Mediatic Anesthesia

Honestly, how many of you consider to be well informed, to be really aware of what’s happening in the world? How many of you are able to eliminate the suspicion that there is someone that is taking us the piss? Be here to discuss that (here or anywhere else, in the bar downstairs rather then in the assembly of UN) does not serve other than to make much ado about nothing, to allow, at whoever is behind the scenes, to pull, undisturbed, the threads of history?

Really we have no choice? Really try to “inform” is the only way to change the world, bringing it closer to the ideal society we all have in mind, in which words, such as injustice, poverty, starving and war, will only be distant memories?

If I look back I’ve had discussions on topics as varied, as that was on the choice to buy the white grapes, rather than black, I cannot remember a single episode in which I or my partner have changed our opinions.

Perhaps we must change the perspective, maybe we should think longer and more wide. Perhaps the hope that a infinite sum of unnecessary discussions can lead to a change is not in vain, even if it is like to admit that the sum of zero tends to infinity gives infinity.

Since there is doubt that the debate into private clubs, among kindred minds that tend to exclude “different”, cannot do no more that calcify the status quo, a bit like trying to move mountains blowing against them and, at the same time, not realize that breath is merely depositing a thin layer of limestone on the rock, subtly increasing his thickness. As if the words had weight, as if they were freeze-dried sand that, according to the principle of homeopathy, were useful to care for affinity.

Here, it seems to me that we all have the impression to give our contribution to history, but this impression could be the result of surgery, of a mediatic lobotomy performed under general anesthesia by a gagged surgeon, eyeless and faceless, which has no hurry to wake us from a dreamless sleep.

[italian version]

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]