Scattered Inconsistencies E-Book

Simone Malacrida

• Herausgeber: Simone Malacrida
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

“Scattered Inconsistencies” is a collection of drafts, fragments, thoughts and short stories, divided into twenty-one different sections.

Das E-Book Scattered Inconsistencies wird angeboten von Simone Malacrida und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
poetry

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

“Scattered Inconsistencies” | SIMONE MALACRIDA

ANALYTICAL INDEX

I | ONE YEAR

II | GLIMPSES

III | SCATTERED TRIPS

IV | IN THE WORLD

V | CHAINS

VI | ANNIVERSARIES

VII | YESTERDAY

VIII | ONE HOUR

IX | ANGLES

X | SCATTERED THOUGHTS

XI | IN THE SINGLE

XII | TIES

XIII | CALENDAR

XIV | TODAY

XV | ONE DAY

XVI | PERSPECTIVES

XVII | SCATTERED DREAMS

XVIII | IN THE INSIDE

XIX | POSSIBILITY'

XX | PROGRAMS

XXI | TOMORROW

“Scattered Inconsistencies”

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“Scatter Inconsistencies”is a collection of drafts, fragments, thoughts and short stories, divided into twenty-one different sections.

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Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, he has dealt with research, finance, energy policies and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

I - ONE YEAR

II - GLIMPSES

III - SCATTERED TRIPS

IV - IN THE WORLD

V - CHAINS

VI - ANNIVERSARIES

VII - YESTERDAY

VIII - ONE HOUR

IX - ANGLES

X - SCATTERED THOUGHTS

XI - IN THE SINGLE

XII - TIES

XIII - CALENDAR

XIV - TODAY

XV - ONE DAY

XVI - PERSPECTIVES

XVII - SCATTERED DREAMS

XVIII - IN THE INSIDE

XIX - POSSIBILITIES

XX - PROGRAMS

XXI - TOMORROW

I

ONE YEAR

JANUARY

Start of everything, although different depending on the hemispheres.

Tangible memories of intense biting cold and vermilion sunsets.

Ascending light, albeit still limited.

Everything is given by our experience and our being anchored to the most populated and least natural part of the Earth.

If we asked others, Australians or Argentinians, they would say otherwise.

A time of heat and sea, of leisure and joy.

Here, however, it is the polar vortex, its rupture and its descent towards temperate latitudes that reigns.

It's an exhausting wait.

Perhaps the dominant moment of the reaper of yesteryear.

Not much to note other than the great glow of the incipit. For the rest, everything passes inexorably, but slowly.

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FEBRUARY

Temporary interlude full of symbolism and anticipation.

The Nice Riviera or the widespread fogs?

The end of the great southern noon or the whipping wind of the steppes?

Revolutionary in itself in its conception.

The shortest and most irregular.

A sudden change in the starry sky, one that few now admire except with increasingly sophisticated scientific instruments.

Light as a symbol of rebirth, sometimes even the first buds (but what a risk!).

Subjected to a sudden gust.

A breath of the great Mother that could even prove fatal.

It's not time for us yet.

Or maybe we don't want to get out of the torpor?

Domestic self-assurance that is still struggling to take its first steps.

Fast as the previous one was slow.

It doesn't even seem to exist.

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MARCH

Why war in the name?

For a long time, it was the real beginning.

The beginning of life and the new year.

Significant date is contained therein, already considered in remote times and thanks to which monuments were erected and poems written.

Explosion of vitality here, preparatory time for sleep elsewhere.

Immensely denser than the previous ones for anniversaries, memories and memories.

Experiences float in the luminiferous ether, trembling like the first flowers shaken by the wind.

White and first signs of youthful green.

It is a world that awakens between dancing violins and ethereal women, but never take everything for granted.

It's a moment to fall back into darkness.

Treacherous stabbings, flowing blood and crime that is now too institutionalized.

Everything revolves around the ancient incipit, the date of dates, at the center of the lost world enchanted by the rays of the first age.

Maybe this is the real war.

The one that we have when we notice the transience of time and our existence.

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APRIL

Carefree and cheerfulness.

Explosion of colors and life.

It's all a buzz and re-emerge thanks to light and water, the two elements that are so vital and inseparable.

Moments of extreme sharing.

Escapes for two or more.

How the whirlwinds whirl!

Clear image of cyclonic and spiraling cherry blossoms, graceful without ever touching the ground.

The river flows in you and in the world.

Reconnection with supreme harmony, like a concert broken and now resumed, years later.

An eternal search for perfection that never reaches its peak as it is an end in itself.

Poignant and powerful, not utilitarian.

We live for this without any afterthought of practicality.

Without dreams, what would we be?

Formless matter and simple construct of organic chemistry.

It is a mystery never revealed, never truly understood and never reducible to first principles.

It is us, with all our burden of ambiguity and smallness.

If there was a time when we empathized with the Universe, here it is depicted and hinted at.

Fleeting and brief, we would like to grasp it forever, but it remains only a distracting impressionistic touch.

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MAY

What density and what insight!

What great open spaces on the horizon!

Light and light there was.

Water and water was.

An enchanted time, like that of loves and passions, like those who know they are transitory and do not want to succumb to the supreme logic of transience.

We are everything and the opposite.

United in an eternal dance, but in reality so ephemeral in times and ways.

Songs and hymns, feasts and holidays.

Green contrasts with blue, yellow with white, red with pink.

Infinite palette of shades.

Certainty that Nature always surpasses artificial and artificial reconstruction and that man can only try to imitate, without ever reaching perfection.

There is a thought of trading longer duration for more quality but it is only a mere simulacrum of truth.

All around reigns the double law of beauty interconnected with instability.

Nothing lasts.

Even a rose that is perfect today is no longer perfect tomorrow.

Or is a few hours enough?

Where is the peak and the decline begins?

Difficult to crystallize, whether it refers to a single event or in totality.

So what remains?

The moment and (or is it?) the great awareness of having lived it.

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JUNE

The ancients saw this period as the great culmination and fulfillment.

The light that dominates (here, while elsewhere there is perpetual darkness).

Always the stars that determine everything.

The natural and agricultural and therefore biological cycles.

The beginning of great abundance in terms of primary needs, of that period in which one must accumulate and conserve to overcome the difficulties that will come.

Great planning and immense strategies, insights of the intellect, to work hard for good.

Today we have forgotten all this.

Today everything is taken for granted.

Today the climax is postponed, when the shadows are already lengthening.

Today we are in dystonia.

It is in the past that the true traditions of man are rediscovered, of that animal species that seeks to elevate itself but which, however, is anchored to being terrestrial.

Don't be misled.

Follow the light.

The light of the ancestors that illuminates the path of the fearful man.

Sacrificial rites to remind us who we are.

We should stop and reflect on ourselves and the word progress.

Return to the origins.

Go and then re-emerge.

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JULY

The green has now become heavy and intense and has lost all its youthful vehemence.

Bare parched earth, scorching soil exposed to the intrepid heat.

There is almost no refreshment.

Nature is accused when not long before all this was desired.

We don't even notice the beginning of the decline, so dulled are our senses.

The natural inertia towards changes is now definitively defeated, at least in its primary part, and the great fruits of the Mother are eagerly awaited.

Is it possible to conceive something different?

It seems like no.

The antipodes coincide shamelessly, although no one thinks about it but it is exactly the opposite.

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AUGUST

This has now been established as the culmination.

But this is not the case if we followed Nature.

It should be the great time of the last holidays, but sometimes it's just the beginning.

We are asynchronous and dystonic.

We walk on divergent paths with different clocks.

Yet, everything reminds us of great transience.

At the great noon, where the purest souls are released and not subject to compromise.

We are certain that we are elsewhere, that we are diving into new sensations, year after year, always the same deep down, always never truly possessed.

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SEPTEMBER

Out of breath and secretly it arrived.

The time of noon and sunset.

The time of transience.

You don't immediately have awareness because you want to prolong the climax in an extreme way.

But it started late, when there were already the first signs of decline.

If it had started earlier, then we would have enjoyed the moments and all the great discoveries of the long youth break, when it is still easy to run around the fields without thinking about the world and its problems.

What does it take to make us realize our illusion?

Sometimes all it takes is a breath of wind.

Other times descending water.

And here the truth opens up in all its cruelty.

Everything is over, but we want to continue enjoying moments and sensations.

Sooner or later we will have to give in.

Hopefully it will be then.

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OCTOBER

Green almost no longer exists.

It's all a flourish of warm shades.

Yellow and red, above all.

It's a sight to behold.

Striking sunsets that appear not in the sky, but on earth and in an infinite and repeated way.

Every single tree is, in itself, a sunset.

A mountain of emotions and memories, of lost and forgotten sounds.

How can you not love all this?

How can we not be attracted to resisting until proven otherwise?

What's the point of resisting if your destiny is to fall?

Who commands a leaf to stay there?

It's his life and he can't escape it.

It's his job.

Here is the great teaching of Nature and its cycles, if only we knew how to listen.

I'm not saying learn, but it would be enough to listen and listen.

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NOVEMBER

Many don't like it. It is the prelude to the impending break and the cold and it begins in an eerie way.

Yet, it is a necessary step.

A moment of transition (but, ultimately, everything is transition and nothing is what it is or even what it appears).

If only we were able to enjoy every single moment without thinking about what's next.

Instead, there is always this underlying concern.

And then?

We resist, a bit like Nature. You don't want to give it away to Time thinking that willpower and inertia are enough to counteract the inexorable law.

Everything is in vain and we know it.

But we do it, always, every time.

Why?

It's in our nature.

Not wanting to change but going with the flow.

And when we realize how much has changed outside, it is already too late.

The light has almost faded and it is time for enveloping darkness.

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DECEMBER

Only now do we realize the great turn, only at the end.

It is as if man needed a beginning and an end to realize the passage of Time.

Without the idea of cycle and return, we would conceive everything in a linear way, without ever reflecting.

This is why we build artifices and artifacts to remind us that everything comes and returns.

Didn't we know all along?

Sure, but we forgot.

And now what's left?

A fleeting memory, something that takes us back to completely different areas.

It all seems so fast that I haven't even tasted anything.

At least it helped to learn?

No.

Soon a new cycle will begin, but it is as if we erase every memory.

We think we can start again, when we haven't understood that every moment is the beginning.

It all seems so sweet and enchanting that it makes us forget the meaning of everything.

My end is my beginning.

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But is this the only way to classify? Certainly not, but the most common.

Others would have scanned the circular time of an eternal return (but not of the identical, but of the similar) with different names.

Pratile or thermidor or brumaire or windy, for example.

But is the name that important?

A ride on the carousel is always the same, regardless of the name.

Aim for the essence.

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The continuous cycle

It rolls in the direction

Of sublime peaks.

Reconnect and return.

II

GLIMPSES

There are enchanted points in everyone's memory, understood as specific spatial coordinates.

Just one meter of difference is enough to generate something completely antithetical, which is why knowledge and memory are fundamental.

However, we often do not understand how a space is necessarily related to a time.

It is an experience that comes to us, not an inanimate place.

It is a mix of colors and sounds, of scents and actions, of thoughts and dreams.

A touch of different blue in the sky gives the same place a totally opposite appearance.

And from here infinite facets descend.

Where does the treasure chest of memories reside?

Where can everyone's memory be held up as a universal example?

Always from a single experience, from the individual who draws sensations, it is the departure, but ultimately the arrival.

Two souls, although similar and assonant, will not have identical responses, not even from the same person when compared to the passing time, to the slow evolution of the march of life.

It is a challenge, eternally unfinished and resolutely lost.

There are no certainties in this.

The very symbol of transience.

So we invented various art forms.

From painting to photography.

All to capture moments.

Impossible.

What we actually do is transpose.

To imagine and interpret.

The result may even be better.

Sometimes it really is, especially if passed through expert hands and creative synapses.

But it is still a filter, not reality.

Does reality even exist?

What is it?

Is it fiction or simply interpretation?

It is our world of relating, of affirming that we existed, in a specific place and time.

A glimpse into eternity, a small piece of us that seems so apical to us that the entire Universe revolves around it.

Dust of nothing, yet so vital.

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A large, barely visible inlet like many others, facing the open sea exposed to the mistral, which, when it blows, generates powerful and treacherous waves.

Not particularly fine sand, certainly not like a few kilometers away where it almost seems like crystal shattered by the passage of time.

A depth that is almost immediately mentioned and not a protected bay, no natural pool.

Thin strip of land that separates the wild side from a large bay, where instead everything is almost calm even on stormy days.

The ancient sages, expert and intrepid navigators of unknown waters and great traders, had established a base there.

A city that still shines today among the ruins, although we cannot fully understand their daily life, certainly not carried out among the opaque colors of the stones.

Where did the decorative red and the auspicious green go?

Where is the blue of lapis lazuli and the yellow of ocher?

Vanished under the march of time, of the great tyrant to whom everything returns.

There is a path that leads slowly upwards, with your back to everything.

It is as if in the slow climb the view must be hidden.

A sudden turn towards the west, where the great Sun goes to sleep, announces the final steps, which are much more tiring.

Once you get to the top, next to the tower, every single sensation is pacified.

You cannot hear your breathing, dominated by the wind that blows constantly and strongly, even when down there on the floor, no more than a kilometer away, people bask in the heat regardless of the natural powers.

Total and spherical view.

Distortion as if from a fish's eyeball, the desire to gather everything into itself, with a cosmic embrace between sky and water.

We are here, waiting.

Of the fading light, of the long-sought ray, of the moment and the instant.

We know that there is something else nearby. Hustle and celebration, food and lighthouses, another promontory further south.

We glimpse the teeming world of the plane returning to their safe homes.

Soon the darkness will make its way into this ancestral land.

Let them go. They do not understand.

They are not an extension of this land, even the natives.

There is something that makes the chosen few, wherever they grew up, similar to the feeling of this place, almost unchanged in various seasons of the year and of life.

As a child, as a young person, as an adult and as an elderly person.

The certainty of the great cycle of Nature, an overlying splash of souls lost and found.

The astute reader has the task of researching the place. It's not difficult, it's special.

Clue: a man faced with the cosmic infinity of Life.

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Walking through known or recently visited cities is an almost mystical experience.

I mean walking not to go somewhere or go to a museum or monument, but simply wander around, taking large circular or self-contained paths.

Let yourself be carried away by chance and the moment.

Choose based on ephemeral sensations, a balcony or a street, a garden or a spire, a facade or a color.

There are infinite stories within every single step, every house number passed by.

Stories past and present, real or possible.

Deceptions and joys, betrayals and unions, pain and exaltation.

From inanimate stones, from shapeless and inorganic matter, the environment and the background rises on which to leave the mark of infinite generations.

A journey into the past, a minimal intuition of what was.

Just replace, in your mind, cars with carriages and change your clothes.

Thinning out the heights, stripping away the frills and accessories of life.

Returning to a principle that never existed, but has always been praised and taken as a reference.

Here is the time machine. Our eyes and our mind.

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Who knew how to portray landscapes best?

Should they be realistic or imagined?

Will the double reversal of every single vision ever restore the essence?

There are no one-size-fits-all answers. Indeed, they constantly change based on time, space and feelings.

The boundary between change and illusion is fleeting.

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The scientific explanation would also be simple in itself.

Electromagnetic wave with a certain frequency, whose composition, in a spectrum considered "visible" or perceivable by the human eye, forms what we call light and whose reflections, shielded by individual absorptions, are cataloged as colors through an appropriate modification in pulses electrical impulses by intraocular receptors and subsequent processing of such impulses by the human brain.

However, sensitivity and vastness, the slightest change and immanence are impossible to codify.

Even the subtle difference between artificial and natural.

After all, what is natural?

Nothing, yet we notice it.

This enchantment, which has continued for millennia and generations, has never left anyone indifferent.

It is as if words and notes, writings and paintings, songs and praises, prayers and every form of technological capture were not enough.

Everyone thinks they are generating new knowledge.

New emotions and new references.

It is an endless search, a continuous, unstoppable pursuit of a never-reachable sublime.

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When we are in front of someone else, what do we focus on?

On the external appearance?

It is certainly the first simulacrum.

And then?

What is he saying, how is he moving?

Second step.

The meaning and the thought?

Third step.

But ultimately you don't get there often.

Finding and digging beyond these first approaches is not easy, due to lack of time and the will of the individual and of others.

Have a look inside, once you've thrown away everything else.

Go to the essence of the soul and what you really think, as you can say or do exactly the opposite.

Entering the head of the person in front of us, understanding their point of view, being among their synapses, searching their memories.

It is the exploration of a new library written with different and almost codified alphabets.

Without the cryptographic key it is impossible to understand: only a seemingly meaningless river of information remains.

Why that word and not silence?

Why appearance instead of total openness?

Only in extreme cases is the central point reached, the only one that is decisive and worth grasping.

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In the vast majority of cases, we are anchored to our being terrestrial, meaning our absolute connection with the earth and not with water or air.

We are not fish or birds.