las puertas de la carne

di angelica liddell

Angelica autoretrato_1
“What if I burst the fleshly Gate
And pass, escaped, to thee?”
(Emily Dickinsons)Submissive to the indecipherable terror of our existence, the need to be saved is born in our nerves, not even knowing from what, from our enemies, from our desires, from our anguish, from the end of the world or from the flames of hell. And without the ability to understand the terror, only the Sacred helps us, just because the Sacred is opposed to the calculation of the reasoning. We carry the seed of the magicians; we burn our house or walk the sacred ways, day and night, on our eight-legged horse, exhausted by the law, by society, by science, ending all the possible disappointments, redemption ends in poetic violence.The fool says to Andrei: take this candle, cross the pool and you will save the world, the world, what else it is if not our suffering, our journey to death, so we convert into pilgrims of darkness, with the sun tired to illuminate so many miserable ones.
Where is gone the feeling of the Sacred? The Sacred is a way of giving back to the human being the conscience of the spirit and of subversion, snatching it from the contemporary materialistic obligation, from the need materialistic, from the materialistic totalitarianism.
It is a way to give him back his being primigenial, the innate energy. So this is a great subversive act to try to save the world, a great prayer, a great oration, the useless act of a madman. Man can only be understood (or never understood) by its irremediable necessity that God exists, by his irremediable need to be loved, by his irremediable fear of death, and by his irremediable need of salvation. If we stop to ask ourselves questions about the existence of God, we stop being humans.
What else can we do now, in the black waters of our discomfort, if not get to the other side of the pool where the suicidal awaits us, that, like Christ, probably died for us all.When I met Gennaro, Carmelo and especially Patrizia, I felt that my soul took form, I could see it in front of me, my soul was sitting in front of me, it was my own soul that spoke, my soul suddenly had arms, head, legs, I had before me a medieval altarpiece in which I attended as a spectator of my own martyrdom, Gennaro, Carmelo and Patrizia were the doors of my flesh, as the poem by Emily Dickinson “What if I burst the fleshly gate / And pass escaped, to thee? “. The uninterrupted desire of death that accompanied me from the day I was born became concrete in them, I could see my interior taking shape and action. At night I thought that every one of them, in materializing my congenital desires to die, somehow me had saved. Their suicide attempts had been able to keep me alive during the years and the distance, connected by galaxies, between planets and cells, that eventually had made us to coincide in the same place, the waiting room of a hospital in Brindisi. Patrizia was my galactic double. She had done everything I wanted to do every time I was losing the will to live. And my double, Patrizia, the living face of my soul, the one who gave a living face to my soul, she saved me every time it cut its veins, every time it threw itself under the train, my Anna Karenina, my Madame Bovary… And I, saved, kept cutting horse heads to make sense of this salvation, and I hoped (sometimes hopelessly but hoping) that this useless act of a fool (me), I hoped that these olive branches, that the small bells, the urinals and the vats, the sheets and the tissues, I hoped that all these objects that others drag through the mud of banality, will return to Carmelo, to Gennaro and especially to Patrizia (Patrizia, the carnal face of my soul, the incarnation, and the desire made flesh), they will return to all of them the salvation that I have received in the moment when they were dead.(Angélica Liddell)
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