Today is December 6, the first year of the sad absence of my father. I remember a solemn mass in the lobby of our club, here in the mountains fiery African forty degree heat. Missionary pioneers with the Italian accent of centuries ago who came here to spread the idea of \u200b\u200bequality to the people sacrificed on the altar of being overseas. A young monk, Venetian stamp reminds us that the tower of Babel we are building for Ethiopian brothers is nothing compared to what is ready for us for ever and ever .. Listening to this voice from afar, but then are attracted by the conviction of a Franciscan who accompanied the words with his hands and gives her an audience with confidence sleepy and no longer used in religious rituals, people who consume daily brutal selfishness of the white man telling herself the beauty of progress.
I love the idea that God is spoken of. You do not need God, Dostoewskij seems to tell us if you have an idea then you are God (I do not know why but I can not think of that in the act of suicide that Kirillov shouting 'God does not exist, I am God'). 'S an idea that led him here, and I admire him even though you may not believe what he says, but it is rare to find people in their own lives against the following idea. The rest is a slow slide toward the inevitable flattening, the idea of \u200b\u200bshared, community ..
I'm surprised to think of nihilistic, just that I did my banner of the socialist revolution of salvation and admired as a child that my father's blue overalls rattopata the capable hands of my mother's first factory on Monday. Born in the working class, surrounded by the miseries of Socialists who should be on their skin because they need to know the social, who are now aspiring to the luxury of catharsis as metaoggetto individualist? A Salvador Dali of beggars, a Carmelo Bene cowards who can not look to the red of Otranto without falling into madness. Blathers, once again, but today is a year that I feel my father is dead and something inside me moves like an aborted fetus in the womb of the mother.
Holy
