Romanzo
ERAM MARE
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Immagine di B. Carollo
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Introduction
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August 30, 1998 Sunday Alcamo via Archimede 14
Way in an infinite hallway of a house, left and right panels of forefathers mustache, beards, sideburns, a Cardinal, I realize that the corridor is long out of sight, sound dim, slanting light filtered by consumptive side slits in the top row of pictures I see another then another and still others in twilight, you see the roof and perhaps all of the rooms are displays of faces, gestures, expressions busts of neglect, delay Hypnosis in front of a huge painting depicting a man sitting in a bed intent on putting on a sock at me and his eyes are alive, by the end of the corridor a naked fat woman advancing towards me, echoing on the floor the soles of his feet, as it approaches known to have a body with folds and masses of elephant meat hanging, strangely I can see it at the same time front and back, has an abnormal ass obscenely vulgar emphasized by a red thong, but a girl with a face divine ' aura of golden light, a whisper I reveals that it is the Madonna, cockroaches blacks with shiny shells come in a crack in the wall, my mother in front of a mirror combing her long hair teen, radiant light in the great room with nothing, nessun mobile, niente, solo lei che si pettina i capelli allo specchio e i muri irregolari di calce bianca delle pareti scrostate, in un’alcova interna della finestra colombe battono le ali e tubano, nella cattedrale luce discendente da vetrate rossoblu, santi, un prete dice messa, il resto della chiesa è penombra, da un organo note lontane, anche l’omelia è atona, le parole si distinguono con difficoltà, vanno e vengono, nelle prime file solo poche vecchie grinzose inginocchiate sussurrano preghiere, buio tutto intorno con chiazze di luce giallastre da ceri lumini e candele di cappelle delle navate laterali, lunghi colonnati, nelle volte affreschi di trionfi di Madonne con tripudi di angeli e allegorie, odore d’incenso jasmine mixed with holy water and mold, from the bottom of a dark flock invades the church, even the sound of bells around his neck was muffled up to fade away, only to end a silence you hear hooves trample the cartilage that marble is the basilica of Alcamo I see a centipede on a column of red marble which is a fossilized giant snail, ammonite, the basilica is now a crumbling ruin in the countryside, if you dig around you might find the ruins of an old city, Alcamo, even goats and their Semitic face amid the ruins of the dome and moldy scraps of frescoes, the sun blazes above, the olive trees of a print of Van Gogh - the first floor of my house while I'm sitting at my desk with lamp lit - begin to rustle under the breath of a breeze inside the picture, I see a glow down against the inside of a dark room, the sound of the curtain of vertical strips of clear plastic agitated by a slight wind out of a blinding light flattens things, fish Alcamo, polished tables of a bar of iron, light unsustainable old dressed in black, some with a black armband to play broom, to too much light hardly see anything, everything is without dimension, fluid continues, the sounds are amplified as in underwater world, my father died three years talking with the other two, looks at me, I only hear his voice in an unreal silence, go forward without recognizing, dopo un po’ un corteo funebre segue una carrozza trainata da quattro cavalli neri bardati, anch’essa è nera con pareti di cristallo e putti, arriva dal Corso, sta passando, si sentono solo le ruote e i cigolii delle molle, dentro la carrozza mi guarda una bimba triste e stupenda con ali bianche slanciate, stessa scena ma con dentro la carrozza milioni di topi che annusano per uscire, dentro la carrozza uno storpio – ha addome gambe e zoccoli di capro – sodomizza un angelo, domenica di sole, piazza Ciullo deserta, rondini volano basse controsole in cerchi, globi di luce abbagliante, una campana squilla a lunghi intervalli, vedo la piazza in un istante dall’alto e dal basso, nella piazza deserta una bimba vestita da prima communion to play I'll be back, pulling a skipping stone and reciting a nursery rhyme, in a process of film ideal, cramped closet without tile, a yellow lamp hanging by a thread full of dust and dung flies while the old hunchback Little House is a fellatio to a 12 year old girl accosted in the dark room, prof. Panella with glasses of literature circles and golden beard sessantottesca talking about art and the ultimate reality so twisted with another in a suit and tie you down the sidewalk of the Corso in April, suddenly in front of them a construction worker falls from scaffolding on the asphalt the fourth floor, a thud, died instantly, the other Panella still indifferent to discuss just throwing a glance distracted on the body and pass on without stopping, from a window I see the sea and a network of fishermen with fragments of human bodies caught sitting to repair hundreds of priests in black robes are lost in perspective, between the heads caught recognize some familiar faces forgotten friends, and acquaintances of military service and glimpsed through a second, far away on the waves of the sea in the night float a cathedral is the Basilica di Alcamo lit file waving lighted candles on the water, while the church is slowly pulled away from current with a priest bald head and thick neck lumpy along the central aisle and pray on their knees under the high cross, is very contrite, weeping and while we see that the buttons of the tunic comes out with a big penis and the veins in his penis out the button that almost comes under the neck, between graves in a cemetery crosses and marble monuments and a party with people dressed in bejeweled evening, the light red candles on the tombstones reverberant talking amiably, presentations are made, the cemetery is full, even the underground burial chambers are full, multi-file photos of the dead, I also go around each other looking for an acquaintance, Meanwhile skim reviewed the niches, and I realize that many faces are those of the party, among so many faces I find a plaque on my wall, I have no particular reaction only a slight surprise, during a Sunday in April you passeggiano gli alcamesi tutti nudi, poi un esodo di popolo che sfolla nudo in tutte le strade, in un letto un uomo e una donna scopano, si dicono frasi oscene mentre sono stravolti dall’eccitazione e sudati, l’uomo eiacula sul viso di lei urlando Porcaaa, infinita per le strade di Alcamo si snoda la Processione alla Madonna, una processione che stavolta durerà in eterno, alla quale partecipano tutti gli alcamesi di tutti i tempi, vivi e defunti, fantasmi diafani e zombi mezzo decomposti in mezzo agli altri impassibili, nella chiesetta di San Paolo davanti all’altare un prete celebra un matrimonio tra una novantenne e un bimbo, lei è vestita da sposa con un lungo velo bianco, ha branchie al collo e una mano palmata azzurra e squamosa, Tommaso Buscetta, sorry mafia, with irrefutable facts admits to having witnessed a meeting with Pope John Paul II kissing and Toto Reina, the Pope kneeling kissed the ring, during the jubilee, the Pope appeared at the window announced the canonization of godfather Bernardo Provenzani head of the dome, the crowd cheering the announcement, Bruno Vespa dedication ceremony, the transmission PortoaPorto making him sign with the ritual of Puncia a contract with the Italians, one morning the angels descend from heaven, if they meet in the streets of downtown old, are tall, silent and have huge wings, returning from a trip to discover that the country is completely empty and deserted, the doors are opened by and explore, everything has remained intact and silent in its place, there's just strange that some walls of stone houses, whitewashed dry or had one or more bright eyes, sometimes Alcamo is totally submerged by the sea, apnea swimming in the streets and the stairs of the houses, one day fall from the sky pieces of human bodies, chests, heads, hands, arms, two men are on a lift, do not speak, the other one looks down the law written close to the mirror, the car will not stop at any level, this is their eternal damnation, the streets are deserted in Alcamo, Alcamo wrinkled old man with a beret and a cigarette in his mouth without filter Alfa arrive in Piazza Ciullo, muffled sounds of organs, Christ seated on a bench, the old man stuck three feet away, the tip with a shotgun and shoots to kill him, approaches the body and spit screams in silence full of echoes Curnutu, Pezzu mmerda ri, Si cu nuddu mmiscatu components, in high eaves of old houses and old rotten baby move in the balance, I do not know where they are, there is total darkness engulfs me a loud laugh, in a richly furnished room in a building two men sitting in chairs before a fireplace are talking, at some point the landlord gets up and, motioning to wait a minute, shall enter into an adjoining closet, where another man sat crying in pain, her tears are channeled into special tubes transparent fino a un recipiente di vetro a forma di alambicco, con flemma riempie due bicchieri, torna nell’altra stanza, offre da bere all’ospite e continua la conversazione, invece che in un altro stanzino l’uomo che piange è in un angolo della stessa stanza e l’operazione dei bicchieri viene svolta davanti agli occhi egualmente indifferenti dell’ospite, vecchie vestite di nero col fazzoletto nero in testa sedute in cerchio davanti a un braciere recitano il rosario, vecchie nude con solo un orologio al polso recitano il rosario, nelle strade delle maggiori città europee una nuova pubblicità, in enormi cartelloni in mezzo al traffico un bimbo nero denutrito, pelle e ossa, grandi occhi incavati pieni di mosche e zanzare ai margini, a shiny gold watch on your wrist Solex, the message of the billboard says THE TIME 'PRECIOUS, a former elementary school teacher punishes a child in front of the class in laid, the class laughs, then chokes him, binds to the board and the corpse is acclaimed by the student body happy, rewarded by a delegation of ladies with a medal on the chest, the band played at full blast, attended by delegates from former combatants and helplessness of the country, post offices, the time is still, even the clocks block, white light from the windows, in the eyes of people lined up neatly bovine resignation, beyond the door an old man hunched and wrinkled naked with a cigarette a watch on your wrist e le ali è l’impiegato postale, in una grande stanza quadrata molte persone sedute aspettano, hanno sguardi spenti, metafisici, c’è una luce piatta, nessuno parla, fisso i primi piani di visi inespressivi, poi mi accorgo che in fondo c’è una porta aperta con un’altra stanza identica pure piena di persone e oltre quella un’altra ancora, le stanze si vedono in prospettiva, davanti all’ingresso dell’ultima stanza chiusa c’è un vecchio usciere con grossi vetri da miope che chiama le persone ad uno ad uno per nome e cognome, esitanti entrano dentro, l’ultima stanza è vuota senza finestre ma con una luce propria e un neonato che cerca di muovere i primi passi, dentro l’ultima room there is a naked old catarrh grins as he could, the penis's dangling limp along and inside there's a corpse in a bed, you see the new soles of the shoes and an old man standing count aloud slowly One two three four ... without ever stopping, into the last room there is an old whore lewd waiting customers, inside is a beautiful teenager that Madonna you look at a mirror, there are hundreds of doves cooing and flying banging hard on the wings, panting and their guttural sounds are a cryptic esoteric language that is deciphered by a court reporter sitting in a coffee table with the forearms of his jacket wrapped in a black silk as old newspapers, inside is full of vultures, everyone who enters is torn apart by their hooked beak, inside is the edge of a cliff, everyone who arrives without changing pitch and expression falls into the abyss, inside is an old high thin gray mustache, bags under his eyes watery, with a pinstripe suit, dapper, and bureaucratic-looking behind him a huge buffalo, the man with a solemn nod encourages you to get closer as the index to reveal a secret, when you're near the starting left a fart that invests obscene and lowers to the ground mutton, and began to writhe with laughter without being able to stop even the usher who peered from the door ajar toothless grins, then goes back serious and solemn - smooth bony hands with the old greasy black suit - includes a call to the call, I notice that in the old dress at the shoulder blades where there are two tears leaving two small chicken wings, two of twelve, during the 'deserted summer that made Alcamo, walking in the afternoon looking for something to do, are in the castle district, they get to talking and they walk a step, fall away from St. Joseph Barone, realize that a dilapidated house survived the centuries with a door eroded, scraped the wall, there is a sign that says SiVende dusty, the country seems to be a fatal abandoned village, do not pass cars or people, not having an old crippled and bent on his stick is swallowed up in an alley away, but the same old scene is engulfed by a wall away, eaten by the magnetized wall wicked curious decide to enter the house to see if there is the ghost of the turkish , push the door creaking open and turning on a single hinge, the other is no longer attached to the door and the frame worm-eaten, come closing the door behind him, silent shadows only two rays of sunlight cut through the dark showing a dust up to the third step, the smell of mold and piss on the stairs full of debris and hunting of doves, rise up, cobwebs everywhere, a black beetle hiding in a crevice of a step, the walls rotting fungi grow, after a flight coming in the one room and see a woman with a white veil and a pale anemic sounding a dusty piano and sings choruses Slavs, they see a group of old men sitting on the ground among the debris read ancient texts in Aramaic, they see a sad angel with wings of white feathers behind the glass window of the dusty bumpy look at the sky and count One two three four five ... not to move or stop, an old chant these words while I wander
Wizard Alcamo not a stretch
my old neighborhoods and suburbs seaport
my hands caught fire
sad processions of children praying in cemeteries
the red sun in the night (yellowed keys organ cathedrals of afternoons)
like a bonfire burst into a thousand syllables of fire around us
crows flying drunk some real die burned
rivers flowing into me
migrating birds inside me
solitude of courts ever seen in me
blue and red flowers have sprung
me in the eyes and wrinkles in my
grows a huge daffodil
but the hands are still on fire
sad groping
full of love in this room flooded with interstices
I get lost in distant lands unknown
of preexisting
infinity
a convent desecrated
inside me
camel
too old abandoned in the desert
follow
walking slowly with his mouth chewing sand
the track that will take me to the last
(away)
haven in Simurgh
The sky is a mirror that reflects me
at all times in all directions at the same time
useless and empty, and all have a caravan of gypsies
dirges ghosts
thoughts of dead babies and
At some point humans begin to exhibit strange behavior, you stripped naked in the streets, one commits suicide during a banal conversation about a football game suddenly jumping from a balcony on the tenth floor, I feel for few seconds while still quiet plunges his speech, two of them, and Scatton Ferrer, killing a student for no reason, TV news, tired of suicides with the tube in the exhaust gas of the car, pulled the stones from the bridges on cars running, mothers cut the throats of their children, give the news of the men who butchered dogs to bite, Silvio Berlusconi forced to leave the country to change nationality but was elected President of the USA, then an Egyptian papyrus reveals that thousands of years ago mankind adopted the surrealist revolution and the present life is the result of millennia of evolution that choice, even the can of Coke on this table is surreal, everything is surreal one God is real, the whole universe is a noumenon, an atom of my body is a body atom of the universe is an atom of the body that God has no body or no body, like an atom of my body does not know my body I can not know God or myself, there is no distinction between subject and object, between me and others, between one and all, between being and not being, between outside and inside, the demonstration of God is my erection, dark, light, light of the dark, a big laugh is behind us, told me in a dream Bunuel Add shots of the four elements of fire
empedoclei
Shooting Shooting Air (skies of sunrise, sunset ...)
Resumption of land (portions of areas Inland random objects in the foreground framed insistently ...)
Shooting water (rivers, sea, rain, puddles, water flowing in the gutter, the hole in the sink, in the large glass windows ...)
human re-re- Shooting things in motion
precarious and transient things (hair, rags on the street, pieces of papers, fibers, dust, a dialogue of any one day between any two random people ...)
Write-old photos and hourglasses
Everything passes and is not, everything is still and does not pass
Images of animals, clocks, mirrors, shadows and reflections in shop windows, to breathe, nude, chanted repetitions of numbers (states of numbers), repetition of principles (such as performances of the principle of non-contradiction, identity ...)
God's silence engulfs us. We swallow God with his silence. And scaracchiamo ground
a
July 7, 2000 9:40 am Scopello stacks
Two kids on my left hand's shadow on this ink, the pores of the hairs, grooves joints, heart beat, skin taut, the sea has voices buzzing, sweaty ciiv CIIP a sparrow voices of swimmers, move their eyes in their sockets, the Mediterranean huge water sinuous flanks of female, a young white woman costume strong body, energy for peaceful convent cell, from the warm embrace my shoulders, chin hair lace on his left arm, warm a snake I'm lying on the edge of the sea on a wall of perceptions, to my left the tuna fishermen of Scopello, green shutters open , doors ajar to vanidduzzu, silk curtains, veils bored, the bird now in a slot under the eaves point flickering in the dark, yellow canoe, the sun bakes me in your oven, go through the door of reality, I can not write, let disordered thoughts free bathed swam up to ship shape of rock salt in the mouth, nostrils water, a couple he latte hat with visor, with her blonde treccinemaglietta sings Lucio Battisti, drawl In a world that is ... a prisoner, yellow flowers of mimosa tree fallen on these steps, the yellow light in a dying wail of happiness that goes away, Van Gogh bleeds yellow maze of cracks in this wall, I sat on the steps, ants move forward like soldiers in a review in the battlefield after the fight, moving in a timeless stillness, the red head, a tuft of grass leaves to star in the shadow of the wall with purple stems and sway in the wind, a crack appears a family tree, the pulmonary capillaries, revealed by a haruspex ramifications esoteric, mystical dowsers in tunics embroidered with gold and silver called a synod to settle the signs of fate in crepa, re assiso al trono trasportato a braccia fin qui aspetta responso, si sacrifica una vergine in bianca veste di seta trasparente, energumeni la legano a un palo, danze a ritmo di sistri egizi e tamburi, epilettici vengono fatti cadere in trance schiuma bavosa alla bocca raccolta in vassoi d’oro con effigi di gesta d’Ulisse e interpretata lungamente da sacerdoti con lunghe barbe la vergine affidata al mare per placarne l’ira allontanata in zattera nuda in mare aperto pesce verrà la sverginerà e la divorerà per tregua non definitiva abbisognando sempre altre vergini mensili simultaneamente falange di adolescenti sul bagnasciuga nel rito collettivo esorcistico e propiziatorio si sparano seghe sborrate all’unisono, antichi rattoppi di calce, pace di ombre assorte, alti gabbiani sugli scogli sorvegliano il mare, gridano, il suono si perde nel fermento delle onde, del tempo, della memoria, delle immagini, del blu, della luce accecante del meriggio, degli orologi per sempre fermi, chiudo le palpebre per cercare di vedere qualcosa attraverso le ciglia, luminosità tenebrosa, questo albero è vicino a un’ancora erosa, ossidata scultura di Giacometti, l’albero ha la saggezza, sua apparente fissità, radici per una minima linfa, tronco immobile rami sottili foglie ancora verdi, luce vento brezza marina, contatto consapevole con l’energia secolare del marfaraggio, entro nella terra sotto la base oscura del tronco, aridità, respiro, fermo, I am the tree, I turn around, sleepy courtyard, still sitting on the marble steps straight lopsided endorsed among tufts of grass, leaves, ants, their backs against the wall, eyes at the floor of the court, pebbles, weeds that the top opens like a hand filament blonde, summer, part of the courtyard is lit by the sun, geraniums in the end we are sunk in the heat drunk, the other lies in the cool shade, rapt silence, a slim, iron fixed between two walls, the simple presence startled, a grateful closes another courtyard dominated by a mighty tree oblique who sleeps with his dead branches, a few surviving green tuft, higher still a huge slope of the summit rocks, cactuses palmenane parched stubble in calcinante time that passes, the undertow of the sea, next to the grate oxidized another crack in the wall stands as a petrified lightning, a patched with white lime, there are all the signs of time inconsistency in this forgetful, bees drink the mouth of a dripping faucet wall, a fig tree casts its shadow on the ground, the sea is strengthened, ruminating thoughts of my ex, figs are not ripe white flesh a sweet red spots in the country thirty years ago by my grandfather, I remember surfaced from the depths of oblivion, I climbed up a tree, cultivated fruit, tasted, the gesture of the hand that takes, I caress the rough leaf the back, happy, lonely, strange memories of disinterred naturalness, and sometimes as a child I had déjà vu also warning, sure that thing would have to be remembered, there was an aura around, I saw a door, the roughness of living a surface and are enchanted, a face of a passerby in the street that led away a shot of a swing door had resonances ancestral projections theological, Augustinian passatofuturo welding, I had the setting for the time past, present and lost for eternity found, the presence of death, enter the door of the moment, being, energy flow of an endless dream to be dreamed of an eagle or an eagle, drowning in the absurd, and is sweet to shipwreck in this sea, a white butterfly alights on the grass, the metamorphosis of the caterpillar, I try my metamorphosis setting the semblance of reality, one beyond pluralism and the apparent duality, a lizard climbs the wall stops at a waiting position carefully and view lamp off three feet above my body sitting, streetlight old country dirt and dust flies to poo concave dish with white enameled metal black exterior border, even in the corners of the streets at night guts of Alcamo still survive
The story is the first part of this originality in this compound prematurely. 
