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So it’s true what they say.

It’s true, after all.

I knew this, mind you; I just hadn’t known it for real

in the way that Buddha says -anything you hear is not true until it is true for you

So it is true, now I know-

that beauty is on the inside

beauty is on the inside

beauty is on the inside

and ugliness is too.


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Why are all Christmas tales sad?

“Why are all Christmas tales sad?”, that was the question I randomly read on that printed page. It was a link to some other piece, so I couldn’t read it. But I quickly made up a theory of my own.

One day, about 2,000 years ago, the most precious gift was sent to humankind, in the shape of a baby boy. This baby grew up to be the most exceptional form of existence that has ever been known or will ever be; a portentous giant of kindness, love, faith, humanity, nobility, selflessness, and empathy. It matters little to nothing whether you believe that he was God incarnate, or not (I believe He is). What matters is what people did with this gift that had been given to them.

We all know what they did. They took this shining diamond and they muddied it, kicked it, cracked it and shattered it. Yes, they took this man and they mocked him, humiliated him, beat him, tortured him and finally gave him an agonic, horrendous death for everyone to witness.

He knew this well enough before he came to us. He knew that he was coming to a world full of brutish, arrogant, stupid, violent, egotistic people who wouldn’t know kindness, truth, beauty and purity if they hit them with a sandbag in the face.

Christmas is a happysad time for this reason. Because we are celebrating the birth and the very existence of kindness, truth, beauty and purity, but we also know that they have no chance to thrive in a world that has not changed one bit. We are laughing and dancing because God loves us and has given us a testament of his undying, immense love; but our laughter is hiding the tears from the pain of watching all of that die, crushed by the world. We know that that pain will ensue and that it echoes the same pain that dwells in our heart: that there is no hope for the world to save itself; that if we are to be saved, it will only be because God will forgive us, not because we know any better. The stories written by authors of all times echo this feeling. Those authors, or the people who formed those tales, knew, on perhaps some unconscious level, that Christmas is the reminder of our great failure as a race: our inability to see, and to embrace love.

Come the progress that may -humans producing humans in laboratories, DNA sequences being read and rewritten to perfect the races, men living for centuries-, it is all in vain, and men will be no more than empty shells, biological dolls doomed with self-conscience unless and until they are able to know love. Love for one another, love for all that is good and beautiful, unconditional love for themselves and their kin. Without love, human life is devoid of meaning. Without embracing love and becoming love, humans will always remain the naked monkey trying to make sense of an intrincate, yet simple mystery.

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Just give the portrait half a chance, you’ll be caught noticing

that glimpse of raw, elementary kindness,

the particle that ties you both together.

It is, quite simply, the portrait of someone

perhaps not of perfect composure, perhaps lacking in gravitas,

someone a bit too clever, a bit too cunning,

but basically kind.

Someone who could be someone’s eccentric uncle

who would spend his Sunday evening polishing his china ducks,

showing friends off around his ranch,

piggybacking the children who see him as the local big kid.

Someone’s eccentric uncle who will doze off at the end of the weekend

in his Louis XIV armchair,

his hairpiece a little displaced, giving him a young and silly look,

a Southern Maurice Minnifield in his Southern Riviera.


This was, in reality, the portrait of a gentleman.

But what happened, sir?

You give an angry face.

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mirror, mirror

I (h)ate(d) all the way down

I ate all the way up.

Fast, fast, fast down

eat, eat, eat up

and slow




for that’s the pace on the road to self love

and self forgiveness

and self respect

and reassurance.

This forty-year desert wandering/wondering

has now come to an end

as I fell, like your ordinary Alice,

through the crack in the mirror.

After the rat race (to nowhere)

has come the self embrace.


And up, up, up I go

one bite at a time,

from rock bottom

to rock star.

So Betty, when you call me

you can call me


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And when she turned around, real life was still there.

And real life took a little step forward and dropped itself over and onto her with all the intolerable weight of its massive corpus.

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Isn’t it always the others whom it’s different for?

Yes, it is. Never for us; because we’re too deep inside us, too entrenched with ourselves. Therefore we don’t see what is being carried out in and through us. We don’t notice the river that pushes us further and beyond, to the point where the whole scenery has changed and we no longer remember where we started out, what it used to feel like. We only vaguely remember and retain the scent of the old flowers. Now, both our old self and the old flowers are dead.

I got it, though: it is change that really scares us, not death. Death only scares us as the ultimate form of change. It is not the sure fact of our disappearance that bothers us; not being here is nothing new; we experience that every night and, more and more, every day. It is just not being sure we will be ourselves until the end, and not being able to assure, never really being able to assure the permanence of anything or anyone that makes up our world. It becomes apparent that, one day, all that makes sense will have vanished, including our own sense of memory, our own vague recollections of the scent of the old flowers. That is the most important thing of our whole life; it is, perhaps, the only meaning we will ever find to life. And what will be the joy of being alive in a life we are no longer able to begin to grasp, even as minimally as we ever get to do?

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Life goes on, it does go on.

And yes, God bless the little boys sitting on the edge of the field,

their feet still dangling, their mouths still smiling

openly, with nothing to hide back.

They make me forget the years, the tears.

They make me remember me, when I was I.

They don’t know that they will one day be who I am now, when I am again far from here, from this other self.

They, too, will forget,

they, too, will smile less, when their feet touch the ground,

they, too, will overlook the little children of the wide smiles, with only a day to live but as long as a millennium.

Where will they be then? Where will we all be?

Where are we doomed to be, us, the people of no tears, the people with too little time for sadness,

the indecent ones who would rather have a frown than a tear?

Who will forgive us? Who will claim us as His creatures?

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Year -1000ºC

You, with your heightened personal level,

you, with your big words and thick books and works, all holier knowledge,

What good has it done you?

With your magnetic fields engulfing

your heart and your brain,

and the laughter and cheer of other alikes

What good, again?

You old freak, saying any old lie,

You’re a fake!

You’re a fake!

You’re a fraud!


Try to undecipher the mathemathics of my life,

or draw a map of its morphology and telluric motions.

Can you please do that for me?

Can you save me from the sorrow of this second to come?

You’re now letting your heart

melt and be spilled down the drainage, to a pit

which equals the endless night

of your soul.

You’re now ready to die

-a soldier of life, you-

energy all spent.

Tell me: what good has it served?

Ready to jump over the fence,

to be wolfed by the big night behind this great wall of white.

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With all my life behind me and ahead

And with all that I know now,void of strength,

tiny and fragile like a

green newborn bloom, or…

I can only say that I should have known (or, rather

just didn’t I always know?)

that I would end up here and now and

because it’s a whole life on the margin

a whole lifetime of footnotes and asterisks

of exceptions and glossaries,

separate terms, or, rather, one-definition words

a strange phenomenon in itself, years after years after many

but I always kind of hoped, dreamed, played with

-a crazy thought, I now know-

that things would someday someway be just like

in the movies or the way they are for the bad guys, who

in reality (as we all now know)

get the girl and win it all, but

with all that I’ve seen and lived, I still want to

live another day, wake another day, to struggle

(even if I fall flat often, exhausted,


give my heart with every breathe, just to see

the following minute, the following second, just to


just to be filled with the pride

(exactly like vitamin water for rose roots and petals)

of fighting one more day, for me, for you

of standing up one more day, against them, against the world and everyone,

to shower in the savage pride, in the raw glory

of being a comet in a parallel orbit

just exactly as away from the next as it would take

to be nearly as close, but also

inevitably dejected, aloof

always the star of my life, but

its only witness as well


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Letter to myself

18 August 2009

I wrote this last night:


the love you’ve once had, for people, for things in your life, for life itself… that love is never lost, even when the object of it (or the subject that ignited or inspired it) is gone or is no longer active… the love you’ve had is yours before anything else… it is in your heart forever… it is a treasure, it is the breath of God into you… it is the stardust and the original clay… it is always yours. That’s why we must not cry when we lose someone or something whom we’ve had love for… the love is never gone. Look back on the memories, and the love will resurface, and it will embrace you, and it will keep you warm. You are not the same person you used to be. You are better, you are stronger, you are closer to God, because you have loved.

But when I wrote this, I firmly believed it, and I still do. I will say more: it was a revelation for me. Here I am, typing in my weird manner, with hands fully lifted over the key pad. Writing things that cross my mind. Doing nothing, contemplating, realizing. When I wrote that, I was writing the truest words. The day had been very long, ensuing a night just as long. But when I wrote that, when I thought it as the words came from my mouth lying on the bed (they were both one thing, simultaneous), I had thought, well, I have just realized this, and I am fully empowered, because it is true… the love I have had is always mine, and is mine before being anything else. It never leaves my body, my heart. It has broadened the natural boundaries of my heart. It has made my heart roomier and my life experience richer.

Think of your life as a loaf of bread. When you are gone, or when the person or the object you loved is gone (for whatever reason), a new slice is cut. It is not gone, it simply abandons its first format. Does this make sense? Anyway, that’s that. The beauty of that moment, of that reality. Nothing ever leaves you. You can leave the bad moments behind, only come up with the good parts. There is always some result that you can keep in your heart. The knife cuts, but it doesn’t wound. It produces something. It reshapes the original material into something new, better, easier to handle. That’s what happens in life.

There are many things I still don’t know how to process adequately, and perhaps I never will. I have to accept that. Destiny is all about acceptation of things that you cannot change and you probably never will be able to change. It is about that, and the sooner you learn that, the better equipped you will be for life. As I type these words, I look back on my past, on the things that have made me happy at different stages of my life, and I realize that they are in fact all mine, but not only that. They are my little world. My little world is who I am. It is not a separate entity from me, nor is it a getaway where I run to when I want to isolate myself. No. It is not a capsule. It is just a cave where I sit sometimes. I listen to the silence around me, I look down at my body, my legs slightly curved under my body, my hands sometimes open and others closed as fists. I let go. I remember the things that I love. They are all mine, they come back to comfort me. It doesn’t matter who else likes these things and who doesn’t. It doesn’t matter that some think they are ridiculous things to love or that they make fun of them. They are mine, they are mine. They travel with me wherever I go. This love of mine will never leave. It is all mine. It is ours, it expands well beyond me (and that’s the way it’s supposed to be, precisely), but it is mine. It emerges from my heart, like a tidal wave. It engulfs me, it embraces me, it drowns me. It is my passion, my heart, my passion, my death. My little death every moment. My heartache, yes, every moment. Secret little instants of joy, all mine, left in my hands like little chests of treasures. Open them and each of them contains a gift. They are mine, all mine, forever. I will treasure them in my heart. They will always be with me, conforming the person I am. And they will bring me with them to my old age, an old lady spent, a long life experience, cherished memories, hard times had and gone through. And after all else is gone, my love, all the love that I’ve ever had, every single moment and teardrop and drop of blood spent, they will return to me, because they had never been gone to begin with. Mine, all mine. When my soul separates from my deceased and decayed body, all it will have will be the love I’ve ever had. Mine, all mine. Greater and truer than my human form, greater and truer than my memories, and above all greater and truer than the pain. Liberating me from the pain, validating my tears, putting me to sleep, joyous sleep. Filling my tired soul with peace. This is all that it was, but this is everything you will ever be. Don’t be ashamed of yourself. You did the best you could. Don’t look back in shame, or in bitterness. Your love has saved you. Your love is God. Your love is all you are. Yours, all yours.

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