Monet War Zone. I was a winter soldier, bro.

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Ero un soldato d’inverno.

Ma non trovai la mia zona di atterraggio quella notte, fratello.
Fischiavano forte i bengala viola lassù,
ma ormai l’unica cosa che sentivo era il dolore.
Nè la vista, nè l’udito, nè sapore.
L’odore era acre di rabbia e paura, ma ne ero saturo.
Il tatto era calcinato indurito furente freddo.
Straniero.
Non trovai la mia zona di atterraggio quella notte, fratello.
Faceva troppo male.
Troppo scuro, lontano.
Il fiato spezzato, l’occhio crepato.
Dio, come faceva male tutto questo.
Volevo andare.
Per te.
Volevo restare.
Per te.
Dannazione, hai perso un po’ della tua anima quella notte, vero?
Le dita sulle costole le sentivo.
Ma sotto quelle dorsali sbrecciate c’era un filo di vento, poco, troppo poco.
E nella cavernosa grotta poco movimento.
Dentro me c’era freddo e dolore.
Dov’era il cielo?
Dove?

Erano abbracci silenziosi e perenni sul crinale della sofferenza e della gioia.
Esistenze concentriche.
Discese notturne al buio, cadute in shock, avvitamenti incontrollati.
Il coltello da combattimento traccia archi di farfalle multicolori nella nebbia.
Le nostre ferite erano lampi di luce, il cammino era ancora lungo e silenzioso.
Cavalcando i marosi imperscrutabili, accecati dai flutti nebulizzati di quell’immenso mare che é sia redenzione che salvataggio, chi salva e chi é salvato?
Ognuno é l’altro e se stesso e nessuno allo stesso tempo,
ci guardammo allontanarci l’uno dall’altro con gli scarponi rotti, le parole spezzate e un vocabolario ormai lontano dall’uomo, o dal gatto.
Tenevamo lo sguardo inchiodato a terra e al cielo. Eravamo caduti, dispersi, morti sopravvissuti e vivi, tutto e niente insieme. Chiedendoci i perché, ci salutammo stringendoci le mani doloranti, ci ritroveremo con un sorriso.
Forse, fratello o sorella.

 

I was a winter soldier.

But I didn’t find my landing zone that night, brother.
The purple flares whistled loudly up there,
but now the only thing I felt was pain.
Neither sight, nor hearing, nor taste.
The smell was bitter with anger and fear, but I was saturated with it.
The feel was calcined hardened cold furious.
Foreigner.
I didn’t find my landing area that night, brother.
It hurt too much.
Too dark, far away.
The broken breath, the cracked eye.
God, how all this hurt.
I wanted to go.
For you.
I wanted to stay.
For you.
Damn, you lost some of your soul that night, didn’t you?
I felt the fingers on the ribs.
But under those chipped ridges there was a little wind, little, too little.
And in the cavernous cave little movement.
It was cold and pain inside me.
Where was the sky?
Where is it?

They were silent and perennial embraces on the ridge of suffering and joy.
Concentric existences.
Night descents in the dark, falls in shock, uncontrolled twists.
The combat knife traces bows of multicolored butterflies in the fog.
Our wounds were flashes of light, the path was still long and silent.
Riding the inscrutable waves, blinded by the misty waves of that immense sea that is both redemption and salvation, who saves and who is saved?
Each is the other and himself and none at the same time, we looked away from each other with broken boots, broken words and a vocabulary now far from the man,
or from the cat.
We kept our eyes on the ground and the sky. We had fallen, lost, survived dead and alive, all and nothing together. Asking us why, we greeted each other, shaking our hands in pain, and we will meet again with a smile.
Maybe, brother or sister.

 

 

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Ladycat War Zone #3. “Flow tears in the land of dreams”

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Where our essences and our nodes cancel out in an epiphany of love, where we are perennial refuge beyond time, that tree of life that we climb relentlessly, exchanging the roles each time.
Where resonate distant echoes welcome and goodbye, joys and struggles, impare battles, games and defeats, dreams and reality, where some of us can smile, cry and hug each other finally without fear or shame, in a clear sense of belonging, evading for a moment the time and empty.
Where you can feel the scent of mimosa in the wind, in a possible but unlikely first day of spring without you, with that feeling of wonder that cuts you breath and words.
Why not serve. It is the place where we are all before you were born and where we will meet at the end of the trip.
It is the house in an absolute sense and pure. A state of grace. The dawn and the dream.
Where it can also be a common language between people living in different worlds but united by love for cats.

Our children.

 

 

My old Captain.

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The tawny pirate, with a threadbare clothes, heart and body, I see him again, and I still hear him.
He was always ready to blow away the silly conventions and ideas that I had, to amaze me every second.
His sharp wit was, is, a kaleidoscopic handkerchief warp with all the plots of the entire universe.
He blew away any web spider, illuminating the darkest corners of my mind.
He takes me back to my original nature, before the birth.
Goes to the essential, walking on tiptoe and takes life by the horns. Plays all out if you feel that is the right thing to do and never give up. And do not think to be stupid if you do it.
He liked dusting off my old grammar of life in his own way, in a way it reminded me gently, our common animal nature, and deadly.
Many, many times did he escape death.
I still remember him next to me, silent but complete, side by side.
He would say, “To die? Happens to everyone, even to me, to you, to all of us. No one escapes from the big sleep, but do not be afraid to live, never”
The last time he couldn’t see or hear me, but somehow she knew I was there, always to the end, at any cost. With him.
Always together in the darkest moments, joyful, and strangers from this world in midnight of our souls.
There wasn’t time for one last physical contact, everything was coagulated around us in a silent solitude, i was huddled around him.
Still feel him, my Captain, gives me a little bump with his head on the leg,
“I’m here, do not be afraid.”
Sometimes I see him run around in the garden chasing his, our dreams,
in the big world over there.

September 23, 2006.

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“We’re not sure we can do it.
Not this time.
You’ll have to go on without us”

No!
We’re going at the top of the mountain, broken legs and all our wounds.

“You’re crazy, you know?”

Yes.
Talk to me.
Stay with me.

“Everything is alright”

Promise me one thing.
If we fail to reach the top together …

“We will be there waiting for you.
All of us”

Cats and men

Cats and men.
We live and we survive.
Be a rescuer is hard, we try to save a life, to give another chance to life.
To the world.
We have the same emotions. Fear, pain and loneliness.

We fight together the toughest battles together, in silence.
Alone.
We fight the toughest battles, won and lost, but we are not afraid to show us in tears.
Despair, anger, joy, without sparing, at any cost.
Without ever being ashamed.
Because in our tears there is the germ of an indomitable passion.
Only men who have the strength not to hide their weaknesses may face the most hateful enemy.
Ourself. Fear and death.
Make the difference. Or try tirelessly.
We are this.