We need more Viagra, but for our brain

We live in a society that has screamed at the miracle for the launch of a blue colored pill, able to treat male impotence. Gallons of ink have been paid in jokes and laughters, hours and hours of broadcasting, between news and gossip, with the conductor winking at the quivering housewives, ready to drop pots and pans to runaway with the half-length on duty, willing to grant him unconditional trust on the hidden part, the most important cut of meat in a phallocratic and phallocentric society.

We live in a society that has a twisted vision of sex, a society in which pornostars are considered miths above any possible kind of suspicion. The prove of this beatification consists in the rise of these actors at the honor of immortality, at the same way of others celebrities, which the people reject the idea that they simply die like all the living things.

And then here we find a lot of plots and dozens of witnesses ready to swear that Elvis, Bob Marley and Jim Morrison – and who knows who else – are in some place, smoking and drinking very well, while we go on pilgrimage on their, empty graves, to see if maybe instead of photography there is a videoclip that explains how to defeat death in ten simple steps.

We live in a society where it is more important to spend millions to treat erection of the irreducibles of sex, the nonagenarian slime that, in slow motion, chases the old ladies in nursing homes, rather than to find a pill to harden the soft hemispheres of who is extremely stupid about science and politic.

We live in a society that is afraid of  feelings and then it prefers to focus on concrete manifestations of existence, like tangibility of sex and the penetrability of bodies, rather than on intangibility of mind and knowledge, too ephemera ways to be considered real by flaccid and atrophied brains.

[italian version]

This is the hand

This is the hand, my only friend, the hand. Oh, I love Jim Morrison and his lyrics, but I don’t sacralize him so much to be unable to joke with some verses of the most discussed song by The Doors. Because, at the end of the fair (which in italian means “alla fine della fiera”), the hand is the end of the arm, therefore the extreme part, a border line of a body that suffers of borderline personality disorder. This will be the light-shining-motiv of this blog: a kind of masturbation in the borderland of mental illness.