Tuesday, 23 July 2013

I volti della World Ligue, Mar del Plata 2013 (Лица Всемирного Лига, 2013)

Ivan Zaytsev, Spoleto, 2 ottobre 1988  -  Евгений Сивожелез6 августа 1986Чайковский, РСФСР 

Thursday, 13 June 2013

ISS: Italian Style Suicides

What's wrong with them? I mean, what's in the mind of those people, who are constantly striving to find the best way to annoy their neighbor, while still sitting on their thousands Euros/month chair in the Italian parliament?
June the 1st, June the 7th, June the 12th ... More and more often in Milan a citizen chooses to kill himself jumping under a subway’s train.
Who cares?
I'm speechless
I'm afraid
And if I look ahead, I can not see any light yet, and I think we are all tired.

Monday, 3 June 2013

Italian Breakfast for Mr Goose

Fleeting breakfast. Just a coffee. An Italian one. Is there anything more fleeting than an Italian coffee? Two sips - finished.
Good morning Sir, the waiter asks, what would you like to drink?
Coffee, please.
Italian coffee?
Ah-ah, nods he.
Ah-ah, the waiter nods too, scrawling in the order ticket. Anything else?
His big, goose beak-shaped nose swings – No, thanks.
The waiter takes away the menu.
Bring me a prune, please!
A prune?
Yes, please.
A prune for this fun gentleman, he writes again. 
This time the big nose sways like a vessel in the open sea, at the mercy of the waves, but still confident that all will be ok. 
He remarks: yes, thank you.
Suddenly a doubt comes. And if it’s too much? 
In fact, he knows he's drinking at least three coffees more, later in the morning.
Nooo, com’on, don’t think like that!, he ponders, looking up and smiling to the sunny air.
The waiter walks away, but does not take his eyes off.
A prune, tst!
The goose beak-nose follows him from afar to check the way he places the tray on the counter, and then how he goes with nimble steps from the counter to the young couple sitting at the table inside, next to the toilet’s door.
The goose beak-nose still amuses thinking that probably they will ask for a cup of tea, and a toilette detergent flavored tea will be soon served, but then he’s almost touched by the scene of the tired waiter forcing himself to smile courteously, indeed. He wears too flat, black shoes. The end of the day promises a pitiless backaches and a white dusty pair of shoes.
He can read some words on waiter’s lips: Good-mor-ning. How-can-I-help-you?
The sweethearts shake their heads: Uhm... Please, give us some minutes more!
They smile back to the waiter, like saying: sorry we were too busy with snuggling.
Sure, I leave you the list.
Oh, thank you.
So, he runs back to the counter. Smoke rises from under the white foam of a beige colored cappuccino, just like from under the black & red volcano’s lava. It trembles softly on the saucer while he moves it from the counter to the tray to start his tour again .
Unexpectedly, he yawns while turning on his flat heels.
Boredom? Fatigue?
Both fleeting sensations, anyway - just the time of a yawn, Mr Goose's thinking when...
Just the time of an occlusion behind his goose beak-nose, under his toungue, a minimal stenosis, better to say a fleeting stenosis, indeed, and Mr. Goose’s world gets half milk-white colored; the remaining half is stained with some dark-red and pasty substance.
Italian coffee is ready!, someone shouts from behind the counter.
The waiter look out of the corner of his eye for Mr Goose seated at the table outside, and focuses on his frozen, empty smile. It seems he’s winking, but lid does not lift up yet. That one eye stays closed and the arm dangles at his side, and a transparent line of saliva stretches from the corner of his mouth down to the chin.
Sir?, the waiter calls him, but Mr Goose can’t say a word.

Friday, 17 May 2013

The Birthday Creation


Thirty-six whispering years. 

They lock the past's door behind me, whilst the 37th year pickaxes the wall in front of me, starts breaking through it to get me going beyond.

The light surrounding me in the 37th year does not change.

What I realized is that the birthday was almost certainly invented by a person in love to celebrate the existence of his beloved one: it was a mother, may be, or a wife, or a husband, it could even be a unrequited lover.

Of course, the birthday is not the product of the mind of a child, who'd be too young to spontaneously associate the one he loves to the exact date on which this very One made his first appearance on earth. 
Also, the birthday is certainly not the product of an adult, because the more you grow up the less you want to celebrate your advancement towards your Finish Line - especially when you feel you took part in a race you're unsatisfied with.

The birthday can be just the product of a third person's mind, someone who loves you to the extent of celebrating your existence.

I'm lucky because many people are willing to celebrate me today.

I'm lucky because their happiness coincides with the celebration of the international day against homophobia, which seems to give a deeper meaning to this 5.17, and which means anything to other people.

I am very lucky because if I were a stupid man, today I could even afford the luxury to consider myself hapless. And I'm very happy for not being stupid.

Friday, 10 May 2013

My childish desk

My teacher was used to say that history is never based on If or But... but I think that it's in human nature to think on the basis of those two prepositions. In case of romantic entanglements, especially.

How many times in our lives do we ask ourselves: What if?
And then how many times are we able to give a firm answer to this question, without considering any alternative to the very first come to our mind (this is the But, indeed)?

Just a couple of months ago, I've questioned myself about my past:

And if I'd not dismissed Susy, if I'd resisted, if I'd hold on?
I couldn't, actually. This is why I treated her like that, just because I could not do differently.

All these questions have come to me after our last phone call.
She has called me as I was falling asleep and pretending to read in my childish bedroom, at mum's house, during my eastern holidays.
She always calls me around midnight, when I'm slipping in Orfeo's territory, and this is why she keeps being a blur memory to me, a vague dream (last time I saw her was 2005).

You never want to talk to me. You've changed so much since we broke up, she has blamed me listening to my drowsy voice.
It's not true. I'd like to have a conversation with you like the old days, but I can't if you keep calling in the middle of the night...
It's midnight, Madi! Did you really become that old?!

I've hoisted myself to get sited. I've glanced at the notice-board where there's... there still was the photo of the two of us - young, embraced and smiling, our faces too full of white light. It's one of those photos taken in the automatic photo booth on subway platforms, which all teenagers in love have in their wallet.

Are you there? You want me to let you sleep?
I'm sorry. Yes... No, I'm listening.
Well, because I have great news for you.
I'm getting married in August.
I said: I'm getting married.
Yes, I've heard you.
Don't you say anything?
Are you pregnant?
No, I'm not. Even if my parents would love it.

So I've began to stare at the photo. I've slowly got up, pacing to the cork notice-board.

I'm happy for you, I've said, but probably I was lying because I was also angry with her.

I've picked off our photo.
And what if... What if I'd kept my promise and I'd married her in 2003?
I've shook my head.
I was jealous, but why? She was not mine anymore. I'm 35 and I'm gay now, I've thought.

I miss her. I miss our happy days. I miss her body. I even miss making love with her.
I miss all those things now, may be just because I'm sure I'll never get them back.

My teacher was right. Life is not made by If and But.
This is why I've dropped the photo in the If and But drawer of my childish desk. Everyone needs a drawer like that, I suppose.

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

La Russia e i suoi nuovi (non solo sex) symbols

Ricordo la prima volta che andai in Russia con i miei compagni di studio: 5 ragazze e 2 ragazzi di cui 1 gay. Io e quell'etero simpaticone dormivamo insieme in camera, in un appartamentino nei pressi della fermata Baltiskaja, a san Pietropurgo.

Il giorno della partenza per tornare in Italia, all'aeroporto di Pulkovo eravamo tutti in apprensione perché era avanzata un po' di marjuana e, siccome non c'era stata alcuna intenzione di abbandonarla lì, una ragazza del gruppo aveva deciso di sfidare i cani poliziotto schierati in dogana e di riportarsela in Italia.

Caspita! Non siamo riusciti a trovare un uomo russo che fosse  figo, almeno questa me la tengo!, disse piccata. E in effetti, di cosiddetti bonazzi neanche l'ombra. Sarà stato il freddo? Chissà, però nel nostro immaginario la Russia sarebbe rimasta la maggiore produttrice di figa, ma in quanto a uomini proprio zero!

Fatto sta che, prima di metterci in fila, la nostra amica si è accorta di non avere con sé il passaporto.
E dove minchia l'hai messo?
E che ne so? Sarà in valigia con la marja!
Hai lasciato la marjuana in valigia?, le chiese la ragazza cui poi rimasi più legato negli anni a venire.
E che, mica potevo mettermela nelle mutande!
Ma le valigie ormai saranno a bordo e... se devi prendere il passaporto sicura che la polizia ne approfitta e te la perquisisce da cima a fondo..., notai da brava mammoletta che ero. No-no, aggiunsi, bisogna fare qualcosa!
Ma non feci in tempo a dirlo che l'impavida era già sparita in una porticina adiacente al nastro trasportatore che aveva inghiottito i nostri bagagli perché fossero imbarcati. Vi ricordo che all'epoca Pulkovo era disseminato di militari mitra-al-braccio.
Ne venne fuori trionfante dopo pochi minuti, non solo perché era riuscita a intercettare il bagaglio e a riprendere il passaporto per passare il controllo senza troppi intoppi, ma anche perché: Ragazze! Ho scoperto dove tengono i maschi veri!, gridò creando così la confusione generale nel gruppo. Sono tutti lì dietro! I boni in Russia fanno tutti i facchini per l'aeroporto, evidentemente.
Ma davvero?
Ma che dici, i maschi in Russia non esistono!
E così via...
Non tutti fecero in tempo a dare una sbirciatina prima di partire, e io fui fra uno di quelli, ma sono tornato in Russia altre volte e posso dirvi che di uomini belli ce ne sono. Ci sono bellezze di diverso genere, è il caso di dirlo e capirete perché, checché la gente abbia da ridire.

Per iniziare, credo che sia giunto il momento per i nostri giovani Italiani gay di dare spazio ai nuovi sex symbol Made in Russia come Данила Козловский (Danila Kozlovskij) attore di cinema e teatro. Mi vergogno a dirlo, ma benché abbia l'età di mio fratello è proprio un gran pezzo di ragazzo. In teatro ha recitato nel Il signore delle mosche e nel Re Lear, ma io l'ho scoperto guardando sul primo canale Всё началось в Харбине (Tutto iniziò a Kharbin). Forse gli italiani lo conoscono più per la sua partecipazione al film Vampire Academy: Blood Sisters, del regista Mark Waters.

Lo scorso mese Kozlovskij è stato ospite di uno show televisivo molto seguito in Russia: Bечерний Ургант, ossia Večernij Urgant (Urgant è il nome del giovane presentatore che vedete nel filmato sopra. Kozlovskij viene fuori all' 11'.15'' ). Il programma somiglia a una nota trasmissione televisiva americana non solo per il titolo che suona come Late Urgant, per la band relegata in un angolino, per lo sfondo cittadino (i moderni vialoni ruteni invece del traffico di Manhattan), e perfino per la tazza con tanto di logo sulla scrivania, ma anche per il suo svolgimento.

È incredibile, quindi, come Mosca abbia acquistato - più che conquistato - quel fascino che abbaglia di solito noi occidentali. E mi dispiace scriverlo, perché amo Mosca e tutta la Russia, ma in questo caso il verbo sembra è davvero quello più azzeccato, dato che in realtà gli uomini e le donne più belli, cioè che valgono di più, la Russia li nasconde spesso dietro le sbarre:

Andrej Barabanov
Jaroslav Belousov
Jurij Gušin
Denis Puzkevič
Leonid Razvozžaev
Sergej Udal'cov
Marija Baronova

Prigionieri politici per cui si è tenuta la protesta di piazza Bolotnaya a Mosca e che ha portato a scontri con la polizia locale.

È questa la Russia che vorrebbe vietare le adozioni dei bambini russi da parte di coppie di Paesi in cui il matrimonio fra persone dello stesso sesso è divenuto realtà; questa la Russia che ha bloccato la strada verso tutte le edicole delle Federazione alla prima rivista patinata dedicata alle lesbiche, Agens, in attesa della legge che sarà promulgata dalla Duma proprio questo mese di maggio e per cui sarà vietata la promozione di uno stile di vita omosessuale ritenuto dannoso per i minori, tacciabile di propaganda di sodomia, lesbianesimo, bisessualità e transgenderesimo; questa la Russia dove un bacio in pubblico tra due uomini, come fra Pavel Samburov e il suo compagno, è sanzionato con una multa pecuniaria, dove i politici suggeriscono che gli omosessuali dovrebbero essere licenziati dai posti di lavoro pubblici, sottoposti a trattamento sanitario obbligatorio, oppure esiliati.

Nonostante tutto signori come Pavel Samburov non vogliono saperne di andarsene. Anzi Samburov ha fondato l’organizzazione per i diritti dei gay “Rainbow Association” attirando così su di sé le uova dei militanti ortodossi, e rimanendo prima in stato di fermo per 30 ore in un furgone, al gelo, poi in un centro di detenzione e proprio per colpa di quel bacio divenuto famoso.

Questa, nel 2013, la Russia delle contraddizioni, di cui davvero è meglio esaltare solo le cose belle e i simboli tanto nuovi quanto meritevoli.

(Le immagini della manifestazione sono tratte da http://www.giornalettismo.com/)

Thursday, 2 May 2013

The Power of Despair

Believe it or not, the most clicked keyword on this blog is STRENGHT/POWER.

These days more than ever, people are looking for a charge, anything to eat, to drink, even to fuck... it doesn't matter - the most important thing is that it can give enough energy to get by.

There are people dissatisfied because this bloody economical crisis forces them to adapt themselves to unsatisfactory jobs; people who for the first time in life have had to get used to ripped shirts hidden under sweaters and to give up new garments in order to buy something to eat, indeed. People who'd like to write, but their PC cracked and they have no more money to buy a new one, or to fix the old one, so they feel like their life's come to the end.

There are other people who have not a job at all, and cannot find it, and even have no money to buy anything to eat, but do they have two or three children at home waiting for the daily meal - these people still feel their life as a long and rewarding life.

There are people who have the strength to carry on, knowing no limits, and if it's true that something bad can always turn into something worst, these people are able to adapt themselves to the worst too. On the other hand there are people exploding along with their gun in piazza Montecitorio, in Rome.

There are people living in better conditions than others. Usually happy people justify bursting people, while unhappy people are used to condemn their fellow: what about me?, they ask with trembling voice due to the overwhelming fear of being about to explode themselves.

From where does it flow the strength to adapt themselves? From where does it come the heart to shoot another man?

My mother claims that strength has got no sources, but it just comes when you need it.

Do you think that we can speak about two main types of strength-sources, at least? In fact, we often speak about strength in desperation, in love, but... we're also more inclined to say: Power of Love, and Power of Faith (which can be considered as part of Love, actually).

May be there is a substantial difference between the Power (which seems to be typical of our Love and our Despair) and the Strength (which seems to be the product of the above-quoted power).

Then, the Power as source of our Strenght rising from the depths of our despair.

I'm wondering also if there is Love without Despair.

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Love is served

Friendship as the boundary of sex and love?

Sometimes, when I recall my past relationships, not least when I listen to the confidences of the people close to me, I realize that relationships look like more and more a cream puff - the “choux pastry” represents friendship, whereas the filling cream is the fatty and sweet compound of sex and love; or maybe you noticed that relationships look like even the Italian “Calzone” which we’re used to eat on Saturday night at pizzerias, in which case the friendship is represented by the outer swollen and burnt shell-like pizza dough, thin or not it is; indeed, sex and love are represented by the melten mozzarella and soft artichoke’s hearts.

I was convinced that friendship was the actual soul of the love stories, and not vice versa. Still, today all is "Com’on, gimme your number, let’s be friend!", instead of "I wanna fuck you" or "I wanna be your lover"; also, there is such manner to speak like "I'm so sorry, but I wish we can be good friends. Com’on, let’s be friends...?" instead of "You’re dismissed; I don't love you anymore, this makes me feel guilty, but I’m not so brave to tell you the truth."

It’s like friendship had become not only the access to the love, but also the door to run away through.

When last week a guy dear to me told me that he’d put "The End" wordings to his last love story, because the counterpart would rather be something else to him (something like a friend), then he added “How can I be his friend?"

"You should not be his friend at all" was my answer, stating that, for example, when Tiger-Fish decided to break up with me, well, these were his words: "Over time we’ll understand if we did the right thing", whilst I personally flipped out and boiled with anger, dreaming to get up and kick and punch him. But today, after 5 years of separation and a very slow rapprochement we’re friends, eventually.

It does not happen often, but when the friendship after love does happen, it’s not because it’s been programmed, ie studied, manipulated.

Much more often, the friendship could be defined as the result of a silent hoeing of the parched earth of the heart, a product of a growing fortitude. Just because the heart has got the productivity of the well watered undergrowth, it does not mean that it’s correct to burn it in order to destroy the field of love in order to speed up the transition to the next (not granted at all) friendship’s stage. In fact, it just works like in agriculture – you burn the lands and what remains is only the carbon, so that you get a rich harvest the first year, but you're going to lose the fertility for the following ones.

Perhaps all this is not new to all of you, and that is why if we want to play down the insinuation of those sticking a love story at us, our first reply is: "Me..? Not on my life! We're JUST friends."

Thursday, 11 April 2013

The Harmony of the Contrasts by Rf

“Wait!”, he yelled scanning the horizon.
It was bright and very cold out there. The landscape ran fast under his gaze, leaving the biting feeling that he was losing the last chance of revenge on life. Something held him, and prevented him from becoming part of the herd, so that his dreams would never come true.
What held back his desires was inside him; it was part of himself, actually. Nonetheless it stemmed from something lacking, from the absence of something needed urgently, although he couldn’t name it yet.
He considered that probably moans cut down the good fortune, so decided to press out a tiny smile, and it was just like letting a sumo wrestler wear a baby tank top.
He groaned disheartened, and leaned against the white walls of the clouds, and when all seemed lost he felt suddenly a sexually exciting bloat stretching his rounded shapes, little by little.
This is the universe: a cluster of contrasts. Who did say: "Born round, you don't die square"?
The sky was whiter now.
“W-wait!” he sighed – a soft breath, as he looked sadly at all the others moving away through the air. They were free, whereas he could not gain his independence yet. He became still convinced he would never see them again… and just as he thought like that, his fleeting world made of steam stopped, and the abrupt recoil of its arrest made him wobble.
He couldn’t speak anymore. Something was happening, eventually.
The strange excitement grew more and more. His body got swollen and harder under the pressure of the wild desire to mingle with the other drops, and to empty his own frenzy on the earth.
A dull thud, then a huge snap – noise of frying oil, or breaking bones.
His dancing eyes went from side to side, then up and down.
While the windows of the misty house frosted over, he could see his transparent blood crystallize into the watery veins. He was conscious that his blood and his sperm were the same thing, and according to the Theory of the Harmony of the Contrasts, the sperm freezing meant that he’s dying and being born again at the same time.
Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack!
All his rounded shapes were entirely straight now, and pure white colored, even bluish here and there… and cold and spiky too.
Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-a-a-a-a-ack!
An abyss swung open under his excited roundnesses, making him fearful and happy to plummet. But… surprisingly he started floating down.
The chilly air was holding him up.
“Hey! Talkin’ to you, Hundred-tips!”
“What’s up, huh? Long live the cold! Long live the deadly army of snowflakes!”
“Y-yes. Hurray…” he replied hesitantly.
“Oh, fool that I am! I’m Odyssey.”
Hundred-tips smiled courteously. At that moment he realized that he was free to choose even his own name. So he decided that Hundred-tips was okay.
“Ready to kill?” asked Odyssey, revealing his intention not to give up and staying stuck like a bead of glue.
“O-o-oh, I see… You’re a newborn snowflake.”
“Ah! You, young killer! Welcome on board then.”
A killer, thought Hundred-tips, not sure whether should worry about it. Actually, this was not the idea of freedom that he’d nourished once he’s out of the clouds. And that Odyssey! His extremities trembled like the devil’s tail. Anyway, he reasoned, he’d had the same opportunity of becoming a life bearer, in case he’d stayed in the aqueous state, or a death bearer, in case he’d turned into ice, as it finally happened.
“The Battle of Britain is about to finish, unfortunately! We’re only in October, and you know what? I’d really like to have time enough to make gangrenous a couple of German legs… Don’t you?”
A sudden gust of wind gathered both of them.
“Wow! I can see the Royal Navy from here. Can you hear this rumble? The trembling air… and look at our native clouds – they’re black like crude oil on the top now, and bright white at the bottom… All this touches me” he sighed with a wicked glimmer in the eyes.
“Listen, Odyssey,” Hundred-tip’s voice sounded too high, almost like the whistle of the bombs raining all around and diverting them “honestly, I can say… I don’t care, you know?”
“You, blasphemer!” Odyssey bent ominously his icy tips “Tell me, are you a goody-goody?”
“Hey, put your pins down!”
“You, chickenshit! Traitor!”
In that moment a new gust of wind swept them away, flipped and separated them.
“Damn you, Snow Queen!” heard Hundred-tips, smiling pleasantly.
The incessant whistlings of the bombs cradled him downward, until he became aware that clouds were left above his head, and now he could catch a sight of the sea and the British coast beneath him. What once seemed monochrome in the distance, now was blue and turquoise green - the sea was a heavy sweater and the sharp rocks were the earth’s arms pinched by sleeves edged with embroideries of white foam. Ashore were scattered many little fires fumigating bluish and toxic smoke. Now he could distinguish human shapes - some of them ran following a foreordained and obscure path, others slithered, but many lay motionless on the grass and half-mired in a mixture of mud and snow. Beyond, on the mainland he even saw a group of children crammed in a bomb shelter - girls with hair gathered up were bended knee and with their back pressed against the rammed-earth sides of the trench; their arms were folded due to cold air and lack of space. They looked at each other, each of them scrutinizing the anxious expression of the others.
Hundred-tips recovered himself. A new horde of snowflakes swirled in the heavy air. He remained indifferent and turned his gaze back down at the boys in the trench. Unlike girls, they stood looking upwards. A couple of them waved their hands greeting the military planes or, who knows, greeting the falling fatty snowflakes, who reciprocated and shouted:
“Hello-o-o! We're coming! Don’t worry!”
Maybe those guys, too, thought they’d find freedom out of there.
In the meantime Hundred-tips arrived at destination.
The wind had pushed him in the offing, where the waves tossed a little boat about. In the boat lay still the body of a soldier with closed eyes. He had red hair and appetizing freckles on his ash-grey cheeks; the trousers were ripped and the pale and wounded thigh was still bleeding profusely.
He’s so charming, thought Hundred-tips while landing gently on the rip’s edge. The smell of the human blood reminded him of the desert sand that sometimes in the past, when he was just a raindrop, has come to mingle with the clouds.
He’s dead, he noticed, but he’s still so… so full of life!
Hundred-tips began trembling and twinkling under the unexpected sunlight; he heard the sound of thousand bells shaking all the molecules of the ice crystals’ conglomeration, which became less and less frozen.
The harmony of the contrasts states that where there is death, life comes, and vice versa; but the two never meet, he thought peacefully before melting down in soldier’s lukewarm blood, Of course life is indispensable condition for freedom, but what nobody seems to understand is that sometimes freedom arises from death only.

The End

Friday, 29 March 2013

Chi vive in Calabria / Chi ha scarsa memoria. Viaggio a Sud

di Mauro F. Minervino

leggilo su: http://www.doppiozero.com/content/chi-vive-calabria-chi-ha-scarsa-memoria-viaggio-sud


isbn: 9788897685180


In questa composita etnofiction Mauro F. Minervino, antropologo e scrittore calabrese, accompagna il cammino del lettore attraverso la narrazione di un Sud raccontato per iperboli e paradossi, non di rado stranianti e poetici. Rinnovando e amplificando così per ognuno di noi l’interrogazione che proviene da un’Italia e da un mondo sempre più mobile e anonimo, popolato di nonluoghi, falsificato dal consumo, dalla turistizzazione, da mali sociali e da ogni genere di violenza e di abuso, che sembra avere smarrito con la memoria del passato il senso autentico dell’incontro umano, dell’abitare il mondo qui e ora. Ma dov’è più “quel luogo che viene prima di tutto e dove una casa sembra poter dare un senso, un’architettura, alla vita intera” (E. Siciliano)? Tra andate e ritorni, souvenirs e disdette, Minervino ha narrato e messo in scena la minuta dialettica degli incontri e dei luoghi di oggi, le esperienze, le disillusioni e gli incanti che hanno guidato e guidano ancora alla ricerca costante di un altrove e di un paese possibile, affrontando consapevolmente il rischio dell’impermanenza tipico della dimensione del contemporaneo, accettando così lo spaesamento, l’esilio, il domicilio instabile e la dimora in un altrove che si fa per tutti sempre più prossimo e spiazzante. Tra le pagine di questo libro-viaggio in cui la Calabria è sempre più specchio ustorio di un’Italia in crisi, affiora l’ansia di conoscenza e di comprensione di chi ha immaginato, polemizzato, detestato, amato e abitato i luoghi ordinari e straordinari di un Sud meridiano che malgrado tutto resta punto archimedico della geografia e dell’anima. Un libro sul bisogno di situare oggi nello spazio e nel tempo delle nostre vite un nuovo e più accogliente confine dell’umano.

Mauro Francesco Minervino è professore di Antropologia Culturale ed Etnologia. Scrittore e giornalista, collabora alle pagine culturali de Il Riformista, L’Unità, Il Manifesto, Il Mattino, International Herald Tribune. È autore di programmi Rai e collaboratore di «Nuovi Argomenti» e «L'Indice dei Libri». Un suo racconto compare nell’antologia “Italville. Nuovi scrittori nel paese che cambia”, uscita a cura di Enzo Siciliano nel 2003 per l’editore Mondadori. Con il poeta Enrico D'Angelo è tra i fondatori di "Smerilliana - Luogo della poesia". Nel 2006 ha pubblicato per l’editore Philobiblon il volume “In fondo a Sud”, con prefazione di Marc Augé. Con il libro“La Calabria brucia” ha vinto la sezione narrativa del Premio Internazionale Fondazione Carime per la Cultura Euromediterranea 2009. E’ tra gli scrittori del volume antologico “Là dove il sì suona. 98 scrittori e 10 domande sull’essere italiani” pubblicato da Nuovi Argomenti per Mondadori (2011), e di "2010.com_andamenti" (Torino Spiritualità 2010). Nel 2012 Per MUP-Parma a curato l'edizione critica di "Viaggio in Palestina - 1893" di Matilde Serao. "Statale 18" edito da Fandango Libri (Roma, 2010) è il suo libro più recente.

1. Cordoli, bump, strade di Calabria
2. Ritratto di città. Catanzaro, per me
3. Il cipresso di Berto
4. George Gissing al Sud. L’orrore per il domicilio di un vittoriano solitario
5. Calabria 1908. In macchina con Mr. Bernard Berenson
6. Leoncavallo, Pagliacci globalizzati
7. “Permette Signora?” Nuovi mostri (Calabria in Tv, il testimonial P. Gigliotti)
8. Enzo Siciliano, via vai calabrese
9. Calabresi dop. Che fine ha fatto l’anarchia
10. Terina, Temesa. L’asfalto dell’A3 sulle tombe degli eroi
11. Se l’immagine è questa
12. Quel che resta dei santi
13. Se niente è come appare
14. Impressioni di settembre
15. Giorgio Bocca e “l’aspra Calabria”
16. Isole. Diamante
17. Paesi adesso
18. Lunario sentimentale

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

Speciale Festa del Papà per Nate


I overheard your phone conversation with Mike last night about your plans to come out to me. The only thing I need you to plan is to bring home OJ and bread after class. We are out, like you now.

I’ve known you were gay since you were six, I’ve love you since you were born.

- Dad
P.S. Your mom and I think you and Mike make a cute couple.

While its provenance is at this point unknown, the sentiment is one I'm certain many LGBTQ teens wish they could hear from their own families.