It is still a comet which carries me along unexpected trajectories to human warmth and oblivion.
Welcoming me in the spartan room but wrapped in colors, a black spider stares at me, enormous and threatening.
Far from that acid time in Florence, when I realized that the spider I saw in the curtain knob was my father's face. How many hairy, dusty male canvases in my life.
At first glance anyone would crush it and solve the problem, but I learned that even the smallest form of life is still life; I prepare for the worst and accept coexistence.
Lying on the bed in the dark, I hold a small flashlight in my hands and occasionally turn it on to check the guest or probably the host.
The last time I see him trotting towards the ceiling and this time it appears to me as a clumsy boy, a little afraid.
My awakening is full of joy for the place where I am.
I enter the forest that unfolds with a soft muffled silence.
I meet a small crowd of rocks with moss hats around one great rock, they seem like an imposing speaker and his audienc. Life throbs around me.
The path passes right in the middle, I slip away to not disturb the listening of the small gathering.
Further on here are the huge stones of the Aveto forest, if you just turn suddenly and look out of the corner of your eye, you can see small doors that open and close in a stone beat.
I walk further, under the curious gaze of a community of ferns, some wild roses try to hold me back, but finally the clearing opens, I follow the sound of the water.
Joy and freshness in the refuge of the nymphs, I smile while humming naked under the waterfall. Beside my feet a vital red gleam, stone flesh in the eddies of the stream.
I resume the journey, feeling part of this green soul. I get lost and as often happens when you stray, a happy encounter: an ancient chestnut tree with an elephant-shaped trunk.
Later they asked me how I found it, I replied that it was a message that I had to receive. It was him calling me.
To find myself
I free the silence
In light waters
I collect the whisper
Of the chestnut elephant
Voices from the kitchen
Cry of a newborn
Voice that calls
"Where is Gabriella?"
The universe is simple
Harmony of opposites.
The path starts wide and sunny, then it becomes narrower and narrower and the climb very demanding, the only sound my breath. I love the fatigue of the body that rediscovers itself and the feeling of a victorious challenge.
Then, on the way back, I find my spartan cottage, the leaf-roofed bathroom, the small vegetable garden that provides the kitchen, the stone roofs; I love everything about Shanti and sometimes I answer the bell announcing dinner.
A small kitchen where to dine all together, a very special community that offers a generous welcome but also respect for the spaces of the solitaire ones.
It could only be so, because Shanti is the project realized by three dreamers, bright souls of this place: Franco, Martina and Pippo.
Tonight in the village there is a party, along with the travelers of Shanti we land on another planet that resonates with ancient music.
Let’s start from the undefined, from the negligible, from the starting point of the spiral.
Concentric circles that repeat themselves endlessly like this polka, jingle of a peasant civilization that knew how to enjoy what it had. Modesty combined with sweetness, devoted to emotion. Good feelings imbued with wisdom come with the east wind, the Emilia region is behind that summit. So the Ligurian harshness remains, but diluted in the aromas of fried crumpets and salamelle.
Life goes round in circles this evening. Time twists around the embraces of elderly lovers. Silvery spirals move heavy bodies in children's eyes.
Synchronous bellies rub regardless of the image, heroes of the unaesthetic. The death that peers around the corner is indifferent to beauty.
I pull back in front of your collar and leash and flea collar, but my eyes silently respond to yours.
Energetic whirls of waning generations, a music band of Prato Sopra la Croce, the feast of Ferragosto.
I don't ask to feed on panelle.
The protective net is insignificant
Nothing needed but this bridge
Between the darkness of the mountain
and the three empty chairs in front of me.
At the end of the path, another path and so on.
Only the names change.
Oh yes. You're right.
Again and again I write in the dark things I don't gather.
The words are shadow lines and light cables.
Blades-hisses of shame keep me away from pastures and plebeians
Yet a waiting space emerges that involves the gaze
They are silvery blades, mirrors reflected in swirls of colors
The world was also like this, opaque and a little blurred
Where curious minds range from saturated emotions to parallel coldness.
And again and again I don't ask to move from the arrival point,
I can sway through the willows, but not transform the path.
Voices from the dark, in front of me the mountain. The night resounds with a music friend.
Voices, women, cicadas, coughing. The fresh breeze.
Let’s start again from the bells.
They will ring all night in this orange light that goes on and off continuously.
Unexpected contradictions in the game of massacre for the truth.
Which of the many?
I push beyond the fog that crosses the road rising upwards.
Unable to retrace our steps
We headed for the lake
Presumed meeting with antagonists
Everything seemed unspeakable
Adamantine and unsolved
Black and white
Sick dichotomy, desecrated by surprising separations.
I involve the last lights around my ending
The hour is late and in the dark the hidden paths shine with moon.
Reason has been lost in a thousand deceits.
Utopia is daily bread.
And the unfinished, the gesture.
In the folds of the bedspread, hidden all secrets.
I cross humans_shadows whose only small traces remain.
Let us love each other, with small kisses stolen on the corners of the mouth.
I like to take your face in my hands, look in the depth of your eyes where the soul begins, suspend the mind.
Let me love you without spoken words. Let's love each other in the uncertainty of the tomorrow and of the why.
Let’s love each other without desire of possession, like a game of paper dolls.
All Images and Original Text copyright Solo Moles - Travel One 2019
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