vita ke chissà a ‘do cazzu stea!!!
…e a tutte ‘ste fidanzate ke te kiagnen:
Meju murí de pé ke viví ‘nginocchiu (Che Guevara)
Fire Fuego Foco Agni Tatewari
Flames Red yellow high living flames
Alive warmth, Light of my Life
Scrasch Hiss Strack You destroy me
Explosion Rage Destruction
Anger, Life doesn’t care about me about you
Atomic Volcano in my belly
Stinky sweat running hot under my arms
Fire Master, please destroy them, don’t look at me
with your Snake Eyes
with redcoal pupils
with your Balck Horns
Fire Flames Hissing Power
Change me forever
Burn my old body
vices addictions voracity
turn me to Ashes
bury them into the Earth
flow them freely into the Rivers of Life
of the Love I see in those weeping eyes of Hers
Ram Nam Satya hai
Ram Ram Ram
Blow me up, surfing your high Flames, Fire
Friend Love Hot Heart Fire
burning, hurting, blessing, forever change
Sparky Sparky Sparky
oh Wind blow this tiny Spark of me
high high high in the Sky as a
Star Seed
