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ACQUARIUS StoryTeller TOUR - FIFTH STATION: SANTA GIULIA
... "IN A DREAM" .. facing sea \u200b\u200bAlberoni Venice Lido .... abandoned objects like installations, on the banks of asbestos ..

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Videoeditoriale Ezio Mauro



In perfect harmony with the idea of \u200b\u200ba Youth attentive to contemporary political events, I have published on our facebook page, a video publishing extremely precise on a fundamental issue, as the seal of the Government

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GD




This Friday, October 1, will hold a working meeting of GD medioponente, at 21 Vine Street 34, the official site. I hope your participation in a large.
Agenda:
- Organization of future events
- inner workings of the Youth
- Distribution
Assignments - Any other
Signed: Ezio Bellentani

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ACQUARIUS StoryTeller TOUR - THE FOURTH STOP BREDA and Cinisello Balsamo: FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF FAMILY

Bus stop 728 meeting John Peter. E 'tan. That brown-biscuit, healthy. The dark skin of those at sea throughout the year. He is waiting with me in the middle of the turmoil of a continuous flow of people, in search of his vehicle. All buses were diverted to alternative routes. The Seveso river burst its banks and flooded the subway is. The central station, continues to issue from his big mouth in waves, groups of people hurried and frantic, darting from the eyes and nervous. Even John Peter and I are anxious for the delay of our bus. I speak first and ask hopefully if you are waiting for the 728. He nods. Then his phone rings and answers. R Has the fly and suddenly attacks to speak with his partner, in an unlikely Milanese dialect. It 's strange to hear him speak French with this r, who bursts into the guttural dialect. It 's like to place on a table set with wine, gorgonzola, polenta and tell workers to a frenzied stage version dialect, who is not accustomed to this language. His hands are adorned with colorful rings and very large Indian, Moroccan slippers at the foot and a plain brown suede jacket with the collar of shirt. A strange mix of styles, not random. But it is elegant in its own way. I think an artist. A painter.
you expect from him, every one of Liguria, which seems a song and a rhyme. But John Peter is Cinisello Balsamo and introduces himself. She explains that it is up to Milan for a few hours, the minimum necessary, before you run away. Just enough time to visit the family grave and meet with a relative with whom he has an appointment. The person with whom he has just spoken on the phone. E 'retirement and begins to tell me they have lost their parents and being left alone. Parents buried in Andover. The grandparents in the old Cinisello in the family mausoleum that relatives who care for and filled with flowers. We climb on the bus and provides information about my leg and run-down hospital that forced me to this route every day through the city. I'm glad to travel with him on the big bus with two wagons. I feel protected by her relentless desire to tell. I discovered at that exact moment, as a human being can fill the void of an entire city, heaving, angry and hostile. The icy palaces and seeming affordable housing district, Bicocca, large red arches that overlook courtyards deserts. A neighborhood that looks like a model for architects, people with ghost. Shortly before, I had felt a deep sense of fear and pain, for a city that does not admit weakness. I am comforted by sharing this kind of hate to Milan with John Peter, who looks around annoyed by car exhaust and desolate chaos and tells me there are many flowers on the graves of his parents in Liguria and in the family mausoleum in Cinisello . Geraniums. Many species. Those scarlet, blacks, burgundy, light in color and not washed out because they do not like. Not even white. Gerberas, irises and daisies as big as bombs, potted plants in Liguria are cheap and last a while. He paints the sky clear the air of Andora, even when it rains and the bike to get around Imperia. Maybe too many people of Milan, arrived there before the sea, which over time has bought a second home. Accompanying descriptions of the flowers with his hands curled, the little finger, index, and the medium. Big shiny stones like confetti, with flavors of strawberry and mint. The relative and refers to the John Peter starts talking in Milan: now take the train to go home 14. It's late because of traffic. E 'was invited to lunch but will not stop to sample the meatballs, "the mundeghili" prepared for the occasion. Never return to Milan. He has held the promise sworn to his mother, to settle the matter for a family tomb, once and for all. And from now on there will be people who will always flowers. In any event. It is agreed with the cousins. He gave them two seats on the family mausoleum, in exchange for a devoted care of flowers. Never to return to Cinisello. Do not travel in November to the day of the dead with the steel gray sky and cold sticky in the Po Valley.
The story is broken, as you stop reading, when your attention is stretched all the way to the final. I arrived. I get off uncertain, at the gates of the Breda: large, opening the avenue leading to the factory. Around houses, apartments and houses under construction Class A Environmentally sustainable energy policies. Loft, who eat the earth of the building, devouring the old buildings and the home of the future promise. A kind of happiness announced bricks and tiles, and long rows of metal balconies. Piles of rubble as the Black Hills, stones and humming cranes. Greeting the avenue each morning as a tribute, a silent prayer before the ruins of a temple. Ago 'that the city will rise again. That is not submerged by the mud of Seveso. That are not deleted by the complete absence of an 'identity. From the lack of thought, imagination and work. Do you rediscover the desire to share something. Who I ask every morning, I do not know. But I need to recite my personal mantra, like a handful of dreams, and get to the hospital limping hidden by high walls.
not'll never see John Peter, in a few hours, while Star returning home, leave Milan. I suffer for it. Why we meet by chance and then we do not and will never see that anymore is a little 'how to die.

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ACQUARIUS STORY TELLER TOUR STOP

Hangar Bicocca Hangar Bicocca: installations, "The Seven Heavenly Palaces" by Anselm Kiefer and
"Personnes" by Christian Boltanski



A video dedicated to 'installation by Anselm Kiefer, "The Seven Heavenly Palaces" and to' installation by Christian Boltaski "Personnes", seen both in space Hangar Bicocca in Milan. Boltanski's installation, created for the Bicocca hangar space is different and shorter than the exhibition held at the Grand Palais in Paris.
Mine is a tribute to these two installations, the two artists, who are in a different way, issues related to memory, life and death, spirituality and the sacred nature and man.
The music is a mix that contains the song "Particule" album "L'autre endroit" Silence Artist: http://www.jamendo.com/it/search/all/ ...
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ACQUARIUS STORY TELLER TOUR: SECOND STOP
No Man's Land: In front of a cup of tea.

He prepared a cup of tea to dark honey and lemon. Warmed the teapot with boiling water. Also warmed the cup. He waited patiently for the molecules of English earthenware from taking all the heat necessary to accommodate you, maintaining the temperature. He poured water into the teapot, where they lay, glossy leaves you just released a light rain. And waited. He waited, sitting in silence. That the leaves give off the aroma and fragrance. He waited until the leaves were allowed to go, relax, and permeated with water.
breathed in silence. Inhale, exhale. Like a leaf floating in the warm darkness of the teapot. She put the tea into the cup, like smoking a thin stream through the strainer. He approached the chair at the table, made the back straight, the eyes to the cup, full of dark liquid gold. Then he took the honey and slipped it up, stirring slowly. With tweezers, picks up the lemon slice from the dish, freshly cut grass, wet with juice and bright yellow light.
breaths and closed his eyes. Think of all the tea plantations. Immense, long stretches of tea plantations, lush and green. Places never visited, because he was afraid to take a plane and go. Flying. Watching from above and beyond his small living room. The books stacked. The lessons with the students distracted. Walks to the travel agency, which had never been: just one look at the window to check, if he had changed the posters with resorts to book now.
He took the cup to the handle worked fine. A little jewel fragile and elegant, white to light blue flowers. And drank. He took the cup, in which his whole family had been drinking. She quietly sipped the liquid gold. Thinking about everything. Speaking of everything. Except for tea plantations.
He drank in small sips slowly. The century-old cup of hot tea.
He felt the hot liquid aromatic, down, down, down, from his throat to the bowel, in a journey downhill, as the rapids. The nectar of the tea plantations.
Then he rose and small steps, take the arm holding the stick as a friend walked to the chair in the living room purple faded placed in front of the window, half open, looking towards the A4. The one that also leads to the sea. But not to the tea plantations.
He thought: "I wonder if someone will phone me tonight."