Sicilia 09: poets, rise and reclaim what is yours!

I am afraid this is the doing of “Dead Poets Society” in collaboration with that small part of me who used to call herself a writer, so judge me not or if you feel the need – skip words, skip sentences and paragraphs that lead to distant thoughts and unfamiliar deeds and might not exist in a world of glee.

A lot of you know how movies, books and songs affect me, and some of you have experienced it on your own skin, when chatting with me is almost unbearable after a session of William’s Sonnets. But some verity comes from the minds of people, who are truly devoted to their fragmentary insanity; and some fairness inhabits the words of a night bird as well. I used to be like that, and I am afraid to admit that the time of sleepless rhymes might come again.


A sea of do’s and don’ts that will never be obeyed, a puddle of personality traits that will never be contained, …and a drop of fear that will always be within from time to time making an unpleasant din.
None of this will matter if we won’t stay true to ourselves and true to God. All of this will fade with time, if we won’t keep it written down somewhere deep in the chambers of our hearts. The poets will rise, the poets will fall, and they will revive or kill us all!
But as for now this can’t continue this way, if I want to share at least a drop that is real.


La verità mi fa male, lo sai. And the truth is – I am not doing my best to take all I can get from this twist of faith some call life… I am wastefully spending the precious morning hours – surrendered to unproductive sleeping habits that lessen the time before going to Mistero Buffo and leave a trail of tiresomeness that drags behind me like a gloomy snail… it reaches me around 6 p.m., when all that the flesh wants is to take a break. But afterwards, when the day is done and night time reaches the heavy eyes of every single mundane, I collapse under the distant cousin of insomnia, trying to pass time – reading, writing, drawing, playing. One truly joyful fact indeed is not having neighbors whose ears would bleed – none on our right, none on our left, only warmth-craving cats and a rooster, who has difficulties to differentiate day from night. This is how certain types of vampirism develop, I guess; this is how the language slips between my fingers – when the urge to be understood instantly overcomes the wish to understand.
“He sank into the grease of familiarity, avoiding unnecessary pleasantries and indulging in the presence of oneself. “ – Poets have a way of getting to you, don’t they? And so does San Sebastiano.



Weather you want it or not the walls are trembling and the dissonance between pyrotechnics and “battle cries” – Viva San Sebastiano! is overwhelming. The statue of the saint is brought on a high pedestal through the city for 12 hours by a handful of devotees, who are making a sacrifice by not wearing shoes (but having a dozen of socks on instead). Each stopover at a church or a statue of other saints is accompanied by fireworks and celebrational details like songs played by an orchestra and confetti. And, trust me, there are un sacco di chiese – a lot of churches in Acireale. The same will happen in Catania this weekend when Sant’Agata will be brought through the city and awaited on early Sunday morning with hymns sang by nuns, who leave the convent once per year just for this one occasion – to offer songs to the Saint. It sounds somewhat magical, so I will not spoil the image created by tales and will treasure the moment created by my imagination instead. San Sebastiano proved me that even if an act of praise  and sacrificial devotion possesses beauty that is known by poets and storytellers, the act itself is conducted by humans with a variety of motives, and attended by people who might have forgotten the true meaning – or have never known it at all, for that matter.

At the end it is just a celebration after all, when friends and family has the chance to get together, go on the streets, eat nougat, toasted chickpeas and chestnuts, buy helium balloons and cotton candy for the little ones and spend some time surrounded by the idea of tradition. And we all have that in our countries, in our own nations – fest that would not make much sense to foreigners, but would mean a great deal to us, and I value that.



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