The origins of my father Ingo’s family are english ( his grannie Agnes Routh was daughter of an Anglican parson) and irish progeny ( his great-grandfather George I’s mother, Maria Fitzgerald) …modesty …. maybe that’s why we are big-boned persons, blue eyed, fair haired and above all our education is of clear anglican mould: there are no intermediaries with the absolute, we should be able to execute a steady work of introspection to examine our own conscience, we judge ourselves on our own as before so many inflexible ourselves and there is no severer judge than the one who knows all, whom you can no longer ask to hidden to ….
Maria Fitzgerald from Cork
As a matter of fact a civilized people shouldn’t want laws and commandments to know how to live, they should be able to tell right from wrong by themselves …to honour one’s father and one’s mother, don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t desire… …they should be cornerstones indissolubly inborn in our conscience so as to never arouse the thought of realizing the opposite…But one might as well….we need a dogma… a series of doing and not doing that will always find bold opponents to their dictat and these last ….to follow the rules of an other dogma will commit all a series of crimes on behalf of a presumed and imaginary liberation… and reading clearly between the lines we’ll always find the benefits of a capital, of a political power…of a overpowering disguised as war of religion….
I quote CapaRezza’s song:…..”They tell arabs write backwards. Mohamed told I write backwards, so every right thing reveals its opposite” …..But for a difference of thinking succeeding in doing harm to our same similar…
“Absurd, simply absurd” …I’m thinking of this while crossing Dublin and its barricades of barbed wire in the first cool days of april 1975. The town, swallowed up by the shadows, is ghostly already at five o’clock in the afternoon before the nightly curfew…only the helmets of the soldiers on guard behind the sacks of sand are visible….near the churches, it is difficult for me to understand the difference…which are the catholics and which the protestants…they are churches! We arrive at the St.Georges: inside it life has taken up its rhythm as if nothing were the matter …as if attempts and bombs were something in the distance …that doesn’t concern us…
Placard of the movie “Born for Hell”
We are come in Dublin to end the shots of a coproduction made by canadians, french and germans: the story tells of a psychotic Vietnam veteran ( Mathieu Carrière) who, arrived in Belfast, invades a house inhabited by eight nurses and terrorizes them to death. At Belfast it is impossible to shoot…too dangerous, the movie will be shot in Dublin; his title in english “Born for Hell” is already a program, thinking above all at the mountain that dominates this area: “Devil’s Ladder” …..In Italian it will be entitled “E la notte si tinse di sangue”, coprotagonists together with Christine Boisson and Carole Laure are Debbie Berger, Leonora Fani.
Carol Laure, half indian’s blood, is a canadian movie star who became famous for a shot of the scandal movie “Sweet Movie” where, plunged in chocolat, she has a sexual intercourse …she is tiny with bright, intriguing eyes, let guess without ever conceding the full thought that enliven her…even if someone should conquerer it….Sincerely I’m wondering if there is really something to discover, something to be amazed of…I don’t see why masking one’s talents…supposing that you are gifted with!
Leonora Fani is a sensual italian actress, sweet and delicate…a very resourceful girl…with all the input to became a wonderful woman. Debbie Berger is my bosom friend, actor William Berger’s daughter she is of american origin. She had the merit of teaching me, in her roman kitchen in Palazzo Ruspoli, the basic rules to cook a perfect risotto and…to mix the ingredients wisely… above all those of a life… partly licentious…partly reputable. A small Alice in Wonderland…“I’ve always noticed that to be successful in the world you must have the appearance of the mad but be wise” (C.Montequien).
Elice discovering a new world
In that time the producer Galliano Yuso had offered me the role of protagonist in a cult movie: “Alice in Debauch Land”…and I, frightened by what they could really be, finally hadn’t the courage to accept…to regret it later…Damned fear!
Now I know: the feeling of fear of loosing something or somebody produces always the condition of loosing them! The opposite of fear isn’t courage but love: soul wants to be understood by the mind without the fear who distorts symbols that our unconscious sends to us. To know fear means to put it aside as something that is no more to be used for evolution.
But little Alice who knows how to cook a good risotto lived in a magical world, deadened by infusions of opium and cultivated sex…
male sex and female sex reunited
the fountain is born from the source
I remember the big black Thai phallus of glossy ebony ( lingam), tall as an oriental man, set in the living room of Debbie and Dado Ruspoli’s roman house . It brought fertility to touch their tips…I was deeply persuaded, since even only looking at them blood melted in the veins. You breathe an air of tepid sex that never left you: till since when you went in from the small private lift you were wrapped in a tender and softened oriental mood, little light… many smoky grey mirrors on the walls, along the narrow corridor that linked to the hall, prepare the visitor reflecting his image and escorting him. A big fireplace, two specular canapes, the magnificent black phallus at the sides…the sight on the big bed of the play room. Easy to imagine the bare bodies seeking each other in the little light on those black silky sheets, the ostentatious caresses to better involve the guest in a play in three of soft and lascivious tastes, his enourmous sex flashing and shaking in the deep the small Alice till she tooks a fancy…to take it ..to physically enjoy it keeping it tight closely between the legs while the bosom friend caresses her brest, kisses her nipples…Then in the rooms of the hotel in Dublin in name of this memory we kept on drinking opium tea’s infusions perhaps only to improve the expectation of the day that we foresaw it would have seen us orphans of the vitalizing sexual intercorse…I was alone with Debbie, no archaic symbols to entertain us…no imagines to enjoy…
Moore Street Market
Tired of the only female company and in search of something more exciting I suggested a visit to the local small market: out from the hotel, immediately at the corner of the square, passing under a Georgian arch, we found ourselves plunged in the life of irish people, in that time in full economic recession…children were begging wearing nearly torn clothes… a line as a mourning-band on their nails. They sold everything, nothing were thrown: dolls without an arm…pram with three wheels…broken mirrors…various remains, everything without any value…maybe only the added expectation to gain something from it that the seller, with black woollen mittens, had intimately placed in them. Moore Street Market: it caused anguish to see all that daily poverty, it reflected the social struggles in act between Dublino and Belfast, the attacks, the curfew. Luckily today is different…we go to the Temple Bar to hear the U2… the destructive madness is finally out of fashion and in Georges street you breath different air…But in 1975…it was absurd…a boy .. red haired, dyed in orange, dazzling towards the sky thanks to a corrosive, binding gel… mesmeric blue glance…he attempt an approach …I’m enchanted: the first punk of my life! His sweet and endearing manners of presenting himself while I’m considering the objects on sale…strikes me: a tinned clown over a two-wheeled tricycle draws a barrow and with the movement it awakens the notes of a mechanical musical box…it doesn’t make sense hoping that somebody buys it.
For this I invite “the fellow red haired”, how later will call him a friend of mine, to drink with me. At dusk we go into St. Georges pub, join the first floor and, plunged in Georgian style, we became friends.
A Real Irish Pub
We admire the ritual of the preparation of a real Irish Coffee…the hand of the house waiter white gloved must be more than steady when pouring the liquid cream, everything must occur very slowly so as to leave to the flavours their independence, they have to join up without blending and maintaining their identity (even in life it would be better so!). Five minutes has been enough to realize that Irish Coffee’s miracle: the effect is excellent, satisfying! My new friend loses himself bringing the conversation on magic, on the absolute necessity of taking me on the roof of Ireland, on Carrauntoohil Mountain…the Top of the Devil’s …and there, in a moonlight night opening the ninth door towards spiritual illumination…
The Devil’s Ladder
I remember very well why I couldn’t ever have a complete relation with foreign people…the fact of not understanding what he exactly tells to me, misinterpreting his contents for the simple reason of not speaking the same language…takes me to the condition of not wishing to divide with him more private and physical moments. In short I can’t light up if I’m not intellectually involved, if his words don’t open a gap in my mind, don’t hit my imagination kindling it of desire. So I am only frightened by the outlook of a night climbing in Carlos Castaneda way towards the top of a moutains unknown to me ..with such a cold…together with a boy by red dazzled thoughts….yes under the magic of a moonlit night but in search of the Devil’s Ladder…the cliff of the devil….Too Much, pretty Too Much !
Carlos Castaneda’s Mariguana
I’m grateful to the hotel’s porter when gently refuses to let my young friend go up in my room and sets me free from my own reveries….
I run in my mates’ rooms to look for relief, I tell to Debbie and Leonora my useless going out…we agree. It is a real bad luck a set of eight sexy women and one only actor superoccupied, aseptic, very far from wishing to divide with us any sexual experience, even if were only a look! Unfortunately I’m not attracted by my same sex, it doesn’t rouse any emotion in me to see another woman naked…. The sex of a man push me to a prompt reaction: I wish to have it, to bring it, to possess it at once…it awakens every inch of my flesh and brains, assuming that there be any!, …it makes me feel alive.
I should try, together with a man and a woman close friends, to blindfold me and let my body to their exhibitions of skill in giving me pleasure…I wouldn’t know at once who of them is giving me more, I wouldn’t be prejudiced against the woman ..and maybe I’d understand …
That year, in the very middle of a roman autumnal night, Ettore, my ex-love, asked me to reach him at his house and…at my arrival in via Margutta I found him not alone.
“Life is that thing that occurs while you are occupied in doing other things” said John Lennon, so it shall always be lived …because then, when you have tasted it you cannot do without it anymore!
….She was laying down on the bed naked, with a pillow that was covering her face…he, in the heat of the excitment, had received me with an hypnotizing kiss, undressed and directed me in an immense love gesture to the loft, to the alcove… towards that naked body. He possessed me in the same moment in which I bent towards her and this made everything easier for me: the pleasure went through my body to melt on the other. The anonymity was protecting from possible personal disagreements..I knew who that woman was as she knew of me…but that evening nobody wanted to know for certain…A year later they had together a baby…surely she will be born free!
Today, recalling those so particolar moments I can peacefully admit that I don’t feel envy for the penis ….but nostalgia …yes! Always!!!