COMMAS 


Foto del 29-06-17 alle 16.13 #2



Welcome to the English version of my blog.

 

I called it Commas because I like to think that the posts collected here are regulated by punctuation as if they were part of a single preposition.

 

I will write about literature, publishing industry, books and e-books, music, everyday stories and art in general.

 

Well, think of my post as a blues song: if I can communicate or get you feel emotion, I did my job.

 

Regards,

 

Enrico Mattioli



About meBorn in a Lazio region’s city, a country capital, crossed by river, built on seven hills, but I prefer not to write the city’s name for a matter of privacy.    

I define myself a voice and not a writer. What I do is sending messages through texts and images. I draw my plots from the conflict between the characters and the surrounding environment. To narrate the jars is what I intend to do with my books. 

If I have to find a definition for my written works, I would say Street book is the appropriate one, even though in urban spaces you can write slogans and not books. The electronic format (besides the paper format) is a consequence, as well for self-publishing which went from being the last to the only possible choice.

After a ten-year experience as a union delegate, I got into themes like job, professions and arts. 

The stories I tell are plausible, set in the suburbs, at the bus stop or little neighborhood train stations, in a mall or in a bar. My characters turn out to be defeated, isolated, disillusioned, inconsistent with the environment, are figures looking for a sense which is either forbidden or adverse. 


© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




BOOKS TRANSLATED



Welcome to my blog. 

In this section you will find 

my traslated books. 

Greetings

EM


On my generation

Rock music and soccer, the sunset of ideologies. The history of a generation afflicted by Pete Best's disease.


Cages

U2 music and dishes to be cleaned, working in an hotel and slanderous accusation: who blew the tires of his chief?


Estrellas de polvo

Incursión en la maleza del arte y el entretenimiento. Ricardo Nola tiene un talento natural para equivocarse a la hora de elegir socios y compañeros de trabajo.



© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




ON MY GENERATION



BookCoverPreview.do


My interview on Thecrazymind


Read Preview Google Play

Amazon

Google Play

iTunes

Ebook Republic 

Street Lib Stores

Kobo

Feltrinelli.it

Create Space - paper format



Rome, 70s. We are in the southern suburbs of the city, on the background of a season marked by social tensions. This story is a messy chronicle of events that lead to the passage between the first and second Italian republics. Emilio Santini and his friends are preparing themselves to live the new season, supporting the rise of a rampant politician. Rock music and soccer are their only reason for living, but they believe they have found a way out from the difficulties of living in the person of the honorable Andrea Franzoni, a dear old friend of theirs. Tricked by political opportunism, the boys justify with apathy their own failures. Destiny will provide a helping hand for the payback and even though nothing will give back the lost time, each of them will ultimately stem the matured cynicism. The history of a generation afflicted by Pete Best's disease.


NOTE

The generations following the 1970s - so also mine - have no characterization. I mean that in the '60s they talked about flowers’ power of flowers and universal love, the 70s were marked by controversy and terrorism, but also by social gains.

There was good socialization, a sense of belonging that expressed itself in extremism and aversion to the opposite, but that made people join under a flag or a color. 

And then? In the 80s and in the following decades, an ephemeral spiral blew on the fire of individualism and self-realization.

Being heroes for only one day and having fifteen minutes of notoriety for each, they have outlined - and they still do - the collective imagination.

In the third chapter of Stories of anonymous apathy-holic, I tried to synthesize all this with the speech to his friends from the future politician Adrea Franzoni:

Ideologies have come to an end. The earlier you will convince yourselves the better it will be for everyone. What did ideologies produce in history? Nothing, indeed, only disasters. I don’t say it: it's history. Of course, some can say that only an ideology can make you feel alive, solid, in full communion with the human race. Do you know how I answer? With another question: do you prefer a sweet lie or a rough truth? And the truth, my friends, is that if you do not help yourselves first, you will never be able to help anybody else

 

In the book, some of the guys including Emilio Santini, The Blasphemy and The Quiet, don’t find it hard to share the concept since they lack political and social passion. Inside them, this theory finds fertile soil. Cobra and Archimede, on the other hand, are initially suspicious just because they still have an ideological conscience, even if they side opposing deployments. In the end, they too will surrender and will be flocked by the politician’s manners. 

The opportunism of Congressman Franzoni (The Infamous) is their primary education of the adult world where the boys will find an easy and convenient landing in the island of apathy and indifference.

What happens next is fiction. The kids will have the chance of a payback even if the lost time will not come back. 

Pete Best's disease is the fear of failure. In the life of each one of us there is no room for wrong moves.

Pete Best was The Beatles’ first drummer. When I talk about Liverpool kids, I talk about them as one of the major mass media phenomena that have ever existed and not because I want to impose them on someone. 

I think Pete Best's story teaches you more than any other anecdote. Drummer in charge until the first record (Love me do, '62), he is replaced because they thought he couldn’t deal with it. One minute before world renown, the boy has suffered a historic theft from the fate that will prevent him from glory and immortality. 

What else could go worse? - It's the question.

I could be Pete Best - is the answer.

It's really a heroic act to stay alive.


One aspect I wanted to highlight is the strong impact that the rock music message has had on this century. I often repeat to myself that many people's lives would be different without rock and roll music or maybe just without this or that group. It has been the soundtrack of these last sixty years and it is the main (perhaps the only) aspect that links today's generations with those of the 60s or 70s. 

 

 © ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017



CAGES


BookCoverPreview



Read this free preview on Google Play

Read this free preview on Amazon

MY INTERVIEW ON THECRAZYMIND


Omar Mumba, Italian citizen, tells a story of deep introversion. In his mailbox there arrive letters of structures that there are in those lands, where every need is absolute and he can’t do anything but attend depressed to the contradictions of the society in which he was born, he grew up and lives. The constant activity for those in difficulties makes him inflexible on others’ superficiality and his ability to look far gets him to lose contact with things close to him, isolating him much more. Days go by jumping from U2’s music to dishes to wash, the job at the hotel and an infamous charge: who got a flat tire on the chief’s car?


NOTES

It’s a delicate tale, a rear-wheel drive, which means that it’s counterbalanced by a heavy project on its back. 

The main character is a mean, I needed a character in which I could pour hidden resentments, fears and also neighbor’s curiosities. 

Omar doesn’t tell a story of integration because he’s already an Italian citizen. Born in Rome from an Italian mother and a Kenyan father, his is an incident of deep introversion.

Omar learnt from his parents, both doctors, not to conceive a job just as a living source, so he divides the salary as a hotel operator in small donations to the onlus associations that operate in poor countries. In his mailbox there arrive letters of structures that there are in those lands, where every need is absolute and he can’t do anything but attend depressed to the contradictions of the society in which he was born, he grew up and lives. 

The constant activity for those in difficulties makes him inflexible on others’ superficiality and his ability to look far gets him to lose contact with things close to him, isolating him much more. 

The cages are brain-made and concern limits of each one of us. They influence us as dead weights, they don’t let us fully live our lives. 

What is best about Omar, his solidarity to the others, is also his flaw, the absence of lightness.

Mumba also deals with the concept of faith. It’s a concept he can’t grasp, suspended between his own materialistic confusion and a vague benevolence that guides him. It’s the predicament on the sense of existence, that contrast on the promise of a better life in another realm and the immediate answers needed on Earth.  

 


 Available online in ebook version on

Apple iTunes

BookRepublic

Street Lib Store 

Kobo 

Libreria ebook 

Amazon 

Feltrinelli 

Google Play 


Available in printed form on 

Create Space

Amazon

 © ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




ESTRELLAS DE POLVO



BookCoverPreview



“Estrellas de Polvo”

Escrito por Enrico Mattioli

Distribuido por Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Traducido por Yaiza Cañizares

Diseño de portada © 2016 Enrico Mattioli



Ricardo Nola tiene un talento natural para equivocarse a la hora de elegir socios y compañeros de trabajo. Actor diplomado por la Escuela de Arte Dramático, su drama real es tener que ganarse la vida haciendo anuncios publicitarios gracias al pésimo trabajo que realiza su representante: Al Sapone. Aun así, sus amigos lo adoran, le envidian y se toman sus desgracias como si fuesen las aventuras de un explorador. El único motivo por el que Ricardo va a las fiestas de sus amigos es porque dan de comer, y cada vez que va, todos los asistentes tienen ansias de saber en qué lío se ha metido esta vez: un chat erótico junto con su amiga escritora Eva Pop. Aventura que, al igual que las otras, dura más bien poco. Por esta razón, Ricardo se ve obligado a alejarse de los escenarios para trabajar en el mercado, con el único propósito de poder sobrevivir al final de cada mes. Cansado de esta vida, se deja enredar, una vez más, por un proyecto misterioso que lleva a cabo su mejor amigo, Thomas Albergari de Polonghera, proveniente de familia noble y culta. El proyecto consiste en llevar a la escena (en realidad, se trata de teatro de calle) monólogos extraídos de un libro que trata sobre la Unificación de Italia, y recorrer las hazañas de Garibaldi. Sin embargo, mientras que el General consiguió unificar el país, los caminos de Thomas y Ricardo se separarán. Con tal de no tener que arrepentirse, está justificado sacrificar toda una vida. Pero por desgracia, el tiempo no es amigo de nadie.


Leer el primer capítulo

Leer el capítulo tres




Disponible en línea en la versión del ebook

Barnes & Noble

Street Lib Store

Apple iTunes

Kobo

Feltrinelli

Libreria ebook

Libreria Universitaria

Bookrepublic

GooglePlay Libri

Disponible en formato impreso 

Paperback


 © ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017





Short stories


Welcome to my blog. 

Here my short stories. 

Greetings.

EM


© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




Women


Roma - Lampione a via Merulana - - Versione 2



Translated by Emilia Maiella


At four in the morning, while I’m having a beautiful dream, suddenly the phone in the corridor rings. The one that only rings when a call-centre employee calls to sell me something I don’t want, that telephone that should never ever ring in the middle of the night. I drag myself to answer, saying “Hello?” in a drunken slur, and on the other side, I hear a raspy voice gasping quietly “Sergio?”.

“You got the wrong number ma’am, there is no Sergio here”.

“Sergio…”.

“Look, it’s four in the morning, frankly… have some patience.”


Frankly, have some patience is the best I could process at this time of the night. I just sit on the window chair trying to remember the dream, but the phone call cleared my recent memory history. I haven’t been having good dreams in a long time.  I drag my legs to walking, I stop to look at my face in the corridor’s mirror. A woman tossed across the bed at four in the morning: what can I say? It’s something a phone call can’t erase for sure. I feel the exit less peace of this moment straddling the night and the day. I breathe, I hear the steps of Skittle: he approaches me, sniffs me, licks my hand. I pet his big head while I hug him, feeling his breath on my cheeks. Then he goes towards the door, turns himself and makes a chocked sound. Yeah, c’mon! Let’s have a walk, it’s better! I put on a tracksuit an grab the keys.

Along the boulevard, Skittle walks a few feet away from me. The street lighting is still on. Anxiety wiped out any sleepiness. I have to smoke, while I light my cigarette I notice we already turned the corner and that Skittle is running to a female dog that is walking with her owner.

“Skittle! Skittle come here! I’m sorry!” I say to the man with the dog I recognise as the lodger of the ground floor. “Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal” he says. “It’s the solemn hour of the beast and its owner, isn’t it?” he adds. “I guess so, even though it’s Skittle who brings me to walk” I say. He laughs. “Speaking about time, doesn’t it turn to summer-time today?” “Yes, you’re right, it does today”. “So, now it must be…” “Oh God, I don’t know, it’s too early to be clear-headed”. “But you… you recently moved here, didn’t you?” “Yes, it’s been two months. Well, see you then, have a good morning.” “Well, I grew up here instead. I’m the son of the doorman, when my parents died the condo left me the apartment. Oh, I pay the rent of course” “Yeah, sure. Well, have a good day then. I keep on walking” “No, wait: just tell me your name” “Adriana. I’m Adriana and he is Skittle” “Nice to meet you, I’m Michele and she’s Peggy”. “Ok then, bye Michele, bye Peggy!”

We move away, Skittle and I. So, the summer-time, today is Sunday. I’m out of time and I lost the track. We reach the playground on the square. Skittle drinks water from the fountain then declares war to the pigeons. He runs, jumps, maybe he wish he could fly, barks breaking the silence on the desert square. Pigeons make an army too big for him to fight. Defeated, he comes to the bench I was sitting on. He lies down on my feet. I look at him, scratching his head. My attention is stolen by a flock of swallows over our heads. Fresh air confirms that spring arrived, but I didn’t wake up and I’m a kid even less.  I think I’ve been in a coma for years. It’s the only mood I can accept for myself. I check the time on the phone: a quarter to six A.M.. Skittle decides it’s time to go back home. I get up and we walk back along the boulevard. Soon it will be light out. I pick up the peace, I don’t want to see the sunset, to me the born of a new day doesn’t make sense, it’s always the same thing in the end, it doesn’t matter to me.

We reach the front door, I open it. Skittle sneaks in before I do, he’s not familiar with gallantry. We get through the lobby and arrive in front of the lift. The door of the ground floor apartment opens. It’s that Michele, and now he appears on the door. “I made coffee, do you want some?” “Look, you are very kind, but I’d like to sleep a couple of hours, if I can. But, thank you” “Fine. But next time you can’t refuse.” “Have a good Sunday, Michele.”


He must have sensed our presence: maybe he waited behind the door all the time? There are more things among loneliness then above and over the Earth, dear Michele, and I prefer the things among loneliness. We go up to the fourth floor, I get inside, and undress. I lay down on the bed and try to get some sleep. It’s still quiet in the condo, I don’t even listen to those far sound that in these cases induce rest.

Alessandro chose Skittle from a shelter and named it with Rocky Balboa’s dog name. It was a funny Spinone, he looked just like a skittle. Alessandro liked to go to the city centre and surprise me with a carriage ride. It was an old dimension I really loved, the one of wandering through the closed-to-traffic old town’s streets. There was a particular time of the day, after the twilight, when the daylight was decreasing and the streetlights were turning on: in that very moment, as of enchantment, there was this yellowish filter like an old photo that melted my heart. It was like to be out of time.

Skittle refused to sit in front of us on the carriage and demanded his sit between us. I was laughing as Alessandro pretended to get offended with Skittle: “Silly dog, go find a job and rise a family of your own” he said as Skittle was playfully barking at him.

I was happy, even if Alessandro and I were just a couple and not a family. I liked being with him, I was a lot “into” him: “too much” sentenced my girlfriends. But, when love comes it comes, to me it was a beautiful period of my life and I wasn’t hiding it. Happiness is something you should treasure with reserve, but it’s obvious to the eyes that it manifests itself, you can’t mask it.

Alessandro kept bursts of enthusiasm nearly until the end, even though the chemo sessions wore down his senses. And my - his partner - dignity. Who seeks justice finds laws, doctors just follow practice, it’s the black and white of existence, it took me awhile to figure it out. Nine years, already, but it’s like the time stopped. The demonstrations and the rights of cohabiting couples, the debates and forums that followed by the time, they don’t concern me anymore because at just 26 I already paid life my bill.

I toss and turn. There is no way to remember the beautiful dream, only agony is sitting right next to me. I didn’t had a man in nine years. I never slept with a man again. “You haven’t fucked with a man since then”, my girlfriends say. Sometimes it seems like this observation sounds more like an accusation. The fact is, I like being with my sorrow. I can’t do anything about it, I don’t want to do anything about it, I no longer intend to make any effort. I think I made enough of them. So, even friendships frayed. People get tired of the usual “Hi girls, here is my new partner: old numb pain that never leaves me”.

My feminine dignity hits its all-time low. I always wear trouser to hide my hair, I guess even Mother Nature have been sympathetic to me because it seems the regrowth recessed.

The other day I was overhearing my male colleagues talking about us female colleagues. About me, they said I’m “dead”: “Not even a necrophiliac would find satisfaction with Adriana!” I remained indifferent, I thought about it, I can’t blame them.

I get up, it’s useless to sleep. Useless “trying” to sleep. To be asleep or awake doesn’t make difference since I can only rest my body. I drink a glass of water and prepare some tea. I heat a croissant in the microwave. I stare at the turn off television while I consume my breakfast. I yawn repeatedly. I grab the remote, but I skip the channels at supersonic speed, as I had to get through this day with the same speed. I turn it off and stay staring at the screen of the TV. Suddenly, I remember the lost dream: a carriage slowly goes on. It’s empty, there is not even the coachman inside. It goes away, and away, and away: slowly. I find it’s not a beautiful dream, even the memories lose their colours. Spring is a verse less poetry. I go taking a shower. I undress. Years haven’t been a burden on my body, I didn’t gained a pound even if I eat regularly. I enter in the box, I let the water flow. It flows on my hair, on my breasts, on my legs. On my waist. Not all that has been evaporates like a physic phenomenon. I turn the knob off. I stay some minutes to let the water drain. I get out the shower, wear the bathrobe and dry myself. Yes, I should shave my legs. I sit on the bidet and lean my feet against the toilet bowl. While I reach out to cut my nails, the phone rings again. I get up, I’m still wet so I leave a track of water behind me on the corridor’s floor. I pick up the phone. It’s the same voice of last night: “Sergio, Sergio…”

The voice tone is still raspy and gasping. She must have cried. “Sergio” she keeps saying. I hear her sobs and panting. “Ma’am, I’m sorry but there is no Sergio here, she must have called the wrong number again, Sergio is not here, there is nobody called Sergio ma’am”

I can’t get off the phone so I silently keep on the line. I hear the crying of the lady and look at my tears over the corridor’s mirror.   

      


© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017


    



Utopias


Welcome to my blog. 

Here are my utopias. 

Greetings.

EM


© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




Give ourself a chance


Have there been times at this time of year where it’s gone from the beating sun to thunder within a few minutes? Everyone recommends that you dress in layers or in a pyramid shape to confront weather changes. In reality, we’re all made of layers and we’re pyramids that develop within ourselves.

Between getting undressed and getting naked, there’s the motorway of existence. Long and exhausting, where we meet storms, ice, scorching tarmac and, sometimes, a moderate climate. We continue to cover or undress ourselves depending on need at the time. All of these variations prevent us from being truly naked, even in front of ourselves. We dream of this image, only linked to being on a deserted island, where even the more tenacious paparazzi can’t catch a glimpse.

We perpetually live in a state of survival, yet despite everything, we are superheroes. We have powers that we use badly and that could make us fly, but we prefer to face the calculated risk that we’re used to confronting ourselves with and that at this point only has costs us minimal effort. We overcome illnesses, ailments, conflicts, but we stay linked to past memories, hostages of our own blockages.

We don’t imagine where we could push ourselves, what flights and which journeys we could realise if only we suppose we can give ourselves a chance.




© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017





Debate


Welcome to my web site. 

In this section shows controversy and a bit of malice.

Greetings


Enrico


© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017



Even the dentist, in their small way, conspire



images



Translated by Emilia Maiella


It’s in the matters related to stateless prophets, when who knows you a little glorifies you and whoever actually knows you, avoids you. It’s the enlightened woman who claims, but in her daily struggle with her mother-in-law, is lost. It’s in the redemption of the male which is the pussy, and that’s all. It’s in problems only resolved under the sheets. It's in the carnival that you try to disguise. It’s in the indefinite round of the cucumber that always comes back to the prophet above. 

It’s in the fruit that costs more than meat. It's in the party of loaf and loaf of party. It’s in the matters related to the thieves that if only they stole the surplus they would only make a public utility action. It's in the majorities, it's in the everybody does it by the way, it’s in the nothing ever changes in the long run. It's in making the ends meet.

It's in the nothingness of the things.   

Only when a small pit slips and is disguised among the drenched olives the indignation pushes you to the movement. The tooth suffers and rebels, denounces, because it is so obvious that even dentists, in their small way, conspire. 

 

"If everyone demanded peace, then there'd be peace" 

John Lennon




© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017



The mask


maschera


I’ve never been a big liar. The biggest lies I’ve told have been to myself. Deceit is like an unstable bed that, while affecting posture for some time, makes you survive and then with perseverance takes you to the physical drift.

Many notice a façade, except those who put it on. They go about comforted, thinking that they’re believed. The world is full of people convinced of their own trustworthiness. These people, however, only feed a system of mockery consumed behind them. Personally, I’ve witnessed absolute masterpieces of lies but in these lines I’m referring to poorly-made masks.

Existence is a masquerade we participate in with anonymous masks, fleeing our nature. Luigi Pirandello, on the concept of masks, places his characters in front of life doubts because it is only within the dilemma of our own role or own identity that lives the stimulus that pushes you to search within yourself.

In modern life, this effort is tiring analysis and the need for stability, comfort and big historic excuses is absolute. Competence leaves space for competition. Every good actor knows the art of hiding art. The big liar is an artist that hides their real essence.

It’s the battle of great protection. Nobody likes staying behind. Desperately attracting the interest of others. Constantly feeling like you need to prove something. Repeating the farce because it becomes truth.

Possession. 

Fear. 

Failure. 

Fragility. 

Ego. 

There are infinite reasons for why we lie, not only hiding the truth itself but getting even further away from it. It is necessary to save innocence and child wonder, in addition to elderly wisdom. In the middle, there’s this long period between the arms of society to fight for a place in the sun or shade, depending on everyone’s needs, loyally following society’s own demands, to notice when time is almost up, that this path didn’t make us happy and that maybe we were never happy.

A quiet space and a bit of time for ourselves is fundamental. No, I’m not referring to prison, but to a space and time that take us to a true, natural dimension. Everything is within us, we don’t need much else. We only need a comfortable chair, a place where the mind can stroll and fluctuate. One day this place will be just the mind itself and nothing else will be necessary.

 



© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017


 


Targets and bullets


Can you see them? They seem to be pointing bullets unaware of being targets and not pointers.

Can you see them? They seem connected and they’re distant, they move forward and stay still, without doubts, compliant.

I thought that time was to run out and that I didn’t have any more for worries or tricks.

If I try, I slowly find myself and instead there they ask me to raise rhythms and accumulate objectives.

It’s this that hurts me, it would be easier to not have to count: about how deceptive neighbourhood life is, without swords on the head, faces, tablets, comparisons.

I am worn out and I get by, I have to go down and I can’t but I should skip the ditch and not stay in the pit inventing another move, hold cold in the bones and I need a shock!

Almost finished, like a revelation, one thing I understood: there’s no malice in venom if this is where the truth is born.

When you stop looking, you can easily find. While I believed in hunting, the prey took me before: can you see them? They look like pointing bullets.

Can you see them? They seem connected and they’re distant.



© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017



 


Remark



Welcome to my blog. 

Here are my thoughts collected. 

Greetings.

EM



Candyland


1425676495xn066

 


Translated by Emilia Maiella


Music, yoga, a book I’d like: everybody has the right of some revelry. If any authority supported this, I would vote him, no matter what. I don’t care about speeches stuffed with new meanings, life flies by too fast.

The joy of living, maybe rationed, should be offered by public health service, have care to guarantee enough delight, not only work exploitation. Is it possible to produce happiness?

Streets full of groups playing blues and jazz bands, festivals and carnivals for suburban neighbourhoods. Offer the goods God has given through the great minds of Leonardo and Michelangelo, the landscapes of Monet, Manet, Renoir, the colours of orange from Vincent, even without forgetting the incursions of the Bristol’s anonymous and all those things there. Let get lost the strawberry fields and flutter in the marmalade skies, go down in the depths inside a submarine yellow, in the time of an eternal spring.

Let me only see verses and prose on the posters, plays in the squares, fairs in the markets, places to devote to whom used the science for good ends, and to those who put their own intellect at the disposal of others. Of what was once needed to discover the futility of today and how the convictions are turned changing the perspective. Everyone have their own things to hide and nothing can be erased because everything remains somewhere, let that part become wisdom.

Let me save a clean thought for those who wish me bad luck, so that they will loosen their fury on me. That my time becomes a companion, that the hands of the clock become caresses and not axes anymore. Anxieties and tensions dissolve, fears and anguish vanish and remain that state of well-being, the tranquillity that makes you look to the sky without thinking of anything.

They say the end is like getting off a bus to get on another. Let's say it’s just be another dimension and give the gladness, the marvel, the regular breath and then I will retreat to the trees to look from other perspectives, such as the Rampant Baron of Calvino.

It will be just like an eternal Candyland but no one will wake up as a donkey and school will be a game to play.



© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017





Praise of tiredness


386403_330834720263308_100000103491500_1473820_1548810014_n


We are planets outside our orbit. We inhabit sepulchres for living beings where we leave photos that change every so often. We mark dates and reoccurrences, we post epitaphs that someone reads every so often but we also send messages to those who aren’t there and can’t respond, almost certain that they can however read, as if after all we know the parameters of other dimensions. And we have friends, someone the best, someone else who deserves it, and we like, we vote, we express, today we are enthusiastic and tomorrow we are astonished, testimonies of our public diary.

I truly needed to wear myself out, I who is middle aged and now chronically tired. The effort takes away all the same old stories, if not always, at least sometimes. I needed to slim down my calendar, lose myself in boredom, stop my mind. I had to organise my confusion, empty my nothing.

I no longer understand when spring arrives and when summer begins, I recognise no extremity. I’m suspended and I find balance in this state. You can call it posture, gravity, balance, but understand that it is so and it was and it will be. Without knowledge of your own condition, outside of space, time and substance, you exist equally. It’s only the exhaustion of the absent, what is missing but still present.


The italian versione of this post



CAGES:

Read this free preview on Google Play

Read this free preview on Amazon

MY INTERVIEW ON THECRAZYMIND

© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017



 

In my country


DB-17420



Translation by Yaiza Cañizares

6.45 pm. It is about to begin the yoga lesson. I arrived earlier. The instructor is talking to a lady who is usually my next-mat neighbour. I sit between them because I listened to their conversation. The woman takes her cellphone and shows us pictures from Accumuli taken some time ago. They are rubble, it is the earthquake.

- I have a small house in Umbria - I tell her - twenty kilometers from Norcia and twenty from Visso. My father was from that area. Last Monday I was in a meeting with the Civil Protection for the practicability of my home.

- What a mess! - she continued - I spent my childhood and my adolescence up there, and look now…

 

The others are arriving one after another and the lesson has to start. I sit cross-legged with my hands on my knees, but it’s hard to get relaxed now. The childhood and adolescence: those words  have opened the box of my memories.

That day, while I was waiting for the chief of the Civil Protection, I went to visit my father's grave. The cemetery is located just outside the village. While I was walking, I looked at those places that somehow had marked my summer days. Up there, right in the middle of the mountain that dominates the center of the village, when we were young boys, we had built a hut: just a slum of bamboo sticks, but for us it was a luxury chalet, a place where smoke and eat all the fruits stolen in the fields. From there, no one could find us without we could see him coming up. At those times, it was a relief to have some moments of control over  our own adolescence. In that part of the Valnerina, the road where the trail begins to climb up to the top, it is now  closed for the landslide.

Once, the village was developed around the historic center. There were two bars nearby and people used to come out from one to enter in the other.

The first bar was spacious and we could sit to plan some project to escape from the boredom of the hottest hours. The second bar was smaller, but the warehouse was used as a game room: billiards, pinball machines and jukeboxes that we played using only one coin for the whole evening. On the other side of the road, a grocery store would serve slices of chocolate  for snack and breakfast with capture flavour of old times. We used to wait for the baker´s van to help him unload the baskets of bread. The smell of white pizza with rosemary and red pizza with anchovies are memories that still nourish my salivation today.

Every 15 of August the village would expect the match between bachelors and married men which, in reality, was a parade of carts from  both parts. During the journey from the village´s center to the stadium both teams would exchange jokes and hard hits: it was a war!

Peace would only arrive in the evening with a barbecue in the village square: toasted bread, sausages and fogliata, an Umbrian pie made of vegetables, bacon and pecorino cheese. And of course, wine! Later,  people would dance all night long, waiting for the fireworks. We discovered so many things in summer, sex and the first binges, terrifying  jokes, and all the other experiences that would have been useful later in life.

Today the center, it’s been moved. A bar, a restaurant, a butcher´s and a supermarket are located at the entrance, near the sign of Welcome in Borgo Cerreto. Next to Nera’s riverside. beyond the river, a green sea of fields are irrigated by a source that gushes from the mountain. They extend beneath the valley crossed by the ancient path of the Spoleto-Norcia railway: a series of tunnels, bridges and viaducts form the rock. My uncle was the stationmaster of the hamlet of Saint Anatolia.

The entire area has become an immense parking area, where people park their cars the whole night; thenwaken up by the lights and the rescue sirens.

Not only does the earth but also the soul shakes, and the origins resting here as well. We would run among the poppies and every day we could hear the sound of Sunday. We have never been so free.

 


The Italian version of this post



CAGES:

Read this free preview on Google Play

Read this free preview on Amazon

MY INTERVIEW ON THECRAZYMIND

© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017


 


The Super Cashiers




Translated by Emilia Maiella


Preview by Emmanuele Caltabiano

With his “Super Cashiers”, Enrico Mattioli gives us a desecrating and jolly break in the modern life. Forced in a job transfigured into the quintessence of our capitalist life, Enrico's characters become the personification of sophisticated paranoias and composed neuroses.

Through a systematic proposal of unusual conversations, made of politically incorrect answers that challenge our civilized common sense, Mattioli makes us see, in all their bareness, the contradictions of a life ordered on repeating and redundant patterns, made of facilities where the most creative essence of human soul dissolves in favor of an ordered sequence of actions, fragments of real life and pulverization of the whole human being.

The only solution in the face of this loss of sense is a transfiguration of one’s own essence, an overcoming of the professional person condition. The cashier becomes a “Super Cashier”, capable of putting the tiles back together proposing new eccentric forms that free us from the sense of constriction and emptiness of everyday life. The line to the checkout is the stage of this new superhero that exercises his renewed un-consciousness applying them on the unaware components of the line itself, little fragments of the stereotyped society and the modern culture. 



 


I wrote two books set in the mall and supermarket: La città senza uscita and Avvisiamo la gentile clientela.

The stories told in the format I'm about to initiate are partly inspired by those two texts, but also by probable situations. 

Having worked for nearly thirty years in the field, I have been able to observe the category, but in this space, there is no demand of psychological or social analysis. In SuperCashiers’ pills, there is only bitter laughter, melancholy and some spite. Who is lonelier than those who work for the public?

 

Enrico Mattioli

 

 

WHO IS CASHIER?

 

From the dictionary

 

Who in a company of friends administers the common money, who in an administration handles the cash with the task of performing the collections and the payments, who in a public business makes the receipts of the retail sale to the clients is a cashier.

Every cashier is the projection of the store where they work; and, being an image, represents the company. Some of these people sacrifice themselves, others don’t give a damn, others suffer the situation. 

Bellagente Supermarket’s cashiers, to stand out from those of a normal business, like to define themselves as Super Cashiers.

Every day they work with the public and think of themselves as subtle psychologists, they believe they can understand someone’s character from the items they buy. They often lose their temper, struggle to express their personality. Above all, they are persuaded of having a supernatural power that derives from managing a sacred thing: the queue.

 


basic-shape-avatar-1632968

Lady Poffin


Ciccio Dello Strambo

Mister Ciccio Dello Straccio


Lilli Capavota

Miss Lola Capovolta


Vacca

Mister Vacca


Leopoldo Canapone

Mister Canapone


avvisiamo la gentile clientela



© ENRICO MATTIOLI 2017




© Enrico Mattioli 2017