CASALE – On the occasion of 25 Aprilthe day on which the anniversary of the Liberation of Italywe receive and publish the Monferrato’s reflection in full Max Biglia.
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Open your eyes, stay beside me on this journey and let me go back for a moment to the days of fantasy, when my grandmother would fix her apron, sit down and point to the stars and tell me about her life, her nostalgia, her desires, about the war and the his labors. He told of the most beautiful day, that April 25th.
My every vein was and is a vessel of love. So I disappear and return to my limbs and those of those who recognize me as crazy or with a certain resentment would like me to be trained in a rude and illusory system, while I feel recklessly ambitious, parodic, sometimes poignant and, an imperfect little man.
Today I would also like to tell you about it my typical daythat I write with colored pencils, that in my old new jacket I have a modest restlessness and, as long as I am allowed to, the pleasure of observing the seasons, the gestures of the hands, Matilde and the wonder of when it rains, to give up the perfection.
And again, a warm, human embrace, a blank sheet of paper to write and this recreation to announce that as “last citizen I am the best”, an exercise that is very fashionable. In short, one of you, with the usual rhetoric. Certainly useful, like bringing a “people’s representative” with a gun to a party.
Do you want to not fire a few shots and then blame others? This is contemporary art. The theme of this one civil suffering it is not only a question of justice but an aesthetic question.
The daily “Parliament”.
It is not the philosophy of Henri-Louis Bergson, but the true daily “Parliament”. which is based in hospitals, in schools, among families and the vulnerable, in prisons, in museums, in the countryside, among people who are truly committed, where to understand, one must have lived these experiences.
Places I have entered and enter to understand eiEncounter the beauty of Politicsthe way and science of power with the people and in the people, a useful process for becoming a person and not just a chosen one.
The reading of a present time in which we should really listen to everyonesay enough to the prophecies, to the holy men sick of “egopathy”to dreamlike answers and pay more attention to what should be the right questions, with due decency.
I am practicing with the topic of care, but I still don’t have great certainties on the matter. An antidote that makes you immune and more aware of the dominant virtual ephemerality that exists narcotizing our feminine partour intellect, some right, our presence.
I would say that the right time has come stop delegating, so as to distance ourselves from the most limited, mediocre and simplifying politics. A spectacle for the fans. The figure of the politician cannot be reduced to tons of photographic self-portraits where a dictatorship of current events and images dominates, transforming ordinary things into extraordinary things, “truths far from reality” just as a citizen cannot be reduced to someone who puts a cross on the ballot or, worse, doesn’t give a damn.
An abuse of the image compared to the meaning of the word. The images that circulate, spread and convince us online but not only, are images that put the lowest impulses into circulation and represent the good and interests of the few to the detriment of the many.
What makes us men is the curiosity of knowledge, culture, true respect for the rules, dignity, the value of establishing limits to be together in a credible, civil, peaceful coexistence.
The border
The borderor the difference, it is between civilization and barbarismwonderful ways that require a high sense of responsibility.
So my grandmother admonished me: “every gesture we make is political, open your eyes, stand by me”. I disappear and return from my limbs and from this “truly” which has the taste and the efforts of the “truly”, a protection of goods where it is possible to cultivate a time of justice; no conquests, no defenses, no astonishing promises.
It is the poetic dimension of Carver: “for a while we go nowhere, then we go”. It is the capacity for doubt and the meaning of words, without ever ignoring this dark cable that surrounds it and the glitters of good proselytism.
It is an exhortation to a more thoughtful action, fair, to the creation of less shouted, personal, and more collective destinies where possible thoughts and dreams can be sown. Really possible. It is the strength of memory that fills, it is the reference of this disordered present.
It’s really time for one inner consciousness which organizes itself to close the most cloying cracks with the audacity to bring inequalities, songs, books, fragilities, work, even people back to the center.
There is a reason not to go against someone, not to be indifferent, to show off, just as there is a sense to move together against the inconsistency of a deep dark hollow of words, proclaimed but failed objectivities or, unspoken issues, as happens between the king and the servants, where superficially, everything seems wonderful, heroic, erotic.
Thus, by moving with cautious awareness, one can discover one’s anthropic root where the form, even if imperfect, still knows how to prefer the place of its flowering.
The earth is made of colors and, when possible, choices; choose to do something good, try, not with the impertinence of maintaining a continuous, presumptuous prayer but with the awareness of “how and then”, without asking for fame but with the confidence of a gust of wind that disturbs, the air of home that recombines to which to look with responsibility, optimism, creativity and recklessness.
A place where we can save something, we have to destroy something and then rebuild it, but we have the duty to protect something else, far from this noise, from ugly hearts and shame, because life is truly unpredictable as are the waves and the weather.
I conclude this “really” of mine with a gust of hope and, before it’s later, I open my eyes keeping in mind the hardships, the severe look and the clean girlish face of my grandmother, the who knows about the grandfather who wasn’t savedor but he is here with his step, on this free April 25thconfident and a little less stupid, in these caresses of love and tasks, for you, in the folds of the world to practice this “maybe someone tomorrow” so as not to be idiots and slaves.
