Fabrizio Ulivieri - TrendSetter

  Camminavo sul Baltas Tiltas  Guardavo giù al fiume - canoe Passavano e da una un bimbo Giù da sotto dall'acqua ha riso Mi ha salutato con la mano Eri tu Luigino quel bambino Sorrideva uguale uguali occhi Aveva lontano - mi passava vicino ----------- Baltas Tiltas è un ponte che attraversa Vilnius. Si chiama Baltas Tiltas, il Ponte Bianco, perché è tutto bianco. Vi sono bar, negozi e centri di ristoro. Vi si fanno molti eventi durante l’anno. ------------ Telegram: De Unamuno Whatsapp: De Unamuno

  Tutto sa di morte qua - di non vita Il cielo è sempre grigio mai il sole Scalda il sangue e a viver invita Il cuore ha ragioni sue che vuole Al buio bianco del ghiaccio e neve Raccoglie sé e muto cresce e duole Nella mente si spande e la imbeve E nel grigio di questo mondo crea Sale e va là oltre l'odiosa neve È l'unico sole che arde mia idea La parola e il pensiero sviluppa Si fa misericordia e sua dea. ------------------- Telegram: De Unamuno Whatsapp: De Unamuno

  Homesickness, or nostalgia, is a longing not so much for people as for the natural landscape of one's homeland: its forests, mountains and hills, rivers, lakes, the blue of its skies, its sunsets—in short, for the whole environment with which a person has grown together, and on leaving which he feels that he has left behind a part of himself. (Antanas Maceina) Below is a poem by Salomėja Nėri s, one of Lithuania's most celebrated poets, who suffered more than perhaps any other Lithuanian intellectual from being separated from her homeland and, above all, from being accused of treason (rightly or wrongly, that is not for us to judge). Bloodied and plundered, You stand before my eyes... I would walk a hundred miles on foot Until I saw you living once again. Whether orchards there are blossoming, Or fruit hangs heavy on the bough, Or yellow leaves are falling, I shall return to you on my knees Through rain, hard frost, and winter's cold... Like the grass that grows in...

  In the pagan sensibility of Salomėja Nėris, whom we discussed here a few days ago, there is a theme that recurs like a nightmare: “One day I won’t be here.” The obsession with dying. This excruciating poem is one of many examples. Manęs dar nebuvo - Alyvos žydėjo - - Manęs nebebus jau - Jos vėliai žydės - Ir kris jų lapeliai Nuo saulės ir vėjo, Kaip smėlio saujelės, Ant mano širdies - No, I wasn't there when the lilac bloomed No, no sign of me will be there when it again will bloom and the little leaves will fall of sun and wind they will die and handfuls of sand will fall on my chest

  Questa è una delle poesie più famose di Salomėja Nėris, forse la più grande poetessa lituana, vissuta all'inizio del secolo XX. Salomėja Nėris aveva celebrato in alcune sue liriche Stalin e il bolscevismo, per questo fu accusata di aver tradito la sua patria. In questa poesia vi è lo struggente desiderio di ritornare in patria e di difendersi dall'accusa di tradimento. E' importante riproporre temi come la "Patria" in un mondo in cui il il globalismo, il gender liquido, le società multietniche, il politically correct hanno infettato il più naturale dei sentimenti di appartenenza. Chi non ha patria non ha terra sotto i piedi, e vive in un non-dove, che spaesa inquieta e priva id identità e partorisce i mostri che si vedono alla guida del preteso NWO. Insanguinata e saccheggiata Sta ai miei occhi... E cento di miglia andrò a piedi Fino a che viva la rivedrò. Saranno in fiore i giardini e i frutti penzoleranno E le foglie cadranno ingiallite E per strade senza fine...

They are going to shoot him tomorrow. Is it the guy we sheltered some days ago? It is not likely. Thank God.  It will be good to be back home. I sometimes wonder...I cannot die in this place. Of course not. Well, many do. Yes, they do, Yes, I promised them. Yes, it is your promise. Is the beginning of a revolution? Who knows. My head...my poor head. What will you do? I'll take the medicine. It is not good for your stomach. I know but I cannot live like this...Do you think people are not awakening? Not many, Just some. Maybe 3%. Do you think? Yes. But why? People are stupid. The major part of them is born stupid. Look...how many geniuses we have in the world? Few. So... So...it is inherent to the human race to be stupid. Do you mean this?  Yes. I mean that.  We sat in silence for a long while, as the pale morning sun climbed outside and the room got stiflingly cold. Esi susikaupęs? Taip. Kodėl? I was just thinking of that man A queer fellow. I wonder if it's him. But you ...

  There is a creative and loving force inside most of us that guides us through life. These people don’t have this. For them it’s the opposite. (Mel Gibson) In those Days   I had to find a religion to measure my evil against. Evil has already gotten a strong tinge of cruelty. God was dead, Church was dead. The major part of us was so frail in front of such a fraud. I used to write science-fiction novels, but I stopped in those days. Reality was more interesting than science-fiction. I couldn’t write a book anymore. I did not know how to plot a story, any longer. I was quiet, too quiet. I was thrilled, too thrilled. I was in a quagmire. I was dying in it. I was pervasive. I was everywhere. Was I alive? I thought so. I was not dead, ergo I was alive. That was the masterpiece of my life... A masterpiece of resonance. I was going around on a new battlefield. A Purgatory which was worse than the Hell. But it was bliss in the end. It was bliss even though I didn't believe i...

It was a bright cold day in December, and the snow was swirling around Lukiškių aikštė. Alvaro R., snuggled up into his ample coat in an effort to escape the freezing wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Vero Café, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of iced snow from entering along with him, and left behind that glass partition the-already -3.30 pm-darkening-city-of-Vilnius. Alvaro had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, had gone all the way slowly, resting several times on the way. Now he had pain in his whole leg. He was nervous. He looked around. She wasn’t there. He got a date with her but she wasn’t there. He was disappointed. That young girl was going to make him go crazy. He knew it. On each place where he went, he saw her round and hard buttocks. It had become an obsession that made him so furious. His heart was beating fast, he sweated and was short of breath: under that agency, he felt her eyes follow him about wherever he moved He looked back, looke...

...there have always been superelites with a special role to play...(David J. Rothkopf) What is beyond that window, beyond that rain? She levelly asked me. Fear. I responded. For what? she answered. For life. The life that could have been, but it is not. It has been designed a life that from the beginning runs between hatred and hope to be redeemed. And this is the most absurd thing we experience every day. We have been created as a resource for the elites, you know, this is the truth, but we aspire to something greater, this is the truth because inside us there are the same genes of our creators. I watched her. I realized she was confused. She was in a state of cognitive dissonance. Let's take into account what is happening beyond that window. Can you believe that this is a pandemic? Isn't it? She interposed. There are many reasons to doubt it. Too many. First of all, it is not so lethal. No more than normal influenza. It kills the elderly, mostly. Why? She aske...

SARS is the story of not one epidemic but two, and the second epidemic, the one that has largely escaped the headlines, has implications that are far greater than the disease itself. That is because it is not the viral epidemic but rather an "information epidemic" that has transformed SARS, or severe acute respiratory syndrome, from a bungled Chinese regional health crisis into a global economic and social debacle. (David J. Rothkopf) Your parents died well. They cannot complain, they ended well. They had money, a lot of badanti taking care of them, you and your brother. They had all. Don't be sad. You did all you could. She stared at me, through her half closed eyes. She paused. I breathed. Here in Lithuania - she went on - they could be considered rich people. Many elderly in Lithuania struggle with poverty, solitude and depression...that was not the case with your parents. But they saved the money, they deserved it - I replied. Of course - she said - of cour...

Dalla prossima settimana presso tutte le librerie della Lituania Vaga, Pegasas e supermercato Maxima che hanno la sezione internazionale per i libri, e Narvesen all'aeroporto di Vilnius. Kitą savaitę Lietuvoje visuose „Vaga“, „Pegasas“ ir „Maxima“ prie knygų užsienio kalba ir "Narvesen" Vilniaus oro uoste. From next week in Lithuania in every Vaga, Pegasas and Maxima supermarket libraries that have the international section for books, and Narvesen at Vilnius airport.

At many things we feel awe but at nothing more than at man  (Antigone – Sophocles)  It is usually said you must never start a book like this: One morning I woke up, I was tired, I was discontented of my life, I was sad and depressed... But one morning I woke up, I was tired, I was discontented of my life, I was sad and depressed... And I knew why. I was stuck in a nowhere zone, buried by the impossibility to find the right story to write. I was writing two books at that time. One was about a young idealist who took part in the Italian Risorgimento. I got my inspiration from Ippolito Nievo and his last day of life. I wanted this story hinged on his last trip from Palermo to Napoli. Everything had to happen on board of the steamer Ercole, before the shipwreck. I wanted to use the techniques of flashback and foreshadowing to recollect all the story of Nievo, from the day he was disembarked from one vessel in the port of Marsala with a thousand of other red...

Italians have the belly as the centre of their world, inside. Outside, they have the sun. They often say – non c’è rimasto altro (there is nothing else left). And with this, they think of the fact that their history deprived them of even the hope to change. What is left, then? Food and sun. They have bottomless bellies. They eat a lot (and shit a lot, probably) because they constantly need to fill their intestine to the brim. They are empty. Empty of hope and short of ideas. Mes, italai, nuolat kalbame apie tai, Ką valgėme vakar, Ką valgome dabar, Ką valgysime rytoj[1] Said a famous Italian restaurateur who managed two Italian restaurants in Vilnius. In fact, in Italy, restaurants are always full of people. Bar and supermarkets are hyper-crowed. Conversation themes are soccer and food. Two gnostic epiphenomena of a new kind of Religion. All in all, Catholicism is a religion completely imbued of gnosis and globalism (above all now with the current Pope), it is therefore...

Austeja è una ragazza lituana e vive la sua storia d'amore, ambientata nella capitale Vilnius dopo l'indipendenza raggiunta nel 1990. Parla italiano e ama l’Italia. Vive in Lituania e cerca la felicità attraverso l’amore con l’Italia in questo nuovo mondo, che si è aperto dopo il 1990, Questo libro non è solo un romanzo incentrato sulla "cronaca in diretta" di un amore, ma anche un vero e proprio saggio sulla natura stessa dell'amore (che cos'è l'amore?): si ama come la storia e la tradizione del proprio popolo insegnano ad amare, ma l'amore è comunque indipendente dallo Spirito universale della Storia perché è una coscienza di se stessi che va oltre il singolo accadimento storico. Lietuvė Austėja Vilniuje, 1990 metais nepriklausomybę atkūrusios Lietuvos sostinėje, išgyvena savo meilės istoriją. Ji kalba itališkai ir myli Italiją – per tai gyvendama Lietuvoje ieško laimės šiame naujame pasaulyje, kuris atsivėrė po 1990-ujų. Ši knyga – n...

As flies to wanton boys we are for the gods, they kill us for sport. Soon the science will not only be able to slow down the ageing of the cells, soon science will fix the cells to the state and so we will become eternal. Only accidents, crimes, wars will still kill us but unfortunately, crimes and wars will multiply.  I love football!  (Eric Cantona)  One night at Flavio‘s, a very expensive Italian restaurant in Totorių gatvė, I saw again the professor Zecharia Najafi. He was sitting alone at one table and eating. I recognized him. His physiognomy was unmistakable. I was struck by this lonely man sitting and eating one raw steak. A bloody steak. I noticed disgusted faces around him. The other clients were observing him like a strange rubbish-creature should be observed. - I have cancer. – he said. Apparently, as if he didn't speak to me. - Pardon? What did you say? – I responded. - I‘ve cancer. I am following a holi...

Est ardalionum quaedam Vilniuje natio, trepide concursans, occupata in otio, gratis anhelans, multa agendo nil agens (Phaedrus) Užupis, a district of Vilnius - the so-called Republic of Artists. There is a restaurant right there, in the centre of the little central square – a magnificent place, very close to the bridge that you incontrovertibly must cross arriving from Onos Bažnyčia. This restaurant is well known in the Italian community of Vilnius, famous for illustrious gourmands. Big bellies, bad breath, satisfied faces, bright and vivid eyes yearning for food. They have the most elaborated possible philosophies regarding their stand with regard to traditional recipes, each of one consisting in a different universe: pasta alla puttanesca, carbonara, spaghetti alla amatriciana (one of the most vexed question: which is the original way to prepare the real pasta alla amatriciana? Eternally unsolved question, since are many heretical positions about it). Which wine with which cou...

Amore šaltibarščiai e pomodori rossi" su LRT la TV nazionale lituana a "Stilius" durante lo special dedicaro a Maksas Melmanas dei Biplan, gruppo rock. Libreria Mint Vinetu - Vilnius

Una stretta fenditura fra due alti edifici, una breccia in una parete incrostata di finestre cieche. Uno strano passaggio a un altro mondo. Di là, cani e bambini scorrazzano, di qua, una strada vuota e grumi di polvere portati dal vento. Una faccia bislunga rivolta verso di me: labbra sottili, guance scavate, occhi silenti (forse marroni) - una faccia di donna, latte e sangue, richiesta e tormento, divinità e depravazione, canto e mutismo. Una vecchia casa nelle spire di pampani di uva selvatica nei recessi di un giardino. Più a sinistra meli rinsecchiti, a destra foglie gialle sparpagliate svolazzano nell'aria, anche se i rami dei cespugli non mostrano fremito... Così mi svegliai quella mattina (come certe mattine) sotto i presagi di immagini dolorosamente chiare, che non è rimesso alle tue facoltà inventare o scegliere. Qualcun altro lo fa per te e risuonano nel silenzio e penetrano nel cervello che ancora dorme, e di nuovo scompaiono. Impossibili da cancellare. Quel silenzio...