“Literature is the revolt against accepted things”…Maria Teresa Liuzzo exemplifies these wise sayings and goes further… Transforming consciousness into Art or Love.
(Peter Russell, several times nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature)
Culture is not a stage, nor a circus, but a meeting point and a reference for the word that lives, breathes and is a subject because it has its own soul, acts, takes on body and dimension. The whole gives it authority, participation, value, like the embryo that, although not transformed into a newborn, is already a subject of law. Both, although in gestation, inhabit two different "planes" with the same intensity. Both create, rejoice and suffer feeding on the same breath and receiving oxygen from the same source. Culture is made of blood and ink, it is unique and irreplaceable and the bond between heart and animus will never break. Neither will betray the other. It knows life, the cyclical nature of eternal blossoming, it has a stasis to sprout into a bud " Nihil impossibile, omnia possibilia ". A petal of light is enough to let a verse emerge, images buried in our subconscious, freeing them from the darkness of existence, uprooting them from the existential rot to transform them into formal perfection, a dance of emotions, depth of thought and language. The Globalization that is so much talked about would like to erase the History of the world as if it were chalk on a blackboard and not Humanity made of flesh and blood. This would benefit the strong powers to the detriment of those who are increasingly poor and abandoned to a cruel fate. It would certainly not be an act of love, but a factor of uncommon interests, therefore not universal. I would agree with the parts that concern human rights and would exclude the single thought. We were created in the image of God (whatever it is called, respect for all religions) and, therefore, absolute masters of our thoughts that must be and remain eternal and inviolable. Yes to freedom of thought, no to coercion. Each of us has his or her own way of seeing and thinking. We can be equal humanly, we are all brothers, children of the world but we have been created and educated to customs and habits that vary among themselves: skin color, races, languages, climate, similar somatic features, but never the same. If the Creator of the world had wanted otherwise he would have already done it: we would be one race, we would speak the same language, we would have the same skin color, there would be only day or night, summer or winter. Instead we have the seasons, the sea, the rivers, the oceans, only wealth or the same poverty, we would all be the same height, the same color of eyes or hair. The same would have happened with plants, animals, fish, birds. We were born to be different, like biological diversity, there is no confusion but only perfection. Each of us has a name, a country, a story, a pain or a joy in the heart. How can it be the other? We would be robots built in series. But we are human and we must never forget it. We are not immortal. We have a soul and we are unique in our diversity. Each of us has a name that is our passport and registry document, the path of our existence to be unique, to be ourselves. All this to distinguish ourselves and not to confuse us like a bundle of grass. It seems that everything is going into confusion. Never lose sight of the only reason that applies to everyone: Respect! The word is a bee that has found freedom in its flower and in the power of the encounter. Everyone writes, everyone copies: butchers, gravediggers, fishmongers. They raid phrases, words, names, fashions. Many people are dissatisfied, they have forgotten the priority of values (if they ever had them). They are sneaky like a hidden evil, they plot and tremble like traitors at the Border. We have reached the absurd. Even worse, the relationship with people who pretend to have non-existent illnesses, using the worst deceptions born of their perfidy, offending the real sick. The reason is to get rid of anyone they recognize as better than them, and who feels sorry for the tricks of these hacks and mangy foxes, unscrupulous harpies, subscribers to lies and associated with the worst crime. We have thus identified and described the executioner who turns into a victim. These cabaret women, worthy companions of drunken and smelly sailors in the holds, adventurers in transit, who for them represent the only disadvantage of an eternal and atavistic obsession. The same one that will tear them apart the moment life seems more beautiful than the dream. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a circus, where the hags of the moment put themselves on the pulpit, drawn in the face and with crow's feet, ready to train sheep, those same scattered sheep that would have ended up at the bottom of the ravine if there had not been the command of the stick and the guidance of the dogs. It is not like being in ecstasy in a dance hall, the night comes and immediately reaches you "death", before dawn the evening will surprise you. You are not part of the mystery and like (open) and infected wounds you will remain attached to the putridity of sterile vowels and agonizing sentences. Evil will never be a star of literary wisdom, nor the universal beauty of Literature. There are many gigolos and crows tangled up in their guts, rejected even by a shred of an image. Yet they are all tailgating the "winner's" chariot. Learn to fight, without copying the "sweat" of those who sacrificed themselves to obtain the deserved goal, otherwise you will never be free but rather slaves of the "Zero" that you are so boldly proclaiming. Do not be a crutch of pain by continuing to kneel. Risk and fight with honor.
As is well known, zero needs numbers to emerge from anonymity. All you have to do is show off to achieve your goal, in other words expose yourself as a commodity in a shop window. As St. Pio of Pietrelcina said, “He who shows, sells”: hasn’t life become a free market? Where have the real writers and poets gone? Where are the values? Let’s draw a veil of silence over those pseudo-men who allow themselves to be fooled by the flounce of a skirt and the smile of a hyena, proving to be puppets and losing their self-respect. To write, you have to be free and not become slaves to mutual crutches, the dark and malleable part of the various literary consortiums and mafias. Writing is air, light, freedom. You have to tear away the chains, come out of the “shell” of subservience, walk with yourself, question your conscience, reclaim your identity. The past is the son of the present and the father who projects us into the future. We must rebel against falsehood, so that it never becomes "the force of law", the "law of force" (PB), live and not vegetate, distance ourselves from that instrumental and diabolical chaos of hyperconnection. We are not machines built in series, we are human beings: unique. It is mandatory to take note of it and assume our own responsibilities of thought, we are sentient beings and not puppets. Sometimes a seascape, a fiery sunset, a thread of stars under the rain is enough to amaze us, to see a flower open like the blink of an eye, the rainbow that traces a bridge in the sky and while it paints it we witness the few minutes of its metamorphosis, like the sun that opens its fingers while the waves sob among the rocks. Everything is enriched by our light, by our knowledge and has a different flavor because the light belongs only to those who possess it and give it to others without receiving it from anyone. But the "dwarves", especially the " majorettes " of the moment are perfect leeches. Killer whales thirsty for blood and power. The strange couple of skilled acrobats live with the sole purpose of creating problems for others. The truth, however, is a brave Amazon, it shows its claws and fights like a tiger. Life belongs to those who possess it, to no one else. No one can unpack it for their own use and consumption. We are characters of ourselves, children of time and not presences born from fantasy. Only with dialogue and cultivating respect can we reach serenity of spirit and the utopia of peace. It is important to cultivate solitude, dreams and needs after having set up altars of tears. They compared us to pieces of paper to smear us and then shred us, they wanted to take possession of our existence, often to give it to others, as you do when you kick a ball, then throw it away and scatter it like a handful of confetti. We must not let ourselves be influenced or intimidated but live our life without trying to manage that of others. Never forget that the world is a subscriber to lies and whoever betrays once, betrays always. But when patience knocks on our door it will whisper to us that it too is slow as a snail and drags itself through time with its silver slime. We have experienced that the storms of life can be short or long, we have embraced those who sought comfort and understanding, that same understanding that one day not far off could come back to look for us. It recommends us to be "shrewd as snakes" and not "candid as doves", without underestimating the kind words that will reach us in a sneaky way, with a maternal or paternal manner. You cannot deceive your own soul. There is an army of talkers, false merchants, and suburban women around. Some of them live like vegetables, others like parasites. In the prodigy of poetry - the highest form of writing - passion and the sweetness of love coexist in the prodigious binomial of a fragment of eternity. Writing is a sensorial expanse where identity is sacred and inviolable and research is a precious asset for all and not the exclusive property of the privileged. We must flee from those who disturb our balance. We are the branches and the trunk of life, we are roots and we refuse to embody the shadows of a ball of yarn. The song of life is not a bet, nor a game of football or chess. We must let the words rest, like flour in sourdough, a shell in the sand. We must be the rustling of palm trees that cry but eventually reconcile with the wind, closed inside a pain perceived late that leaves time as it finds it. But aren't it precisely the facts that describe History? Cultural and intellectual dialogue must equip itself with a shield, and with Ockham's razor to reach and strengthen the prefixed port of call, the safe harbor. But it is destined to fail where the ego triumphs undeservedly to the detriment of others. Those who support it risk gathering only ashes. We embrace what makes us feel good and the people who generate light by making us savor the juice of their presence, distancing ourselves from the squalor that continues to disturb our serenity. Not all things can change, but we can change. I believe that our heart is the Garden of Eden. There the human mind finds strength in its limit and manages to build bridges, ports, and endless skies to be able to make its pain fly beyond the stigmata and bleeding chains of the intellect. In a kaleidoscope of images, the inner time is reflected, always tense between research and hope, like a thread in the labyrinth of the unconscious. Isn't it true that everything is reborn from chaos?
Learn to shine alone without wearing rags of hope, even if begging is very fashionable on social media and beyond. Be like the snow at dusk when it kisses the rose and the wind that suddenly rises detaches the pine cone from the branch and as it falls it raises the cheek. We flee and will flee from the ambiguities with which you adorn your fingers, arms, neck, ears with fake jewelry that shine in the indescribable squalor like shards of bottles in the sun. Do it before the water falls asleep and sleep drags you into the swamp. False prophets appear like angels fallen from heaven, but in their veins they have the blood of demons, they believe themselves invincible and they sow hatred like millet. They are scattered everywhere, they are sharks that run attracted by the smell of blood. These fake personalities will fall before the tightrope walkers who swing on the wire of the trapeze: they are modern acrobats in search of a contested "fame". They will be branches dragged by the wind and thrown adrift. They have no plans and no intention of studying, they ignore sacrifice, they are devoid of sensitivity and scruples. They feel no shame in asking, or rather begging for favors, such as being voted in useless contests rigged in the dark. All this to get a few more likes that allow the piranha of the moment to overwhelm other people's pages with asphyxiating shares and continuously spinning tags . Between megalomaniacs and fanatics, the world gets worse as it ages. We are surrounded by miles of photos stuck everywhere like stamps, similar to those displayed on tombstones. But, in addition to all these ridiculous apparitions, all these people selling "fake smoke", what have they produced of their own? From the crow to the donkey, even the ox, the goose and the deer translate. Many rely on the automatic translator, which like them is devoid of emotions, they don't even think about arranging verbs and adjectives nor do they worry about giving meaning to the writing. They are praised as "translators", naturally damaging the unfortunate unaware of such an outrage, but no less guilty of the unjust ridiculous applause, which is addressed by those who already know and are more aware of the slime the world is wallowing in. Everything that is artificial is born from an ignoble lie and therefore harmful. No one can replace human nature starting with artificial intelligence. Just think of a vacuum cleaner. It recovers the crumbs and dust, but without having generated them, the same is true for the words that are translated by improvised translators, and this is followed by a string of merits for non-existent literary works, such as calling themselves essayists, editors, poets, journalists, literary critics, etc. They are headless, and from the top of their cable car their energy is zero km. Translating poetry is very difficult and never does justice to those who write it. The better the poet who translates, the higher the yield, daughter of truth. My character is incorruptible, I will never kneel to dishonesty or any kind of blackmail. I will never submit to lies. Studying is sacrifice, renunciation, pain, hope, the unknown that allows us to live many lives. It fills the holes that the snowfall leaves when the "memory" falters. Only the candor of study can make us human and unique on the stage of emotions, distant and strangers to a golden cage of bars and illusions. The nakedness of my soul will be my tomb and on it the flowers of lies will never grow. Through study we will encounter quicksand, but also thorny roads that will transform into blue oceans and flowery hills. We will not find walls of snakes ready to crush us or inoculate us with poison. The heart will be free to fly like swallows that do not fear the shots that graze them, that even without knowing where the journey will take them and despite the storm advancing, will be able to build their nest the moment they encounter the first ray of sunshine. These extras are constantly increasing, and have an abnormal, schizophrenic rhythm. Having obtained the "consolation" of the moment, they turn to other individuals with the sole purpose of obtaining visibility, without any restraint. They are part of that category of people who have developed a sense of right but not that of duty. Culture is blood, sacrifice, renunciation, no cabaret but facts. Hundreds of anthologies are churned out, a tasteless stew just to appear, then, we move on to the second and so on to fill pages that are harmful to true poets and writers. Ink is wasted to write names of little value not only literary, but often also ethical, social and moral. They are all on display like so many specimens escaping from a zoo and all worthy of participating in the “Corrida” (Italian television program “Dilettanti allo sbaraglio” directed initially by the unforgettable Corrado and still today by the talented Amadeus). So we ask ourselves: “What have these people written? Which accredited Italian or foreign critic has spent a single word for them? What criticism do they have to count in a literary context?” It is a useless race theirs even if they try, obsessed as they are, to damage as well as copy and steal ideas and writings that belong to true talents and with which they will never be able to compete. Theirs is only a game of chance destined to fail, like all things without solid and truthful foundations. I often fight with my thoughts, I prefer to be an orphan but never to distance myself from what is light and warmth. But the presumptuous gigolos of the word prefer to keep quiet so as not to offend the braggarts, the false talents, the usurpers, the liars, the violent in exchange for a "catwalk". They do not understand the harm they do to themselves by refusing to be themselves in the name of justice and the ultimate truth. We must distance ourselves from these groups, from their revenge and curses, from their abuses and provocations. They would have wanted to suppress me if only they could because it was the only way they had to emerge. In life, writing is like music, it replaces the notes, the heart is a pentagram where hope is the key of G that will not allow the hearts of the innocent and the exiles to be mowed down. They would have wanted to replace love with hate so that we could not rediscover respect, loyalty, comfort, peace, the security of being, the values of life and the sharing of beauty. In this mad rush they do not even stop during the Christmas holidays, they ignore the meaning of this Holiday. They don't think for a moment about the poverty in which the world lies, about the human and religious wreckage, about the use and abuse of weapons that give birth to mountains of deaths and rubble, while blood spreads like wildfire. They don't think about the many derelicts who sleep in beds made of cardboard, or the cold under bridges, about the children who walk in the squares, trembling like leaves waiting to hold an imaginary coin that will never arrive. No one thinks about the hungry animals soaked in rain and mud when they are swallowed up by the deadly cold of the night. Then we find the improvised poets who spring up like poisonous mushrooms using children as rubble, mistreating them in their verses, but without doing anything to avert the hunger and pain of these innocents. Their dry and abandoned little bodies resemble so many Christmas trees. The tears that fall from their eyes, larger than their faces, act as decorations with their bitter glitter. The priority of this tragedy does not affect anyone, but is given to fake contests. They pretend to be friends and do everything to make you fall into their traps blinded by jealousy and envy. Armed to the marrow with revenge, they equip themselves with "sophisticated" verbal weapons to discredit those they will never be able to surpass. They invent everything and often devise with cunning and blackmail, to apostrophize the name of the chosen victim to put him "in the shade" - with relative photos obviously without the knowledge of the unfortunate woman - brazenly warning the interlocutor: "If you publish this, you're done with me". It follows that if the other has an interest in appearing (a vile and dishonest exchange) the game is done. The stench of corruption is greater than the legendary one of the Augean stables. The two losers sign the shady pact and the game is done (at least temporarily) but with time, life teacher, all the manure comes to the surface, as the truth, even if limping, arrives. Many people are affected by Procrustes Syndrome, ruthless towards the only person they have not been able to maneuver, they become bad and dangerous for society. Even though they are recognized as disturbed personalities, they are praised by various "cronies" and companions in misfortune for their own gain, in exchange for favors that have nothing to do with real cultural exchanges. And they continue to praise them to gain visibility; we are talking about the same people who only a few days ago had criticized them and described them with the worst attributes. Fortunately, someone had time to "show them the door", disgusted and indignant by that persistent hostile and domineering behavior, removing them forever from their journalistic offices. The poor harpy, responsible for those unfortunate events, had forgotten that in someone else's house one is a guest and not a master.
The verb pretendere is constantly conjugated, everyone asks without even knowing you as if they were throwing bait into the sea waiting for the fish to bite the hook.
None of them ask themselves what they are able to offer and under what title they should receive something, often from illustrious strangers. I have found a pitiful role in women, in these modern times of freedom or rather libertinism, who, although passable, and sometimes even beautiful, have cold eyes, and show those who are able to see beyond their gaze, their interest and the glacial absence of their soul. They ignore that adolescence has no tomorrow, that the body is more precise than a clock, that it marks time without having pity on anyone. They think they are the custodians of the truth, that merit is their exclusive property, they forget that all life is enclosed in a single season, so short is man's time compared to infinity. None of them thinks about it, their main interest is to prevaricate, all taken by selfishness and narcissism they forget that no one is eternal and that everything is destined to end. Forget that we are guests on earth and not masters and as the years go by we realize that our life, which seemed eternal, has only been a sunny day. We no longer fight for freedom, they have forgotten that culture is the cradle of civilizations and the task of the poet and writer is to educate for peace. Nobody talks about peace, the important thing is to cheat. The world is no longer our home but an airport, a port, a beach, a crazy platform where many try to cheat by running away from the truth. Around you see poor failed devils and cocottes looking for fame in the company of mediocre magicians. They expose themselves like carpets on the beaches, like fruit on a market stall, in shop windows as souvenirs or antiques, in newsstands and on social media. Italy was the capital of culture in the world, the one that dominated for centuries when "Rome was caput mundi". Italy took the name of Calabria which in ancient times was called Italia Prima, a region in the south, shaped like a boot where I was born, raised and live. The whole story is contained in an Anthological Work entitled “Calabria Italia prima- Tremila anni di Storia Arte e Cultura nella Terra Dei Miti” page 368 edited by the director and writer Paolo Borruto. Few know that simplicity is the most beautiful dress to wear. He who is not educated to peace and wants war in many aspects despises life. They exhibit on stalls, during competitions repeating verses “worn out” by use and abuse, over time - like the hoe that the farmer passed to his son after inheriting it from his father and he from his grandfather: phrases that know nothing. I am reminded of the Franciscan friar, philosopher and politician William of Ockham, Professor in 1319 at Oxford and his important mental model on the brevity of speech where he explained how important and precious the "pulp" was if it condensed the thought without carrying it to the long term, without obtaining anything from it if not an unsolved puzzle, in other ways I am reminded of the poet Geppo Tedeschi (among the fathers of Futurism) who also in poetry asked: "synthesis, synthesis, synthesis". In a recent interview with the great Personaggio Astrit Lulushi, philosopher, historian, literary and art critic, poet and journalist of "La Voce dell'America", a writer of Albanian nationality but an American citizen for about forty years, regarding the cultural experience of the Authors he answered me as follows: "Talent and life experience remain the basis of all writing, as in everything else. What I must clarify is: "Do what you have to do, not what you have to know"!
*****
A question arises spontaneously: if we hypothetically exclude men from the media circuit - and in truth they are much fewer in number than women - the first is followed by a second question that forces us to reflect: but these women, angels of the hearth, light years away from the famous saying, do not have a home, a family, a husband, children, a job, an attitude that is not just that of a mannequin? Who are these figures in reality? What does this plethora do, like a loose cannon perpetually enslaved by visibility to the point of annihilating itself and the family, perpetuating like an avalanche 24 hours a day as if it were in an indefinite hypnotic state? Where are the real mothers, sisters, friends, relatives, family, the beating heart of the human and social nucleus? Regression has surpassed progress. Emotions are dead, we live on images that have the coldness of marble. Around clouded minds, disturbing thoughts, dramas, walking skeletons, strange figures that drag themselves like a herd of clouds - Their sentences are only empty shells, but for those who are not unwary will feel the claws and hear the mousetrap snapping. They preach well and rake badly. They are convinced that they are fooling everyone by talking about peace, well-being and brotherhood, to the point of exposing themselves with the usual brazen face, of writing and spreading behavioral laws that concern others, and that instead they use as decorations. When man will cancel himself, and woman will continue to perpetuate in her libertinism by inverting the role of beast that she often plays, to then pretend to be the victim of the situations that she herself has created, there will be no future for the innocent. There will be no victories and in the not-so-distant prophecy even the last rose of human defeat will be destined to die. We will see the dawn dying, while in silence, Death will offer each of us his milk.
Note*
“Liuzzo’s poetry seems to me to tell us the story of the soul completely crushed and annulled by existential life. If this were all, I would not be here today, to pay homage to a voice that is not only supremely poetic but also visionary and prophetic. If nine-tenths of the text consist of a terrible denunciation of human lives, both in history and in the present, one-tenth reserves for us hope, faith and grace, as we participate in the infinite, the sacred, the Divine...” Liuzzo’s discourse seems to be simultaneously and inextricably on three different levels of body, psyche and spirit. This will be an almost insurmountable stumbling block for the rational or purely logical mind, but for the imaginative and intuitive mind, that is, the integral, totalizing, all-encompassing mind, it will be a source of energy and vision, as well as joy...”. To quote the Spanish philosopher José Bergamin: “Poetry had - when it wanted / more than a wanting to know, a knowing / that it did not want: which is a taste of poetry / O wise wisdom! savoring non-being...” And this wise wisdom expressed by Maria Teresa Liuzzo in a highly poetic language that attracts and enchants me. It can be compared to that splendid chapter 17 of the Wisdom of Solomon that deals with “the prisoners of darkness” (which is us).
Peter Russell
Reggio Calabria 18.11.1993, F. Cilea Municipal Theatre
Presentation of the collection Apeiron by Maria Teresa Liuzzo
