Fabrizio Ulivieri

  Amelia is said to derive from the Old Germanic Amal, which means "work," "industriousness," or "effort." Nonna Amelia was tireless, indeed. She never stopped working—although her body was delicate and frail—not for a moment; but I prefer to think of miele (honey), whose Latin root ( mel ) echoes in the name A- mel -ia. Nonna Amelia had white, smooth hair, gathered in a bun that fell softly on her neck. She had occhi dolci (gentle eyes), un sorriso dolce (a gentle smile), and her countenance was dolce . She was what in Italian we call a dolce nonnina .  Maybe she was like I remember her, or maybe I metamorphosed her; I remember her in a way that altered her real nature. Death certainly is metamorphosis, the biggest metamorphosis of human nature, and when you recall the dead, you give a different nature to living beings that once were alive in this saeculum . They are transubstantiated in memory. She loved me. She used to caress my blond curls. I reme...

  Oh mio Dio, ch' è rimasto di me? L'ultimo me di tutti i me che ho dato? Son io ciò che vedo? O un universale Che contiene l'infinita-finita varietà Di una vita che nella vita ha cercato Del morir il senso e nel morir la vita? Come un bambino ha domandato: Perché sono nato? Perché morire? I bambini son grandi filosofi I bambini son essenziali I bambini hanno meno strutture E compagna vicina, la luce che genera.

  Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus— The ancient rose remains in name; we hold only empty names. When I think of Fello, this is all I grasp: a name, a pure name. Almost nothing else lingers in my memory. I recall big eyes, a broad nose, full lips—a face forever caught in a smile. Nothing more. It is a faded-away world that I resume to recall. The faded-away world of my childhood, so far away as a distant planet in space. Light years away. Fello is one of the many stars lost in this space. I endure his energy pulsing inside, nearly lost, nearly invisible. No, people don't die, people stay.

  In the beginning was the word, and the word was the beginning all I know of him was the word—without the word I would never have known him, because I’ve never met my grandfather Luigi. He died of tuberculosis long before I was born.   All I know of him are words, words spoken by my mother and father. My mother never loved him, her father, my grandfather—he was cattivo , she said. They lived in Settefrati, a podere  near le Mura, a bunch of houses in the comune of Montaione. My mother was a little stubborn bull, she never changed her mind when she decided to do something. I do not know why—one day her father was furious with her, he in a sudden rage hit her on the head with a sickle and cut her scalp deeply. It was a new beginning, a different life from that day on. She no longer trusted life—that blow distanced her from the world she had lived in before. She withdrew from the world.   A magician I met many years later, who came from South Korea, said—your mother as...

Il sangue ha un odore Il sangue di un padre Nella figlia di una madre Nel figlio ha un odore Una linea che mai muore E riconosce l'animale Basta fiutare e sentir la pelle Riconoscer il sapore dell'amore Che ti ha legato quando Alla luce la sua venuta ha urlato Il figlio di un altro di altro Ha il sentore e nega calore.

  Agradezco el azar al haberte recibido eres un misterio—tu presencia cada día algo que divino, hayas tú en mí vivido