through europe - fiction

Father

Federico Campagna — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 22:43:36 +0000

It was as if time had never been allowed inside the room. There were no windows and no pictures on the walls. Cream wallpaper stretched up to the ceiling, then broke into the circular pattern of shadows projected by the hanging lamps. The synthetic fur covering the floor purred along with the movements of the President’s feet over it. The President looked around the room, then towards a point right a couple of metres behind the screen of his computer. The muscles in his shoulder relaxed, lowering his elbows just below the edge of his desk. He wished that his were still the times of ticking clocks, counting the cascade of minutes as mothers repeat their lullabies night after night. But sound also seemed to have sunk silently into the rug, in the pores of the wallpaper. It had to look like his decision had been taken through doubt and suffering, and he needed the proof of passing hours.

The President run his hand along the balding top of his hair. The foundation was wearing off, and the edge of a scale rubbed against the tip of his fingers. He kept playing with it for a while, running it under his nails, one after the other, as deep as it could go without hurting his flesh. Social etiquette was an unnecessary concern in the depth of his underground bunker. There was no need to conceal his nature any more than a man would silence his bowels in the privacy of his bathroom. After all, it was only a few years earlier that his mutant nature had won him millions of votes during the elections. He had to tame it down to the minimum necessary visual proof, so to appear as reassuring to pure-breed humans as he was to the mutant underclasses. Hence the foundation, the human mannerisms and the elocution classes to help him control the intonation of his speeches – only dropping the mutant accent when required.

A Riot of My Own - trailer

Stefano Dorigo — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 10:40:49 +0000

Devo essermi perso, in un sonno senza sogni.
Li ho semplicemente chiusi. Gli occhi. Senza accorgermene. Accompagnando il battito del mio cuore al ritmo, intermittente, di quello del treno. Un dondolio meccanico, che appena si è arrestato mi ha riportato alla realtà. Ma siamo già qui?
Il treno è già a Chambery?

Ultima stazione. Prima di oltrepassare le Alpi e arrivare in Italia.
Finalmente potrò rivedere questo splendido paesaggio, dall’altra parte delle montagne. Per quanto tempo mi è stata preclusa la vista del versante Italiano?

Condannato una prima volta a sette anni e mezzo, con l’aggravante del “terrorismo”. Hanno così potuto utilizzare il moltiplicatore di pena del “2,5”: se ti becchi 3 anni te li moltiplicano per 2,5 cosicché alla fine prendi 7 anni e mezzo. Dopo altri nove anni dalla sentenza mi affibbiano un’altra condanna per gli stessi tipi di reato, con con l’applicazione di nove mesi in “reato continuato” … Dopo appena ventitré anni posso finalmente andare in estinzione di pena.
Ventitré.

The Lotus Eaters

Federico Campagna — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 01:55:03 +0000

"I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-Eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotus-eaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars."
Odyssey, IX

The sun stops half way through its descent towards the abyss. He wonders where it will go, as he moves his eyes away from the dark horizon. Beyond it, somewhere in the night, his comrades are still rowing through the uncharted sea. By now, if everything had gone according to plan, they should have approached the island... The island... Which island? It was home, long ago, but now he can’t even remember its name. Doulos slips a finger between his belt and the cloth he has around his waist. Carefully, he extracts one soft, fleshy petal. He puts it on his lower lip, and with his tongue he moves it inside his mouth, feeling its smooth surface turning thicker, then slowly dissolving. When he first tried the flowers, the overwhelming sweetness coated his tongue, and it was only out of courtesy for his kind hosts that he had kept on chewing. But now, so many flowers later, now that nothing distinguishes him form his hosts, now... Now... Oh, it’s gone. That thought is gone. No point in chasing it. And his comrades, yes. His comrades at home, wherever it is. But they are not at home, he knows it. Without proof, he knows it for sure.

Dealing in internationalism pt.3

Lodovico Pignatti-Morano — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 19:48:25 +0000

My trip back is stuttered and indirect. It takes a long coach ride, a short plane trip, a train ride, a flight and another flight to get back to Milan. Each fragment represents the kind of trip which is most often considered an opportunity for a sleepy interlude to the day, nothing more: good for nothing but dozing in and out of thoughts, usually the rush of a never-ending series of professional ambitions or micro-improvements, ‘have to send that mail when I get in, have to prepare list of objectives for the trip, what am I doing here? What can we intuit that kids might desire next? Which mood will style move into within the next 6 months?’

Dealing in internationalism pt. 2

Lodovico Pignatti-Morano — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 11:13:20 +0000

burn house

tragicoptimist — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 03:06:43 +0000

There were four people in the van but no one was speaking. The dirt road below tumbled as it travelled slowly along, shaded by thick pine trees to one side and low, dry brush to the other. Only Jenny could see the bay and the San Juan Islands floating somewhere between the water and the morning mist dispersing. The others were in the back where all the windows were covered. No one was speaking but the sound of the brown van clunking on the uneven dirt road filled the empty silence.

Dealing in internationalism

Lodovico Pignatti-Morano — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 01:35:09 +0000

I arrive in New York from San Francisco, on a quick stop for a couple of meetings before going back to Milan. In my hotel, which is better than the kind in which I usually stay, there is an enormous world map cut out from cast iron attached to the wall behind the reception desk, dimly illuminated from behind. I’m speaking to the receptionist with that curt knowingness which I enjoy so much abroad, but I’m distracted and really looking up at this map. The lack of motion it expresses distresses me, the dumb muteness, completely fake, obviously an enormous joke - it’s a shock to my sense of self to have such a thing served up to me on a plate like that.

bleached bones

tragicoptimist — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 18:21:17 +0000

he died on tuesday. sick in the head. while he sighed, murmuring lies to the priest that preached, while prevaricating. while his sweat slid salty, clothes soaked with the life him leaving.

send him away and the priest ceases. close the door and she stoops. holding his left hand hard. holding back, his hair grey. in the darkness of a silence. only two consumed candles, scarcely illuminating. his spent gaze. and hard white sheets of marble.

my love, i leave. trapped here inside, i die with his body. you must me forgive, i not able. to live this life until the end. to do after all that infinite fatigue of. returning what i receive : everything.

do do not

tragicoptimist — Sat, 28 May 2011 21:30:44 +0000

do what you want. do not do what you do not want. you do what you want. you do want what you want. you do not want what you do not. do not do what you do want not. do what you do want not what you want not.

test drive

tragicoptimist — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 12:06:04 +0000

rubber to the road, roaring rage : burning. shelby gt and he jet setting arizona afternoon sunbaked desert setting, black and blasting fast. busting past, empty space. dense air, hot and sand. salt white blurring visions blinding, grey strip scissions sections right and left : Lee racing leftlane lest he die – test drive.

he hand heel holding the wheel, right between bottle and gear. whiskey wet his lips, cigarette breath. chuck the butt, had enough : eight years of endless effort, crosscountry constant concrete slabbing. fatigue facing, work waking fifteen hour days exerting. building bridges, making gaps : pissing from pittsburgh to portland, constructing the world. tens of tons a son of steel and stone, unshaven. alone.