Giù nella carne viva

non so che faccio

qui siedo e taccio

lontano lente

affondi o mente

le ore

 

e piangi amara

sospiri avara

lontano sfumi e

dolore schiumi e

calore

di luce volta

ritorni storta e

mi mordi cane

rabbiosa - vane e


incolore


ascondi le colpe

che stanno - e storpie

la carne respira e

di lontano in silenzio

ravviva.

Prima che

Sono le tue bambine

Sono la tua immagine

Viva, in te vive.


Io ora capisco

Come quella viva

Altra dalla riva che


Stava e stupisco

Ora ora capisco

Lei ormai sì vaga


Cambiata mutata

Rinnegata dalla vita

Che di qua aveva

Prima

Prima che passasse

Che lasciasse

Che si scolorasse

E dalla riva

Eterna

Sparisse.

Einige Überlegungen zur Bühnendarstellung, entstanden aus der Vision von „Nora“ – Regie Fassbinder

 

Fassbinders „A Doll's House  “ (auf Deutsch „Nora“) ist sicherlich eine Darstellung von Ibsens Stück, die sich deutlich von allen anderen unterscheidet. Es gibt einen Text, aber der Text unterliegt einer ständigen „Deformierung“ durch den Regisseur und die ihn verkörpernden Schauspieler. Wie ein Spiel mit Spiegeln, die das gleiche Bild auf unterschiedliche Weise und aus unterschiedlichen Perspektiven reflektieren.

Dies ist bei Fassbinder sehr deutlich zu erkennen. Die gesamte Inszenierung von Ibsens Stück ist eine szenische Deformation.

Wie Pirandello sagt: „Das Werk des Schriftstellers endet genau dann, wenn er das letzte Wort geschrieben hat“, was bleibt ist szenisches Schaffen, Veränderung der Darstellung. Das gilt für alle – auch für Ibsen.

Doch eines bleibt untrennbar mit dem Autor, seiner Persönlichkeit und seinem kulturellen Hintergrund verbunden: seine Werte. Die Werte, an die er glaubt und die er in die Szene einbringt. Keine Darstellung kann diese Werte jemals ändern. Und wenn sie geändert würden, wäre es APOSTASIE.

Some reflections regarding the stage representation arisen from the vision of "Nora" - directed by Fassbinder

 

Fassbinder's "A Doll's House" (in German "Nora") is certainly a representation of Ibsen's play very different from all the others. There is a text, but the text is subjected to continuous "deformation" by the director and the actors who embody it. Like a game of mirrors, which reflect the same image in different ways and from different perspectives.

This is very evident in Fassbinder. The entire staging of Ibsen's play is a scenic deformation.

As Pirandello says "the writer's work is finished at the very point that he has finished writing the last word", the rest is scenic creation, alteration of the representation. This is valid for everyone - even for Ibsen.

But one thing remains inseparable from the author, from his personality and cultural background: his values. The values he believes in and that he brings to the scene. No representation can ever change those values. And if they should be changed, it would be APOSTASY.

Tepidly dying

 

It's Christmas today. December 25, 2023. How many Christmases... How many Christmases in my life... But I don't even remember them. Not a single one was happy. Not even one when I was a little happier than the average. Not even one that I remember. I lived, I lived so much...that I don't even feel like I've lived. And now the end begins. I feel close to the end. It's the beginning of the end.

My memories have become so thin, they are so faint that I can't even see them anymore or hear them. They died inside me...NO! they are not dead. They are buried. They are buried under layers, one layer upon layer. Layers of black thin, impalpable matter. Impenetrable.

They lie. Here is the right word: they lie buried. They rest, deep buried. But they do not rest in peace. They are restless. They want to live. They beg for a living. Do not tolerate their status. An indeterminate condition of waiting is not their nature.

Their nature is that of a wild animal, crouching in an ambush, patiently waiting for prey. And then the nature of the leap. That feline leap, sudden, makes them re-emerge from the den in which they were huddled, Ready, hungry though.

They are like black holes in which all the information is swallowed and saved, it is not destroyed. It saves itself and is again ready to inform itself when it is time for a new state. And relive.

Soon it will be spring. The snow will melt in this part of the world. The cold will loosen its grip on the body. And maybe I will be safe. Maybe the memories won't disturb me for a while, as they disturb me in the darkness when it falls early, and the grey of the sky is one with the white of the snow covering this iced land, and the eyes become blind and cannot see where one begins or the other ends.

Maybe I'll survive this winter too. I will survive the memories of a new Christmas. Every Christmas is a transfiguration. I transfigure myself again into something older yet stronger.

Isn't stronger he who no longer fears death?

Is it the approaching death that changes the colours of the memories? Which no longer makes them so urgent but subtle, invisible and insensitive. Black, like the inscrutable darkness, that falls early in winter in this northern deserted kingdom.

And they have become so inscrutable that I pay even less attention to the discomfort they deposit in the folds of the body, and the disquiet the spirit causes to my soul, due to their suffocated screamS that implore for life.

For all these years I have taken the place of their absence. I kept them in me. I kept them alive. What will become of them when I finish. Where will they end up? And who will keep me alive as I have kept them alive?

I will watch them die tepidly, as I watch me tepidly dying

La vita dei ricordi

È Natale Oggi. 25 Dicembre 2023. Quanti Natali...nella mia vita. Ma nemmeno li ricordo. Nemmeno uno era felice. Nemmeno uno che fossi un po' piú felice sopra la media. Nemmeno uno, che ricordi. Ho vissuto, ho vissuto...che nemmeno mi sembra di aver vissuto. E ora inizia la fine. Mi sento vicino alla fine. È l'inizio della fine.

I miei ricordi si sono cosí assottigliati, divenuti cosí tenui che nemmeno piú li vedo. O li sento. Sono morti dentro di me...NO! non sono morti. Sono sepolti. Sono sepolti da strato su strato di materia nera ma sottile, impalpabile. Impenetrabile.

Giacciono. Ecco questa é la parola giusta: giacciono. Riposano. Ma non in pace. Sono irrequieti. Perché vogliono vivere. Chiedono di vivere. Non tollerano il loro stato. L'averli messi in uno stato di attesa indeterminato non è la loro natura.

La loro natura è di animale selvatico, che sta accovacciato in un agguato, in attesa paziente della preda. E poi la natura del balzo. Quel balzo felino, repente, che li fa riemergere dalla tana in cui stavano rannicchiati, ma pronti, affamati.

Sono come dei buchi neri in cui si salva tutta l'nformazione che viene ingurgitata, ma non si distrugge. Si salva ed è pronta di nuovo ad informare di sé quando il momento di una nuovo stato sarà. E rivivere.

Presto sarà primavera. La neve si scioglierà in questa parte del mondo. Il freddo allenterà la presa sul corpo. E forse sarò salvo. Forse non mi inquieteranno per un po' i ricordi, come mi inquietano quando il buio scende presto, il grigio del cielo è tutt'uno con il bianco della neve e l'occhio non vede dove comincia l'uno o termina l'altro.

Forse sopravviverò anche questo inverno. Sopravviverò ai ricordi di un nuovo Natale. Ogni Natale è una trasfigurazione. Mi trasfiguro in qualcosa di più vecchio eppure più forte

Non è più forte chi non teme piú la morte?

È la morte che si avvicina che trascolora i ricordi? Che non li fa più cosí impellenti ma sottili, invisibili e insensibili. Neri, come la tenebra imperscrutabili.

E sono cosí imperscrutabili divenuti che presto anche meno attenzione al malessere che il loro deposito nelle pieghe del corpo e dello spirito procurano, per il loro urlo soffocato che chiede la vita.

Li guarderò morire tepidi, come guardo morire tepido io.

Per tutti questi anni io ho preso il posto della loro assenza. Li ho tenuti in me. Li ho tenuti in vita. Che sarà di loro quando io terminerò. Dove finiranno loro? E chi terrà me in vita come io ho tenuto loro?

So great is my love for you!

 

You became my drug. I was my I and now I am your I. I wear your colours, listen to your video, eat your dishes, drink your beverages--this chocolate I taste, that you tasted.

I became your recipient. When I think about it, it's almost fearful.

So great is my love for you!

Everything, everything, came from you to me, even your passion! Your soul slid into mine. I cannot fly from you.

Did I want it? Did I?

I lay with feet bound together under you and I am happy. Happy!

The harder I struggle the happier I am. I sink to a bottom which is not a bottom, where you lay like a giant crab ready to catch hold of me with your claws--and I just lay there. Happy!

Isn't this frightful?

So great is my love for you!

Sometimes, when I try to explain my reasons you react like a wounded animal, and spiteful you are because you are wounded. And it seems to me that you are always right. And never wrong.

Possibly, all in all, at this moment I am really the weaker and you are the stronger. You get nothing from me, but you gave me much.

And why do you keep silent when you are angry with me? I feel you are stronger, but, perhaps, it's because you have nothing to say and because I disappointed you. And you feel it. You feel that you are stronger than me.