FORSE OGGI NON SEGUO IL SOLE...

Watching Vittorio De Sica's I Girasoli was one of the first peeks I've ever taken of how Italy was in the olden days - even seeing Milan's Central station's old face gave me somewhat a different sensation.
Sophia Loren's Giovanna is an Italian woman who falls desperately in love with Marcello Mastroianni's Antonio. So much so that
when it was time for him to enlist in the army factions bound for Russia, Giovana agreed to a ruse (admittedly, I first thought it was real, until i caught up with what the two crazy lovers were doing)
to have Antonio locked up in the loony bin. When they failed in this, the two had to accept their destiny and part.

Years after, and the war finally ends. But no word comes from Antonio and Giovana decides to conduct a desperate search for her lost husband, whom she believes to be alive.
The plot thickens on, and watching the film, I am reminded of other films whose main themes were relatively simple but which would leave you amazed at how intricate these emotions can be, making even the simplest seem most complicated.

Many may call this almost soap-operish and zaccharine-sweet, but i actually found it endearing and had the circumstances been right, i would have actually cried. (crybaby that i am)

Two things the film's definitely got going for it are the cinematography and the music. There were some pretty amazing shots all throughout the movie. And of course, being a Henry Mancini fan ( I must have watched Breakfast at Tiffany's a million times, partly because of the music), I knew i would be glued right off.

P.S. Thank you Jean for sharing this film with me!

THE WORD

There is one word in the English vocabulary that is as mysterious as faith, as tangible and yet fleeting as a shiver, as essential as oxygen to a person’s existence, and as indeterminate as the future.

It is when a young man, who did not express his desires succinctly and always let chance and fate dictate his own life, gets drifted off to a faraway land, gets stripped off his dreams and realities. In exchange he gets a reality that is so strange to him, it is almost violent. It grates at his skin. It bites his flesh. It tears at him everyday. This. His new life. His condition. In less than a month, he buys a ticket to go back home. He is called a quitter by everyone else, a lost cause.



It is when another, who did not allow his desires to take the better of him and always let his ideals dictate his own life, is given a heart to look after and his own heart to surrender. His reality became everyone’s dreams. It fills him with joy. It fills him with pleasure. It fills him with love. This. His very being, he gives up. In a matter of weeks, he breaks all binds and sets himself free and vulnerable. Where there was safety and love, he now risks pain and loneliness. He is called a fool by everyone else, a lost soul.



It is when one, who did not desire so completely and always let other people’s realities dictate his own life, gets drifted to a place he so longed to discover, gets stripped of old fears and doubts and in their place, new fears and new doubts. Every step he takes now may bring him closer to a dream long-nurtured and kept hidden or may cause him to shut himself off and retreat back into quiet non-being. It is one kiss, one hug, one resounding yes. He is called a newbie by everyone else, one with a lot to lose. Or a lot to gain.


The word is Choice.


Who gets to decide if one is a quitter or a fool? We look life in its face and we look away, each taking something for ourselves, each leaving something behind.

What matters most is who we make of ourselves in the end. The good we have in us, the good we do, and the good we can still achieve.

ASPETTANDO L’AUTUNNO

Browns
the leaves
that bear my
Tears
dried and torn,
littered, soaked in
rainwater, frozen
shivers,
these trembling gems
fall,
they call
to earth and air
to sleep
and wait
their unknown fate.


.cris.

L'ULTIMA CENA TRANS. THE LAST TRANS SUPPER.

Thanks to the person responsible for this image. It made my day.

So ...question is, what becomes of the Holy Grail?!?

From OF CURTAINS AND MEN

The young man held his breath.

He wiped the sweat running down his cheeks from the aching temples where a mass of golden-brown hair stuck, strands to scalp. He shivered, the cold air like a bath of ice on his strained muscles. The smells of rain-drowned grass, booze, cigar and cum enjoined, making him cough. Or maybe he coughed because he had forgotten to button up his shirt, as well as his pants. He had even left his wallet, left everything else he knew to be his.

Walks. Cries. Flies.

The young man headed the wrong way.

There was no way, he thought. Right or wrong. No all I have, I carry with me. All I need.

My words, just my words all screaming, fluttering, laughing, talking, forming, f%&=ing inside my head.

Write. Think. Murmur. Think!

Just my words. Always my words –
And breath.



From OF CURTAINS AND MEN: a short story. cris