refuge
When I think of a refuge in an urban space, the first thing that comes to mind is a bridge.
Maybe because when I was a kid I often heard this expression ‘living under a bridge’. Or it is because when you are cycling and it suddenly starts raining, the only shelter available is a bridge. Could ibe the fact that recently given the rising rental prices, some people have started to consider the bridge as a housing solution.
I think the bridge is a democratic structure, it offers shelter to everyone: beautiful, ugly, fat and thin, junkies and doctors, ignorants and professors. Occasionally there are parties under the bridge and if there were more bridges there would certainly be fewer castaways. The bridge joins two pieces of land horizontally so that you can go from one side to the other and separates what is above from what is below.
When it rains I stand under the bridge listening to the train screeching and the vehicles roaring. On fine days I stand above and watch the leaves, bottles and rubbish piled up by the water at the edges of the canals.
violence
journey
From dawn to dusk someone dreams,
From a desert island with familiar faces to begin a journey.
By the light of a glowing bulb, it writes
songs, and in the darkness it imagines the colours of this bystander's life.
In the simplicity of a new bud
one cannot imagine the misery of a day spent under a neon light.
Poverty does not exist,
greasy hands are soft and exploitation breeds better beings.
We leave the fields to wilt under the sun,
we leave the bed unmade so we won't return.
Put on the new record of civilisation, Now we are citizens.
Today leave the war and find hostility.
Dry land is a step away,
count: one, two, three and another silence becomes assent.
One, two, three - one: is the rhythm of our steps.
In the silence and din, rejoice in the sunrise from the top of the apartment building.
Birds of
passage
Dall’alba al tramonto qualcuno sogna,
Da un’isola deserta dai volti familiari di iniziare un viaggio.
Dalla luce di una lampadina incandescente, scrive
Canzoni, e nell’oscurità immagina i colori di questa vita da passante.
Nella semplicita di un nuovo germoglio,
Non si puo immaginare la miseria di una giornata trascorsa sotto le luci al neon.
La povertà non esiste,
Le mani sporche di grasso sono morbide e lo sfruttamento genera uomini migliori.
Lasciamo i campi ad aridire sotto il sole,
Lasciamo il letto sfatto tanto non ritorneremo,
Metti su il nuovo disco della civiltà, adesso siamo cittadini.
Oggi lasciamo la guerra e troviamo ostilità.
La terra ferma è ad un passo,
conta:
uno, due, tre e un’altro silenzio diventa assenso.
Uno, due, tre — uno: è il ritmo del nostro passo.
Nel silenzio e nel frastuono, gioisci dell’alba dall’alto del condominio.
Birds of
passage
X Agosto
—Pscoli
San Lorenzo, Io lo so perché tanto
di stelle per l’aria tranquilla
arde e cade, perché sì gran pianto
nel concavo cielo sfavilla.
Ritornava una rondine al tetto:
l’uccisero: cadde tra spini:
ella aveva nel becco un insetto:
la cena dei suoi rondinini.
Ora è là come in croce, che tende
quel verme a quel cielo lontano;
e il suo nido è nell’ombra, che attende,
che pigola sempre più piano.
Anche un uomo tornava al suo nido:
l’uccisero: disse: Perdono;
e restò negli aperti occhi un grido
portava due bambole in dono…
Ora là, nella casa romita,
lo aspettano, aspettano in vano:
egli immobile, attonito, addita
le bambole al cielo lontano.
E tu, Cielo, dall’alto dei mondi
sereni, infinito, immortale,
oh! d’un pianto di stelle lo inondi
quest’atomo opaco del Male!
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From farm
to city
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From island
to land
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From light
to darkness
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From simplicity
to misery
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From poor
to exploited
}}
From family
to community
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From war
to hostile
}}
From sun
to dawn
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culture
hostile
city
A transient, one who is here today and gone tomorrow. For example, Mary moves nearly every year; she's a true bird of passage. This phrase transfers the literal meaning of a migrating bird to human behavior
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;
;
;
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urban rituals
capoeira
Quem é homem de bem
Não trai!
O amor que lhe quer
Seu bem!
Quem diz muito que vai
Não vai!
Assim como não vai
Não vem!
Quem de dentro de si
Não sai!
Vai morrer sem amar
Ninguém!
O dinheiro de quem
Não dá
É o trabalho de quem
Não tem!
Capoeira que é bom
Não cai!
E se um dia ele cai
Cai bem!
Capoeira me mandou
Dizer que já chegou
Chegou para lutar
Berimbau me confirmou
Vai ter briga de amor
Tristeza camará
Se não tivesse o amor
Se não tivesse o amor
Se não tivesse essa dor
Se não tivesse essa dor
E se não tivesse o sofrer
E se não tivesse o sofrer
E se não tivesse o chorar
E se não tivesse o chorar
Melhor era tudo se acabar
Melhor era tudo se acabar
Eu amei, amei demais
O que eu sofri por causa de amor ninguém sofreu
Eu chorei, perdi a paz
Mas o que eu sei é que ninguém nunca teve mais, mais do que eu
Capoeira me mandou
Dizer que já chegou
Chegou para lutar
Berimbau me confirmou
Vai ter briga de amor
Tristeza camará
bound
trust
separation
OWNERSHIP OF
THE BODY
ART & WEAPON
SPORT—MUSIC—CULTURE—HISTORY
RITUAL—THEATHER—PLAYFULNESS
Pain and horror show the worst but in a sense the best of human beings.
The oppressed take refuge in the things most dear to them. Expressing their condition through images, sounds and movements.
Holding to the things that give them life.
They need things that set them free.
f
La pelle nera, scura come la notte. Guarda le mia braccia segnate dalle catene. Dove il sangue è fuoriuscito. Ma le mie braccia sono forti.
Parallels
I look at the white smoke
coming out, from the factory chimney
on the other side of the river,
and the rusting pipes stuck in the concrete.
At the edge of the city, squeezed
like yellow leaves on the wet sidewalk
we spend our days,
gathered downstairs around the black scooters.
What divides us?
Across the river,
The fog shows only the outlines of buildings.
Here, from the red brick houses,
blurred windows conceal our middle-class life.
It's still raining outside and we sip another glass of wine.
Our neighborhood is full of liquor stores
and junkies standing outside the supermarket,
they beg for a coin and curse you if you ignore them.
Have you seen gypsies in your hood?
Like alcoholics waiting for the subway,
Standing in line at the fish shop,
Waiting for the ferry or for a green light;
Look at the death fish laying on the plastic grass.
Smoking ganja in the halal hood.
There are no liquor stores and boys wear acetate suits.
Vegetables displayed on counters, refractories and entrails,
My cousin drives around with loud music.
Shall we take a ride downtown?
Kids in procession to buy weed,
On pilgrimage with low-cost flights.
A warm light comes from bars and the stink of ammonia as well.
Enjoy the crooked orchestra of cyclists.
Rummaging through supermarket shelves,
crowded at the bar counter or
scavenging at the souvenir store.
What would you like for dinner tonight? Netflix and cocaine.