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Here are my utopias. 




Letters from the Johnny’s pub - Imaginary stories of rock music

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Super Cashiers - New humorous format on supermarket cashiers


Hypothesis: live without working


Most people have a job which doesn't satisfy them, although it allows them to live. So they have to find happiness or accomplishment in other directions. The cost of live-in leads us to live on the brink of serenity and work only serves this.

The crush the work produces on the individual is the highest price to pay.

When you are over a certain age, is common the question about happiness or how you have spent your life. Dreaming of a win which allows us to live as we want, doesn't cost anything but it's out of our hands. So what can we do directly, in the first person?

It's a common place, but also an unmistakable truth: our time is a precious asset to ourselves – less for an employer who would find a replacement anyway – and its value increases when its size decreases. Obviously it's an affective value, because in the labour market our time is lost in the vortex of recruitment and in the lack of employment, i.e. a satisfactory offer. Our space is closely tied up to the time we have in endowment. And today, we have less and less of it.

In life they teach happiness is earning, so your choices will be addressed towards an occupation which allows you to accumulate enough to pay the costs of life itself. In this rat race we no longer see any beauty, or better, we don't notice it. Not by blame. We do what the system suggests and lets us do. It tell us what we like.

The core of the consumer society is to fuel the desire, not to attain fulfilment: the watchword is to constantly desire. This is, in summary, everyone's life.

A revolution involves sacrifices, risks, death and immortality, but the passing will arrive in any case. The first step of our change should be based on limiting desires or, better, selecting them and achieving a variable completeness for each of us. We should suspend expectations, judgements, not to make any assumptions, not even life and all actions we do every day, from walking to eating, from sleeping to watching.

Existence is a simple thing: we know we have a point of conclusion (missing where and when) and we should fill the empty space down to there. And complete that space with things look nice, a passion, a charme, but also... a beer, if anything. We have to make your own existence like a work of art.

There is nothing terrible in life for those who really know there's nothing to fear in not living anymore. So is a fool who says he is afraid of death, not so much because his arrival will make him suffer, but because he's afraid of its continued expectation. A thing which, once present, doesn't disturb us, unwisely expected drives us crazy.

Death, the most atrocious of all evils, doesn't exist for us. When we live there's no death; when death is present, we are not. It's nothing for living and for dead.

Epicurus - Letter on Happiness - 


Where is happiness

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I'm a quiet man. I'd happily stay in my neighbourhood meeting those three or four friends I still have, but this doesn't mean I'm closed-off, on the contrary, I love to get out of my comfort zone, even if it doesn't seem. I don't have a great sense of defensive, and like all peaceful people, I can change my state if my quite is disturbed. In short, one for the money, two for the show, three to be ready: don't step on my blue shammy shoes.

One time, looking at my father, I was smiling thinking about the retirement days. Since he missed, memories come back in a different light. I remember our walks together, I remember when I accompanied him in the country to take the wine from the wine merchant on Saturday, or the water at the source. maybe it was a primitive system of existence, because many aspects revolved around finding food and drink. Think again about it, it wasn't so bad and it wouldn't even be now. I'm happy when I recover the old rhythms, pushing away the frenzy which strangles me.

Those memories are interposed by life as it's now. Work is at the basis of the existence of a person, but it also takes away a lot. On the one hand, it distracts us from the obstacles we have in our life, on the other it deflects from happiness, because pursue the goals of others knocks the wind out of you and your joy of living, attentive to the harmony it needs. Really few persons have a profession or a craft they love, and it is a great privilege.

We have only been taught to produce. Even you, really you in your little: you have to do your part to feel integrated. You need money to live, because life costs more and more. There is no stress-free world. Actually stress is the primary engine: it shakes you, it moves you, it consumes you, even if you feel OK because you have a work. Actually, you burn like paper.

During my walks, I met two old friends. In other times, we would have been lost in discussions about the next referendum, or we would have talked about Fidel's death, regardless our personal points of view; or we would have talked about the football derby: instead, we discussed about our pittances, about life which absorbs you and sucks into its gears, about companies which oppress you by taking away those few moments of rest and conviviality.

When you think about where serenity and happiness reside, you feel so stupid and childish. You lose in a run-up, you can't stop if you want to stand on your own feet. You don't think, sooner or later, you're going down.

Recently, I was reading La casa sulla collina of Cesare Pavese. A text which had escaped me for some reason. Getting up while everyone is sleeping is something still gives me a thrill, so I got into the habit of reading it at night, when perceptible noises become clear. Pavese tells war stories about civilians who are escaping or seeking refuge, or about a conflict takes you away your few certainties, your few comforts. The expectation of death touches you which - at the bottom - raises you from an invisible situation. It's very present or, at least, I've felt that way. I thought about hired workers at the mercy of increasingly restrictive contracts, spaces of existences which vanish because their time belongs to the master - I still use this rhetorical term - who pays them. This is also war. Different, but it is.

You understand - nice find, huh? - you're no longer the same of a few years back. Young people tease you, your superiors would take you out elegantly, after all they despise you. You look at yourself and you look exactly like your father, who is gone. You look at that picture and repeat: where is happiness? I'm sure it exists, but you have to go get it. No one will give it to you, on the contrary, it's passed for something else. This presupposes a fight which can last a lifetime, without however reaching it.

I hear talk about revolution, almost always out of turn. A revolution requires the subversion of a constituted order, So I would say to a young revolutionary he/she has to invent a world which considers the exercise of not working, succeeding to move on. They will call it "adolescent utopia", but everyone would embrace it, passed the turning point. You can't say I'm a dreamer, because this stuff has already been said by someone else.


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 2018