On the occasion of the 2016-2017 Wor(l)d plague with outbreak in Rome, I realized that no one knew who I was, except people who are not on social networks, or cannot write, or would never understand this rampant lucid intellectual madness that is besieging us, shamefully involving the whole of the publishing star system. I’d never had friends in the Italian literary world except for the ones I discovered just a little while ago. Nobody knew anything about me and my real life then. I feverishly wrote this memoir as a testament. But I survived thanks to mother earth and the animals I belong to, who did everything to teach me how it feels to be loved and seen for the first time in my life, as they were the only ones who had been by my side during the first slaughter of the innocent. They showed me how strong I was, how great, how unbeatable. They made me smile. I wrote A Letter to My Dog in cold, hunger and misery, at the risk of going crazy, as a matter of life and death, unespectedly discovering a way to survive. I continued to work on it during the following months of isolation, in the most extreme and blessed solitude of a very stunted rebirth, just to honor a Life that none of you can even imagine. Nothing could stain it, no one could rape it, definitely not the ones who exploited an alleged friendship which had never existed, doing much more damage than any other with their sneaking hatred and their secret destructive will disguised as empathy or sorority, just to take advantage from the unwanted visibility I had been cursed with. It’s that you can’t empathize with the silence, the absolute loneliness, all the escapes, and the complete abandonment I’ve experienced since I accidentally entered your fucked Italian literary world at 25, avoiding all of you with fear and manic care, looking for some shelter in any other place in the world, in the eyes of other aliens and of all the other persecuted, slandered, cannibalized and banished artists I’ve been meeting in the last few years.
Ladies and gentlemen, after the First Wor(l)d war, I was horrified at the thought of coming back into your claws, because I knew that I was in mortal danger and you’d never surrender. I felt silently spied during all the soliloquies I held in my crowded fb-pages which looked like a threatening cemetery of living dead only waiting to raise again and again. But I couldn’t get another job. Moreover, poetry needed me. People who love me and mysteriously know me anyway… will read my Letter. If they deem it worthwhile, they’ll tell my life to those who prefer to invent books rather than reading them. I don’t care about anything else. Least of all about those who claim that clothes make the man, justifying the beasts who shoot artists just because they don’t dress like monks in public. They are the worst and most dangerous women’s and art’s enemies. Not to mention the century-old curse of a fierce demon that nothing in the world could ever stop, all the more so now that – brandishing an unlikely simulacrum of who I actually am/was/have always been – he exists. Only my death could stop him, if only he knew where I live. But I’m not going to die. And pretty soon no one will know where I live. There is a ship to be repaired. Jump on board, there’s room for everyone. We are legion. We are scattered all around the world. Poets just have to work and write and live and love now and forever. Game over.
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