NABANASSAR, the only act (1 of 4)

characters , in order of appearance

scene : somewhere in a real or imaginary world

Tradition: There is no aesthetic impetus, it comes of a framework while looking on something as a work of art. It’s incorrect postulanting a special intention, life compels to continual deciding out of the thorough knowledge of effects and people behaviour. This situation can’t be improved by onesided acts, very few working class readers carried weight with assessing texts survival. It’s a question of two ways and two cultures: the creative one and the erudite one. Only inner synthesis enables to understand, measure is inwardly or isn’t. Poetry brings to light of consciouness this subterranean motion. Poiein, to do. Ancient words are the nearest to the essence and sense of things, poetry acts, works in feeler persons. Speech, made up of sounds and silence, kindle movement in us. Poiein, to do, instead of poio, i feign. It’s only by behaviour that perceiving and thinking exist, we are as free as we know what we do. Who’s learning an alphabet has no data but speakers’ clear behaviour. Tick has no representation of its own surroundings, follows no rule, plans no explicit-aim action. Ticks have been sucking our blood since 1948, six times, almost seven and more: resist, in the name of God!, don’t believe infidel’s slave enemy, i did not flee, i am where i have to stay as you must stay where fairly you are, don’t lose your head as chickens who wander right and left to the pit. One day someone found out that four shells were worth one hare to the sea-ride, but six behind hills, so resumed his journey like a survived old salt.

Tradition: I wait for her to wake up before entering. From which hole, which side? I say: "And you? From where do you spring out? You show your face. I don’t know you, who are you? Which light are you bringing? How do you hit? Why?

Drone-eater: to stop writing, darling fifer?

Magpie: yes, we are the model

Drone-eater: we always transpose, endlessy throw ourselves, waste blood and time

Drone-eater: i’m bewildered and wounded

Magpie: our website. Can you remember? My idea is: we are here not to tell you how doing, we are looking for, looking for what already is

Magpie: these people consider poet a professional. Well, everybody play aping Berlusconi even in greatly absurd fields like poetry

Drone-eater: we risk evaporating

Drone-eater: what should be set from the Past if it all burnt down? Only here-and-now relations exist, them only.

Magpie: am i weaving my cloth?

Drone-eater: you are a hand

Magpie: right, i wish i could bump by my face

Drone-eater: Go on

Drone-eater: i’d like hearing fairy tales

Marziller: Yes, he knew so many women… he probably had hundreds, maybe one thousand, and pour Charlotte was still loving him, brushing up her old gloomy bright smile every time his withered hands came back to home handle. Probably Charlotte felt him, she was tuned to his station. Weeks or months could have been passing by, she got ready. It probably was the custom for her. How much time before she guessed his returning? You come back this time too, the world is not so great out here… It always ended like that. No improvisation tonight. She didn’t need knowing languages. She had made her two hands speaking! God, how much they spoke… more than anything else… She could thank them. Why tonight? Why this wind? Why Charlotte’s smile? It was like walking into the ocean.

Tradition: the evoked banalities, so brought up, those showing no way out, those allowing nothing, those putting together and being used to expel you.

Angelo: "heresy": Greek "hairesis" means "seizure" -- "conquest" – "choice"; in Latin we find the more pregnant idea of "adhesion" or "sticking together", so no motion.

Andrea: i like your idea of "maceration". I think we need, as Carmelo Bene was recalling, "ruin the furies"… that is to say ruin ourselves, our egotic mirrors, letting meditation flow, i.e. disappear and return simple and clear reflection: we look for a surface, a blade. Give me your hired assassin hands! My love to you all.

Angelo: Andrea, so there!, raging against ruins does not make sense any more, i consider it a fictional game around a wings and scenes made world. Instead, the blade that cleaves air and becomes surface… is the space, one space, the one we look for.

Andrea: we can’t avoid our crystallizations but fight them: the goal is to free ourselves from them (at present, by unceasing motion), not the consequent freedom regained… only so poetry happens, present. From time immemorial. There is no finish line, a free moor where air braces, where sheet remain blank. The finish line is this mad scratching our scab, our skin to the blood. Only who dies every instant, jumps out of the window (so fleeing) every ten minutes… only who always dies has not been but is and happens every moment. It’s aion, time: the immediate as immediate disappearing (nostalgia or carpe diem have got nothing to do with it), without memory. We really have to fuck for virginity.

Martino: This mutual skinning nearly galvanizes me, but you know i’m for bread-making time. What we become is very interesting to me. There is already something before our alphabet and the way to spell it. Because i’m not still thinking we are what we tell. We are much more than we think, eat, cry, fuck and sleep. It’s now time to break Montale’s anathema, at last, isn’t it? Because it’s my impression that it’s still fluttering like a curse that keeps us from talking about what we really have at heart, instead of how.

Andrea: darling Martino, you’re right, we are not all that you say… and we are not what we say we are not too. Unceasingly forced by compulsion to be, to being, to take a shape, sentenced to project, to build, that is to say sentenced to speech, to its linear progression (the historical one, and of the progress, the religious hope, the money, and very often of the art too), to its determination and conjugation, to its cadging dualism. Tradition should really reckon with "Tradition", that of great mystics and initiates: nothing to do with mystery drifts, but the fall in our own continuous gushing out, in our origin-in-act, forgetful and forgetting – so not origin any more… the miracle of eternity is in this moment’s temporal short circuit as immediate disappearing, in which the progression of time, that is memory, vanishes – in which all the liturgies are but ways of life on the way of settling, opening to their own vacuum. A vacuum never still, not ab-solute but procreating, enlivening. This is the deep meaning, esoteric, of every symbol. Poetry is not nothing.

Giuseppe: darling friends, in front of the ego’s supervened inadequacy, passed the need of its mediation to ritualise or validate something, how should the ones who produces thought (or anything else you will say to me) proceed? That is to say: what form should we adopt nowadays to… to… to what?? I think that the unmentioned call is to spread, first of all, then things will happen; so i ask: in what sense? Who cares the way of proceedings and the proceeding itself? As soon as everyone matures a barbaric self confidence (i.e. when makes himself awareness), all the categories don’t make sense any more, the motion is the same, call it linear progression or mystic experience.

Angelo: so the whole is poetry, even its opposite and, since we are burning,… let’s decline all our words by infinitesimal manners, let’s dirty everything, not as avant-gardist extreme gesture but as an extreme wandering act that let crocks shine and butter throats of the most infamous animality… but Montale, a real artisan (you’re right!), we need refounding or remelting a plump humanity; the hired assassin character is perfect, outlines our project, nails it, moulds it. You convinced me: not heretics but hired assassins!!

Andrea: we are all "literaturized", "in-shaped"; these are unprecedented violences, especially to who doesn’t account for it. Beware, beware: literary man is who knows strategies playing him, and their rules, so that he can not to believe the visions he goes through. We can’t do art by art, literature by literature, poetry by poetry… and so, and so… we can’t live by life… well; then??!!??? Drop all those slugs of ego… those of author, of style and so on… Drop those all, push narcissism at the utmost level (until Narciso’s splendid and hideous face becomes rushing stream) and you’ll find that the greatest poet (poet) of italian Novecento is Carmelo Bene… even without having written any verse…

Giuseppe: no, not apostles, please… apostles definitively no…

Martino: Theoretical is not my trade: style. What this blessed style is, in era of substraction of the subject, but a "normalization", a substraction until nothing that unites we all? To resign our self in order to be poets? Yes, sure, but in the name of what? To resign our selves as masters of ego, giving it to Word, to others; undoing by this manner is ok to me. It’s ok to me resigning my jurisdiction over my self, not resigning my self in the name of a "style". God, what "style" is but another "ego" we stick on our face?

Giuseppe: Really true literature is this conversation we are so fluently reordering? Really we cannot talk about canon anymore (nor about style), but only about life flowing into writing???

Andrea: Darling Martino, style outburst must always be an explosion in being, that is to say living and vivifying. That’s why i was saying and saying: there is no finish line, no "liberation", no freeing finally "delivered". And this is not talking about "postponing" if it is a convenient waiting-room where play usual jokes to take advantage by negative-writing, and so gain attention. In outburst we can’t make do, never keeping still… the style as stiletto, if we are hired assassins, that desperately tears flesh to pieces and carries the whole back to motion: the whole is here, never happened, never been but happening.

Martino: You took the words out of my mouth. In fact my motto is "i’m not, i become". So, poetry, i think, my poetry could be simply the implacable report of my becoming. Against who "is" or "is not". Otherwise, how poetry turns over life and life turns over poetry? Does Tradition itself become something into life? And so, do we, being day after day on the road to Zenna? Or inviting others to our same ways?

Giuseppe: Darling all, what sort of connection with the public are we going to create? No doubt i’m very bound to writing, to the creation of graphic signs (on paper or web, no difference) that make me so cold and mental, but you?

Angelo: It’s not "style" but the tragic jolting of voice that is pure soul… it’s being transhumanized, going beyond style, "so much i contain so that i sink" (first level), the fact that it could and not be said makes bearing lost, and now we are emanation of voices, voices (second level), desecrating event doesn’t hide anything; i’m wild in putting reason, creating a short circuit to audience… we must not create waits! A poverty of ideas and feelings, setting natural and disarming.

Drone-eater: How we degenerated so often ruminating! Now minus is vis. We attend beyond the landscape, from the outside to double: it is what happens, in front of our eyes. Canon is in front of us, we eat it, we gaze at it; nothing can be dropped, we are obliged to keep everything, leave word of nunc from nunc. Normality disfigured, brilliance of separation softened. In collapse at ruminating, in the field of literature in minore, without weapons, disarmed. And in spite of all: i think we should mitigate the waits –hoping our pilot’s ink doesn’t end- so force excesses and limits of text, enter interstices, put a true philology of crime in effect, walk backwards like a crab, find the obvious. The truth. Everything is not the same as we believe. We can inventory characters, but an essential fuzziness persists, a light leaps before eyes, nearly dull in its taking here and there. It’s a light, not opus. The trifle is full of mud, and light. We should often train in muds and signs at the limit between perception and conceptualization; give ourselves the chance of relations. Opus is full of mud, and colour. Where method is not uncertain, there is neither escape nor advancement. Let’s start to "pay attention".