Svegliarsi
e posare una guancia di pensieri
sulle note tiepide
dei tuoi respiri di neve
stringere il tuo coraggio
fra velluto d’onde
nelle sale accese del tuo petto
sposare le tue labbra
appoggiati a sogni d’acqua e vetro
sul promontorio di luce del tuo nome
…e svegliarsi.
Poem by Liliana Isella.
Photo by Max Furia.
Entro nella stanza della casa di nuvole nere.
Siamo in vacanza.
E` l’estate dei nostri 13 anni.
13anni che ti sorridono d’inganno
13anni che camminano all’indietro
13anni che ti giri e diventano 30.
13anni di penne rosse
che mai scriveranno piu`.
13anni un jeans e una maglietta
che si vestono di nostalgia.
13anni di sogni frantumati
dalle pillole per sognarli fino ad ora.
∞
I suoi capelli appena accorciati si spostano dal cuscino.
Mi guarda con gli occhi inniettati dei suoi ultimi giorni. Con gli occhi di chi non puo` difendersi. Con gli occhi di chi si lascia violentare.
Voglio perdere la mia lingua fra le sue gambe, nell’umido della sua malattia.
I suoi folti cespugli di spine. Come la cresta di un albero che non vuole essere abbattutto.
La sua stagione e` finita – ne parla il suo sguardo.
Fessure d’acqua verde truccate di crudo dalla sorte che abbiamo covato insieme.
Le lenzuola carminio minano la mia voglia di fotterla.
Assomigliano troppo alla fine disegnata intorno alle sue ciglia.
Eravamo amiche. Eravamo sorelle.
Ora sono la sua becchina in un letto di borgata.
∞
Fisso il quadro rosa sulla parete di nuvole nere e mi sveglio.
Il telefono. Per fortuna.
Non ne posso piu` di questi sogni. Devo tornare dallo psicanalista al piu` presto.
Alzo la cornetta. E’ mia madre.
Sempre piu` lontana. Sempre piu` nel suo supplizio.
Ma oggi il peggio non e` toccato a lei. Mi chiede se mi ricordo di Gia.
Le chiedo se sta scherzando o ha voglia che le attacco il telefono in faccia.
Mi dice di stare calma. Racconta di questa mattina.
All’ospedale per i soliti controlli. Nei corridoi la mamma di Gia. Per caso.
Le chiede di me. Mia madre mostra le foto. Los Angeles. Le copertine.
E Gia?
Gia non puo` piu` avere figli. Una notte di sale e sangue li ha rinchiusi dentro un nuovo ventre di polvere e graffette.
Si era appena sposata. Un’ emoraggia improvvisa. Poi le sirene. I medici. L’inaspettato.
“Forse lo sapevo gia`, mamma….” – e` tutto quello che mi viene. “…dopo tutto, siamo amiche da quando avevamo 13anni.”
Story by Liliana Isella.
Photo: Gia Carangi by Francesco Scavullo.
Should I start my column by ordering them by age?
Well, another number has always counted more in my selection of men: their income.
To be fair, I’ll start from a middle case: Mr. Middle Age Middle Income.
We are in Los Angeles, so middle age has to be read thirty-five and middle income means sixty thousand a year, two cars including a sport BMW and a house in Bel Air.
One evening two girlfriends of mine, a broke writer of Angeleno Magazine and a broke ballerina of the Los Angeles Ballet, call me from a party at the Santa Monica Bay Woman’s Club.
It’s a fund raising for an independent movie and, since they’ve looked into their pockets and found no funds to raise but really need a free dinner, they think that by adding a third pretty and broke to the table their embarrassment will be half sized.
I’m sure they never excelled in math at school because, pretty soon, our discomfort has increased so much that we’re moving our three shy asses down the stairs.
That’s when a dreaming Mr. Middle Age Middle Income makes his entrance. An entrance that takes my breath away.
As if the gaffes for the night haven’t been already enough, we rush back to the seats we’ve just left.
And we set up a few cheap tricks to attract him to our table.
He comes over interesting, different and crazy attractive.
After a brief chat mainly about the reasons he is there – he is a costume designer for movies – right before leaving he gives me an unforgettable look and his business card to each one of us.
That’s how it started. Well, that’s how I started.
Since I do not find a better way to see him again, I decide to use his business card and write him an e-mail.
After all, how can he contact me, if he didn’t ask my number?
He writes back and invites me out to dinner at BOA.
Too bad it’s Saturday night and he has forgot to make a reservation, so I have to secretly hand my last hundred bucks to the hostess to get to know my Mr. Middle Age Middle Income in front of a steak that I won’t even eat, since I’m vegetarian.
A few months go by and I get to the point to leave him because I’m still the leading force of our encounters – and, I’m tired of it.
We go up to the Huntley Hotel Penthouse for a drink and, overlooking the sunset on the ocean, I explain him that the male part is not really adapted to a tall, thin, blonde female Russian model. So, bye bye boy.
That’s when he comes out with the story of “the sacred and the scared.”
Scared – that’s him: scared of my beauty, scared of my rejection, scared that I would leave him.
Sacred – that’s the card. He proudly asks me to compare the card he gave me to the one he gave my two girlfriends. He says mine was laminated and graced by the image of the most beautiful angel he ever drawn; that angel is actually hanging on the walls of the Vatican, as of today.
My two girlfriends, instead, got the plain card he uses for his Hollywood meetings with square-minded, dry-soul studio producers.
Everything had been planned. He chose me, despite of what I’ve been thinking and despite of the reasons why I want to leave him.
So, he suggests to call my two girlfriends right now just to prove it.
But, you know what?
1) if not for me, you would have never come to our table.
2) if not for me, you would have never called first.
3) if not for me, we would have never had our first date at BOA on a Saturday night.
So, if you didn’t notice yet, I’ve trumped your card a long time ago!
Story by Irina Svistunova.
C’era una volta un foglio bianco.
Si sentiva solo, ma era orgoglioso di esserlo, puro ed impeccabilmente geometrico.
Ansiava scivolare per i colori dell’arcobaleno, struscicarsi nella luce liquida, e temeva l’inchiostro buio, la vacuitá delle forme.
Desiderava essere un foglio pregiato, il lato piano di parole invasive. Di quelle che non ti lasciano via d’uscita.
Incapace d’esprimersi ed in impietosa attesa, il foglio bianco rimuginava tra sé e sé cercando il chi, cosa, dove e perché.
Finché il quando arrivó.
Un bimbo leone lo notó; il suo splendore solitario lo rendeva l’oggetto perfetto,
oceano d’olio di bianca leggerezza, disponibile all’avventura.
Lo rubó e portó via con sé.
Chiaramente il foglio era contrario a tutto ció, spodestato e stropicciato, nascosto ed irrimediabilmente allontanato da un vero possibile pensatore, qualcuno che gli desse spessore.
Senza avere voce in capitolo il foglio bianco affrontó il suo destino con altezza, e si lasció fluire nei movimenti saggi di tan giovani manine.
Sensazione strana quella d’essere toccato, piegato, lisciato, e ripieghato; l’aria sussurra sulla superficie, gioca a nascondino.
Mutando, il foglio bianco non poteva sentirsi piú vivo, gioioso d’essere stato rapito da quell’essere cosi` piccolo da non sembrare per nulla rilevante.
E il bimbo leone aveva trovato il mezzo di trasporto perfetto per scappare.
C’era una volta Bianco Leone.
Piccolo e leggero si muoveva sinuoso.
A volte saltava di nube in nube, incorniciato da un cielo blu.
Spesso riposava tra fili d’erba, verdi ed umidi, sotto l’ombra di un ciliegio in fiore.
Ruggiva di tanto in tanto, ma per lo piú ascoltava; le parole si disegnavano da sole e la sua superficie si colorava di paesaggi infiniti.
Era Bianco Leone; puro, orgoglioso e mai piú solo.
Con un unico timore: un bimbo foglio bianco.
Story by Benedetta Tagliaferri.
Los Angeles, 17th March 2006
Say anything, John.
I know, I know, this is probably the millionth time someone plays this old joke on you but, after what you just did tonight….
You walked out from that Italian restaurant and I came to say something to you.
Your body was still but the rejection in your eyes was speeding at a thousand miles.
Also later, when that black kid approached you at the valet and you aimed your fingers shaped like a gun against his head, I knew your animosity was toward me and not him.
“You should feel lucky it’s him and not you,” I heard on that sidewalk I was watching you from.
But no, no, I couldn’t feel lucky at all.
Especially when you went to say something to her.
It doesn’t matter what you said. It was all about your expression: gentle, sweet, dreamy.
Oh my, you wouldn’t be able to make it again, not even in the most comic of your romances… oops, I meant in the most romantic of your comedies.
By the way, did you drink a glass (too many) in that restaurant?
Your face – it was all for her.
For her, the fucking hostess of that fucking Italian restaurant.
Why? Why her? If she doesn’t even care about you.
Why? If she will say yes to you not because of who you are but because of who she is. And, she’s like, “…oh yes! tonight this guy they all say is kinda famous but I had no idea of who the fuck he is came in and stared at me for his whole dinner and oh no! he’s not cute or anything but who cares? he followed me to my car and oh no! the bullshits he shot were not funny at all but oh yes! he must be kinda celebrity and whatelse does fucking matter so why not?! I’ll let him take me out for dinner and then for a drink and then we’ll see… am I right or what?!”
So why, John?
Why didn’t you come to say anything to me?
Why? If I see your beauty.
Why? If I see your love.
But, don’t think I’m jealous, now. Just don’t.
After all, that was just a dream.
Thank God, it was only a nightmare.
I’m trying to fall back asleep now.
You know, it’s not easy in this parking lot, with all these noises and fears.
But I have to rest as much as I can.
By the way, tomorrow I might go look for some angel’s light.
When we finally meet, I’ll have to teach you how to use it. So, any time you’re upset for a serious reason — maybe you don’t get a part in a romantic comedy, or you’re stuck in traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, or your friends book a dinner at a restaurant you don’t like, or your Mexican housekeeper forgets to empty the ashtray on the balcony table — you can let your angel fly you far away from such an emotionally distressing situation. Hopefully, you won’t get too addicted.
Come back from that movie soon, John.
The City of Angels has no sky, if you are not here.
It has no meaning.
It’s empty.
The palms fall down and crash on the deserted boulevards.
The haunting sound of these lonely nights spreads all over the days’ blinding light.
An illusion has to take the place of this crumbling reality.
Illusions are reality.
Illusions are what we live.
You have good dreams John, wherever you are, whatever your bed is like and whoever is watching your beautiful eyes smiling now.
Just be safe in this strange night.
Virginia♥
Story by Liliana Isella.
Photo by Jessica Gary.
Photo Credit: Helmut Newton
For the fairy fingers
Your hands will hold
One by one
My rotten nails I’d rip and tore
For the place of honor
Your arms will guard
One by one
My filthy bones I’d break apart
For the blue spring holes
Your lips will crave
One by one
My sad two greys I’d scratch away
For the witchy smile
Your words will dawn
One by one
These poisoned teeth I’d pull and blow
For the regal paleness
Your tenderness will trap
One by one
My veins I’d draw of the last blood drop
One by one
I’d skin my soul of every inch of me
To blossom in the only dream of paper
You can call Love.
Poem by Liliana Isella.
Photo by Helmut Newton.
Photo Credit: Santa Cruz Police
Per dita di luna
Che incrociano le tue mani
Una a una
Scarnificherei le mie unghie luride
Per buchi d’ azzurro
Dentro cui rispecchiare i tuoi
Uno a uno
Strapperei i miei bulbi neri
Per il posto d’onore
Nelle tue fragili braccia
Una a una
Spezzerei le mie ossa livide
Per il sorriso di favole
Che fa nascere le tue parole
Uno a uno
Scardinerei i miei denti stracci
Per il pallore d’argento
Che attira le tue carezze
Una a una
Svuoterei le mie vene dell’ultima goccia
Una a una
Spellerei ogni piega della mia anima
Per rifiorire nel solo sogno di cartone
Che tu puoi chiamare Amore.
Poem by Liliana Isella.
Gary and Nuno of Extreme
This guy got my number at a Coffee Bean in Santa Monica.
He’s a sweaty-yoga-class coffee drinker, what I’d call “post-pathetic.”
But, he’s a producer, and I certainly didn’t come to Los Angeles to hang out only with stupid Italians so, “Whatever. Another fucking concert can’t hurt.”
Extreme. Tuesday night at the House of Blues. Okaaaay.
I move from the mirror to the closet to find a dress that matches the accessories of my showery nudity: blue stilettos, Ray-Bans and two gigantic hoop earrings.
Post-Pathetic Producer picks me up. He must be the same age as the guys we’re going to see.
Back in the early ’90s, Extreme was the two “oh, wow” brothers of More Than Words.
In reality, their brotherhood was just a bewildering voice my school girlfriends had created out of their incestuous fantasies.
After a couple of half-smiled beers and a few cigarettes, the lights and the music finally turn the stage on.
For the first minute, I’m in shock: Jesus, Gary Cherone is the quintessence of sex!
My lips are dying to taste the sour sweat on the fortress of his full-bodied voice. They’d fight against its iron nerves, defeat all those seductive muscles and pierce that impenetrable skin just to reach, touch and kiss his agile cords of notes.
But it’s when the ambience calms down from the hot blooded energy of Get the Funk Out and Decadence Dance, that I really feel Nuno.
He sits at the piano and his fingers make Ghost, an insightful extract from their most recent album Saudades de Rock, fly up in a lyrical, blue melody.
And, when his exotic Hole Hearted sings into my eyes “there’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you,” I’m about to believe his betraying guitar, but an awkward left hand ring disarms my interest. No green card for me, here.
Gary’s hands are free, instead.
Too bad I can’t go meet him backstage, though.
Post-Pathetic Producer cannot see the slut I am; there’s the risk he demands the same treatment for himself, then.
And, in Hollywood, a smart girl never offends a masculine ego.
Another lonely night is the price to pay.
But, imagination doesn’t know boundaries. So, here Gary comes.
My thighs embrace his powerful senses, hold his warm breath and press on his explosive life.
Sorry, but we’re heading to a place where visitors are not allowed.
Story by Liliana Isella.
Poesia di Liliana Isella.
Coccinelle in coda nella notte
Dagli occhi giallo fluorescente
Questo aspettare casa interminabile.
Santa Monica tramonta
Verso le punte dei tuoi alberi
Fra la brezza del tuo portico
Sul cotto dei tuoi passi.
Volteggia la nostra favola
Dentro la magia dei tuoi respiri
Nel lino delle tue notti
Tra gli anelli delle mie preghiere.
Che il vento te la possa portare
In questo orizzonte di fuoco
Oltre questo muro di nuvole
Su questo oceano di ghiaccio.
E che la nostra canzone torni a suonare
Fra note di malinconia e sapone
Per questo tramonto di santi e perdenti.
Poem by Liliana Isella.
Photo by Max Furia.
Photo by Max Furia
Sleepless. Le mot lui vient en anglais et semble à lui seul, par sa sonorité, résumer le silence qui plane dans la chambre, lumières éteintes, alors qu’allongée elle en observe le plafond. Les reflets de la rue, jamais déserte comme toutes les rues des capitales, s’animent par moments au dessus d’elle lors du passage d’une voiture, mais sans bruit, la laissant seule dans l’isolement sonore de l’appartement et de cette chambre, que d’épaisses fenêtres protègent de l’extérieur.
Sleepless. Presque un palindrome. Une ironie du sort, sleep- less. Alors que le sommeil, qui tardait à venir, a fini par l’abandonner complètement.
Elle a d’abord posé son livre sur la table de chevet, a éteint la lumière et fermé les yeux pour se forcer au plongeon dans l’inconscience d’une nuit de repos. Elle s’est couchée sur le ventre, faisant de la couverture et des draps remontés jusqu’aux oreilles une chrysalide, ajoutant ainsi une couche supplémentaire de silence au silence déjà prégnant de la pièce. Pour appeler le sommeil, elle a décortiqué les événements de la journée, s’attardant sur chaque détail, n’a pas trouvé de quoi se distraire et a donc puisé plus loin dans le temps, cherchant l’épisode, la fable à se raconter, un souvenir à choisir pour en redessiner les contours.
Eté dernier, avec Max, en Provence verte. La maison d’hôtes était exquise, décoration soignée un peu cliché mais chaleureuse: les bouquets de lavande séchée dispersés dans chaque pièce, le mobilier en bois peint de blanc, les draps qui sentaient bon le linge séché au soleil, les confitures faites maison pour le petit déjeuner et la nappe Souleiado. La fenêtre de leur chambre donnait sur le jardin, les branches d’un chêne centenaire venaient en caresser les vitres. On pouvait entrevoir la piscine, plus loin, perdue dans le gazon vert du parc. Une matinée passée à lire sur les chaises longues, Max dans l’eau bleue chassant une guêpe de la main avant de plonger, le jardinier qu’il avait fallu convaincre de ne pas tondre la pelouse ce jour-là; l’humour de Max: «Mais laissez-là donc pousser, cette herbe ! Jamais gazon ne vous aura été plus reconnaissant. Regardez: à la façon dont elles se penchent, les pâquerettes vous remercient déjà». Et, ainsi, préserver le calme absolu de leur havre de paix.
Les souvenirs demandent à être réconciliés, parfois, et il faut toute la patience d’une nuit sans sommeil pour les raccommoder. Il faut tirer un à un les fils de l’édifice immense pour ramener à la vie ce qui n’est plus. Elle s’y était dédiée avec application.
Mais le corps éveillé, se sentant prisonnier de cette immobilité larvaire, l’avait rapidement rappelée à l’ordre. Se tourner et se retourner dans les draps, se recroqueviller puis se détendre, chercher la posture idéale et ne pas la trouver. L’agitation des membres fébriles. Se concentrer alors sur chaque articulation, sur les jambes puis les bras, essayer d’en sentir les extrémités, les mains, les doigts, les phalanges et enfin les ongles. Comme s’ils avaient une vie propre, mobile, autonome. Chercher ensuite le souffle et respirer, lentement. Se fixer sur la respiration. Ne penser à rien d’autre qu’au corps, à ses parties mobiles et au souffle.
Mais la pensée, agitée par le sommeil qui ne vient pas, finit toujours par se fissurer. Affleure alors la peur de ne pas arriver à dormir, de ne plus jamais arriver à dormir, l’enchainement d’une nuit sans sommeil et puis d’une autre, le cauchemar éveillé des jours qui se succèdent sans repos. On peut mourir d’insomnie, oui, je l’ai lu quelque part, enfin c’est ridicule mais c’est bien arrivé à ce type aux US, ah, ces américains, toujours les premiers quand il s’agit d’inventer des histoires abracadabrantes mais tomber dans leur piège, ça non, on ne meurt pas d’insomnie et surtout je ne mourrai pas d’insomnie; merde, c’est ridicule de penser ça, je déconne, là. Puis, l’accélération des battements de cœur, et les premières sueurs froides. L’agitation qui se transforme en angoisse réelle, palpable.
Elle avait donc fini par ouvrir les yeux.
Provence by Unknown Artist
Les voilà grandes ouvertes, ses pupilles, scrutant le plafond et les reflets étirés venant de la rue. Bleutés par moments, comme les flots d’une eau mouvante au-dessus d’elle, une projection de la piscine de Provence; je vais me noyer, c’est ça, toute cette eau va finir par m’atteindre, m’envelopper, s’insinuer dans mes narines, ma bouche, serpenter jusqu’à mes poumons, l’air va faire place au liquide. Elle croit voir le corps de Max maintenant, flottant seul et flasque dans l’eau bleue d’un bassin vide au dessus d’elle. Au premier souvenir se superpose un second, plus récent: celui d’un message lu par hasard qui, confiant, appelait Max au départ, juste quelques lignes, prends tes valises je serai là je t’attends et les dates, qui coïncidaient; Max qui chasse la guêpe d’une main avant de plonger, Max qui se veut défenseur de leur havre de paix provençal et qui, au même moment, à quelques minutes près, répond ailleurs oui mon amour je viens je te rejoins je t’aime. Et, subitement, comme si l’idylle s’était fissuré d’un coup, revivre le souvenir avec une lumière nouvelle et réaliser qu’il y avait des ronces autour de la piscine, dans ce jardin mal entretenu, et qu’à bien y regarder le fond du bassin était visqueux et les parois recouvertes d’un film verdâtre, végétal, insalubre; à la surface de l’eau flottaient des mouches inertes, des fourmis, des cheveux. Une eau mousseuse et sale s’agglutinait dans les coins, le filtre était cassé. Et la guêpe chassée d’une main par Max avait agonisé plus loin, sur le rebord du bassin, remuant ses ailes de quelques soubresauts lorsqu’ils avaient quitté les lieux pour rejoindre leur chambre.
Refermer les yeux. Se noyer dans cette piscine ou le noyer, lui, noyer le mensonge. Avoir la force de plonger la tête sous l’eau et ne plus la remonter à la surface. Sentir la pression fluide qui rapidement chasse l’air, devenir entièrement liquide. Je vais me noyer dans ma chambre, je vais me noyer dans ma chambre, je vais me noyer dans ma chambre.
Les mains moites, elle se résous à attraper le flacon de somnifères posé sur la table de chevet.
Drops by Max Furia
L’empreinte glacée d’une goutte d’eau tombée sur sa joue la tire de son sommeil. Elle ouvre les yeux avec peine, aperçoit le flacon de somnifères vidé de ses cachets sur la table de chevet, jette un coup d’œil à la fenêtre baignée de soleil; il doit être 13 heures.
Elle scrute enfin le plafond, où s’étire une grande tache sombre, humide, poreuse. Des pas résonnent dans le couloir, Max ouvre la porte de la chambre, jette sa valise dans un coin de la pièce et s’exclame «Encore au lit! Tu n’as pas entendu les sirènes? Il y a de l’eau partout au 3ème étage. Notre voisine du dessus s’est suicidée; elle s’est coupée les veines dans sa baignoire.»
Story by Alice Sienna.
Photos in black and white by Max Furia.
LILA 