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te (le) olog The Same Old Fears



Saramago è stato dunque un uomo e un intellettuale di nessuna ammissione metafisica, nailed to the last in his stubborn belief in historical materialism, Marxism alias. Autocollocatosi clearly on the side of the evangelical cornfield weeds, declared sleepless at the thought of the Crusades or the Inquisition, forgetting the memory of the gulag, the "purges" of genocide, cultural and religious samizdat.


I quote from an article by Claudio Toscani (Osservatore Romano) on José Saramago, one of the biggest names in contemporary European literature.
I state that I speak out of turn, not knowing that even a journalist and writer, to whom I can only remember only the incipit de The Stone Raft, left too early because I had no suitable concentration to addentrarmici. That said, I can not outraged by the article, however well written, an extremist accusation of extremism and to conceal the conviction of being right. I wonder, sincerely curious why some Catholics (usually those at the top, evidently the Eye of God up there can not see them) they automatically own the attributes of divinity adored - and here ricito Toscani order: omnipotence, omniscience, all-seeing . What then, I enjoy knowing how the followers of any sect can put God and science in the same sentence, where the latter is subject to the first.
annoys me, discomfort, DISCOMFORT that as an educated person should definitely be this cynical reviewer, is cast with such ferocity against an author on certain measurable yardsticks much more relevant to the metaphysical approach existence , regardless of his poetry, even by his fluency.

Why, Mr. Toscani, did not speak particularly of this, without omitting even the negative reviews? Do not you think that a criticism of style, talent, and ultimately the work of a lifetime, even if the limit dell'insofferenza would was a much more worthy epitaph? Not to mention that we're all sad to hear the various ambassadors of different ideologies now dead or almost every opportunity to blast each other's wrongs: you had Torquemada, they had Stalin, you Boniface VIII and their Mengele ... I have done this but you've done that one, Gne Gne campaigns. Well, enough, for god - yes, the your God, do it for him if not for me. Grow, dammit, evolvetevi if you want to save face to your Thinking otherwise closed mouth and pen in your pocket, you do more than look good.

So simplistic, inappropriate and indeed I found her child belabor partisan issues, as they say, as long as you are leaving, and then just waste. It is a pity that with each passing day it is found as the great Dante had been wrong: the high ball of the Catholic religion are not much less celestial celestial, but dense black smoke that the next boss will look good from clear, (for once) in spite of the rite.

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I Used To Have an LJ Inglese, a long time in August For the first time in years, today I'm on my Inglese mood again, so I'll try to write That Way. This afternoon
We had Our first rehearsal for a little Pink Floyd tribute we're gonna play for my parents. Well, for my dad , in fact; he is the hopeless addicted.
Rehearsal was pretty good, but one more time my enthusiasm had turned into a delusion, finding myself totally unprepared and most of all so, so reluctant to sing . I was just... frozen, unemotional.
My head constantly stops me, puts me backwards into my fears. You won’t do that, you can’t, your voice is still so out of control, so boring, so thin anyone wouldn’t listen to it - just because I wouldn’t. It’s so... colourless. Despite my feelings - ‘cause when I listen to everything, my first impulse is to sing it, and I don’t feel satisfied until I “take possession” for vocals, or melody - my voice refuse to let itself go. Freud would maybe say Your way of singing is just as your life approach , but it’s not very helpful.
It’s all a matter of immaturity and shyness. If I’d like my voice, I’d spread it out loud, full of energy and joy. But when it’s time to do it, I simply cannot. Even when I listen to young and very good singers who have keen but beautiful voices, I think mine won’t ever become so pure and well controlled: I am too fragile and strengthless. My midriff gets tired in a moment, and I don’t trust it enough to devolve my voice upon. Sometimes, when I sing alone at home, I think I’m on the right way, that now my voice is getting stronger and pure... but then I put myself on probation, and find I’m not so good. In fact, I’m not good at all, and I’m scared to discover I could never improve more than that.
Sometimes I can figure the voice as well as if it would be touched with hands; it’s kinda a soft, long ribbon that come out from the mouth, taking sort of a memory of the entire singer body. The ribbon is vivid, but it does not hurt, nor annoying; it’s rather so wrapping that you would let yourself lying into its embrace. But voice is also an idea, a body’s thought ; when it’s still inside, it’s like a plasticine, modelled by muscles and breath, that bounces jolly upon flesh and bones, before being sustained by the midriff, and by it given, with decision and gentleness, to ears and soul.
Singing it’s like stroking someone you love: you can’t do it with fear and concern, but you also have to be kind, gracious, and full of passion. This is the start, anyway; when things will get deeper, you can also be rough, hard, even merciless...
When I think about it, and I know I can feel so well the aim of singing, I cannot understand why I can’t be a singer at the same time. As it’s always been in my life, I have theory, but not practice.
Well, maybe I can’t sing also because I have not a style, and I think I don’t have a style because I’d love singing everything, from madrigali to rock, from folk to blues... I’ve just a taste and (I hope!) partiality for blues , but I wouldn’t really choose: it’s a waste of possibilities...
Indeed, today I’ve been worse than ever. Also the atmosphere was not the best , but I could have done lots better anyhow. I have to turn my brain off, or I will always be a singing lamer -______-
Next time I gotta drink a bit and/or feel more than I think . I know I have some sensitivity to music, it’s just... uneducated. Why can’t I turn it out?

Well, yes, today’s just a bad day. I am so thoughtful, and feel so lonely and disregarded... except for a songift from a good good friend of mine, and a sweet message from another one, and the memory of a third who’s not here anymore, to bring me such a wonderful emotion, like I’ve been hunged by the three of them together. I wept like a child.
Even worst days have a little ray of sun to light them up and make you curious to find how the next will be.