Laura Gemser Movie Streams

Diary from Berlin 24-5





The bars in the brain

Soteria FORNARO


This is a watercolor by Rainer Küchenmeister, a professor of painting 'Academy of Arts in Karlsruhe and Paris, died May 6 at the age of 83. Rainer Berlin was born in working-class district of Berlin, deep in the east. The father was guillotined by Hitler on August 13, 1945. The last memory of him was that Heiner was a caress, while men of the Gestapo were waiting at the door, a caress "as one that only a father does to a child," and a whisper: 'See you, kid'. The accusation was no escape: treason to the State and the Führer.

Rainer was 16 years, was also arrested on the same charge, and locked up in prison Alexander-Platz, on the fourth floor. Just above his cell, there was a girl of twenty-one years, is a potter, Bontjes Cato van Beek, who is also a 'traitor' of Hitler: he had fed the French prisoners. Cato, the bars of his cell, singing tunes that everyone rejoiced. 'The thoughts are free' - singing. Rainer sent cards hanging by a thread. They exchanged messages in code with his knuckles knocking on the heavy walls. He loved so, how to love life. Cato was beheaded August 5, 1943.

Rainer remained eighteen months in that cell to Alexanderplatz, then was taken to a concentration camp for boys in Moringen: and there, in 1945, also had to suffer the Soviet prison. In recent years, talked a lot in memory of his childhood sweetheart guillotined, his father, and of that group of resistance that the Nazis called disparagingly 'Red Orchestra', 'red' because the communists, and 'pianists' fingers because the signals sent radio to the Russians, 'spies' in the service of Moscow. Things were not so. They were brave men, even boys, they did not keep in mind se stessi per lottare senza mezzi contro il mostro, Adolf Hitler. Queste vite furono dopo dimenticate, lo sono in parte adesso, quando non addirittura diffamate.

Rainer Küchenmeister non poteva dimenticare.

Aveva promesso a Cato, in uno dei bigliettini che percorrevano le mura della prigione attaccati a fili sottili, che sarebbe divenuto un pittore. Mantenne la promessa. Le sue figure su tela non hanno occhi. Nelle sue sculture al posto della testa vi sono grovigli informi, insetti di metallo, plastica, pelle che brulicano su tronchi tagliati. Questo il ricordo di quel che la prigione ed il nazismo gli aveva fatto: nella testa, solo orribili astrazioni, ricordi da cui guardarsi.

A cosa ha pensato, Rainer Küchenmeister nei suoi ultimi momenti? Al suo amore di cella, e alla sua immensa nostalgia della vita, forse. Alla madre, morta a 38 anni in un bombardamento. Al padre, ghigliottinato da Hitler. Forse. Forse ad un nuovo viaggio. Forse alla luce, dopo tanto buio. A noi resta il dovere di ricordare e ricordarlo.

A noi resta il coraggio di guardare questo suo acquarello, e le sbarre nel cervello.

Per chi legge il tedesco qualche notizia in più in: http://www.neues-deutschland.de/artikel/171510.im-kopf-das-gitter-vom-alex.html. Dell’ ‘Orchestra rossa’, delle sue donne, ho già parlato altrove (http://www.viadelvento.it/catalogo/scheda.asp?IDlibro=159), ma non basta.

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A series of books, a collective heritage.


The necklace international travel Cahier " - Motions Exhibitor Presentation
book
17.05.2010 13:00 h
Area Authors A

by Edizioni Historica

Speakers: Sabrina Campolongo , Cernoia Graziano, Francesca Mazzucato, Paolo Melissi

spite of my fever, I tell a beautiful presentation, satisfactory in all respects. I'm happy. For the publishing house, for the series, for me, and especially for them, the authors, and their beautiful books. Be united and be able to make a project a collective heritage, really able to expand look and make strong bricks, creating bridges. Sorry I have been there physically (the weakness and fever I do not have their permission) but who was to be had, meanwhile, books, and there were. And how. Then the authors. Paul, Sabrina and Graziano. So budding occur, hybridization, so things happen that walk by themselves. With a strong sense of interdependence. Thanks to the publisher Historica, all authors who have passed during the show to give value.

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Monday, tutta la collana e l'ultimo uscito, in anteprima



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international travel Cahier " - Motions
Exhibitor Presentation book
17/05/2010 13:00 h
Spazio Autori A

a cura di Edizioni Historica

Intervengono: Sabrina Campolongo, Graziano Cernoia, Francesca Mazzucato, Paolo Melissi

Spazio Autori A

In anteprima sarà presentato anche il nuovo petit cahier di Sabrina Campolongo, Unessential Dublin, freschissimo di stampa, di cui si parla anche nel numero di maggio di For Men Magazine.

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Berlino. Il diario-letterario di Sotera Fornaro continua.


… e poi tutto ricominciò di nuovo, in un nuovo turbine
Di SOTERA FORNARO

Si parte ‘da’ e si parte ‘per’, il secondo è il mio caso. Arrivata nella città della mia interezza, flip through a book of precious things, fragments of painful, love that shines away, love is love and not condemnation - here in the cafe in Damascus, gilt-framed mirrors, stained ceilings and floral, coffee of lager and flames flickering candles in wrought iron, I read Marina, amber in the world, sick absence, sometimes staring at my eyes in strangers eyes, as if: I saw, however: a dream.

Cafe Restaurant 'Max und Moritz', the heart of Kreuzberg, now and a century ago.

It would seem, in my time suspended, to be mild in the spring of 1922: Marina Tsvetaeva, a poet, arrives in Berlin, his daughter by the hand, jealous of a trunk with his manuscripts, leaves rattling thin silver bracelets, allows his intense green eyes to sow the storm, and around, listen to his verses. And she falls in love, he invented his love as it wants, the flood of words and passion, love makes it unreachable and spherical image of pleasure is not reciprocated, the core of absolute pain, because love is the same sick, the 'Love hurts. It 's a hurricane. Marina knows the only way to love, excessively - how to love life at the hour of death.

Love, in the months on the run from Russia to Berlin, has the face and hands of his publisher, married, back: he is afraid. The fear of a man dinanzi all’infinitamente di una donna. La paura di diventare un libro. La paura di non saper vedere, come lei sola sa vedere la vita: cioè mai quale davvero è. Marina trasfigura e brucia e soffoca d’amore. Lui è debole, impari – va via, la lascia nell’aria, nell’assenza impalpabile, nell’attesa incolmabile. Lei soffre – Amare: star male. L’amore fa male. Un ennesimo amore negato. Il corpo resta, ferito. Ma l’ anima vola. Die Seele fliegt.

Io qui leggo, nell’intimità di candele spaventate, ma dalle vetrate: la luna, una luna di scia e di magia, con una stella mercenaria, mi chiama. Chiudo il libro, e mi carezza la perfetta solitudine. Il volo è il dovere dell’ anima.

E poi la strada, profumo lieve di tabacco e dolci al miele, e la striscia tortuosa del fumo di una sigaretta, un pensiero insidioso sfuggito alla trama del ‘sto bene così. Non mi manchi’. La luna maestosa, in un cielo senza nubi, Oranienstrasse la accoglie come fosse l’ allucinata insegna del locale ‘Dalla luna struggente’, dove forse avrei potuto incontrare un’azzurra Nereide emersa dal mare a cercare l’intensità del cielo: in alto.

Ho nostalgia del cielo, e cammino – alle spalle rumore e colorata gente di Kreuzberg, il viale si slarga, dopo Moritzplatz alti castagni e silenzio, la luna curiosa. Ho nostalgia di una nuvola, a letter, something that I know how to pick a time - I would like to hug trees, in the momentum. Waiting for a miracle. Waiting for the miracle that Marina always expected. The wonder is transformation from 'lover' (Die Liebe) in 'popular' (die Geliebte). Luna ironic, and I now resigned to my solitude flawed.

Then it happens. Call me.

answer disbelief as I walk in Oranienstrasse. And suddenly the moon spring.

As in the night, now I dip it in your voice. As in the night, with all my soul now I take your soul. As in the night, this night of nearly full moon, dark moon roofs, moon without ombra alcuna, di luna intontita, stupefatta perché: odo la tua voce, la tua voce improvvisa, sirena più acuta di ogni altra sirena, la tua voce a sopresa: ed è - il volo.

MARINA CVETAEVA FU A BERLINO NELL’ESTATE DEL 1922 E LI’ VISSE UNA STORIA D’AMORE POTENTISSIMA E NON RICAMBIATA CON ABRAM GRIGOREVIC VISNJAK, PROPRIETARIO DELLA CASA EDITRICE “HELIKON” CHE AVEVA PUBBLICATO SUE DUE RACCOLTE DI POESIE. LE LETTERE A LUI DEDICATE FURONO TRADOTTE IN FRANCESE DIECI ANNI DOPO DALLA POETESSA, INSIEME ALLA ‘LETTERA ALL’AMAZZONE’, SULL’AMORE SAFFICO PER NATALIE CLIFFORD BARNEY.AVEVO CON ME QUESTE LETTERE NELLO STORICO LOCALE ‘MAX AND MORITZ’ DI ORANIENSTRASSE In Kreuzberg, the evening of April 27, nearly full moon, when all this is' HAPPENED.

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Diario da Berlino




(excerpt from a love letter)

Soteria FORNARO

"... and since I can not caress me, then caresses my gift to the city.

wounded and the riverfront, will be back on track which I will leave my breath. It will be here that go through your pain, will be here that will kindle your joys. And I guess, ghost 's absence, adored creature of my love of words for you - here, overlooking the canal and placid verde bosco, musica in sottofondo ed il cuore pulsante e oscuro del metrò, sotto di noi; il ritmo dei vagoni rumoroso, senza tregua, oltre la notturna soglia, arriva attutito, qui sul ponte, e ci ricorda il luogo e il tempo dove siamo.

Se ti immergi nel silenzio, invece, torni a quando i pescatori al tramonto tiravano le reti, nelle umili case tornando alla luce di lanterne; e nella macchia d’olio del sole incendiato, i signori coi bastoni discutevano di filosofia e musica.

La signora esiliata dal tiranno, proprio qui, nella primavera del 1804, cercò invano la sua Parigi lontana, e di lenire l’angoscia della morte, in un luogo eventuale. Ma Berlino – scrive – è lo specchio della austera Prussia, facciate di mattoni piccoli come le fabbriche, città virile, terra d’ufficiali. Qui gli uomini discutono di guerra, e non si lasciano distrarre dalle donne. Senza le donne – annota ancora nel suo diario– senza di loro, però, non vi è delicatezza, non purezza. Berlino era una città troppo moderna, priva di passato e di femminea grazia. Senza Muse. Proprio qui si affacciava la donna viaggiatrice, Madame de Stael, respinta dalla sua patria, malata di solitudine, rimpiangendo la Senna. Si affacciava al ponte, passeggiava e respirava la polvere del selciato, s’incamminava, lungo il fiume, verso il castello, e non s’accorgeva che i giovani signori tedeschi la adoravano, solo non knew and did not know her and gallantry of the French woman philosopher, intimidated them even more. Berlin too new and waiting, then. City without worries, then, a restless, distracted heart.

Here, right here, I weave my fingers for you jealous, here tonight at the Berlin romantic sunset, here where it was written another letter: "I think a lot to Virginia - which compensates for many things - and I loved greatly Virginia In recent times, really - so intense, absent (absent in the distance, I mean) - like a tide that comes to fill many gaps. "(March 14, 1928) Here was walking, which is also torn by nostalgia, and his letters-close, Sackwille-West Life. In his suitcase to Berlin, led especially Virginia. I brought you, you know.

Here, where the bombings were not even aware of a moment of pity, here you would expect a smile, a brand new currency, a dream that has just taken off, uncertain how the leaves of the linden trees in the wind 's east pungent, wonderful as the vigilant antenna Alexanderplatz, orange sun with its craters, and already the ambush of the moon, a reflection of refracted rays, reflecting a desire to dare a little desperation, an 'unavoidable absence, .... "


THE Fischerinsel (the 'island Fishermen '), and' one of the most 'old Berlin, BERLIN AND BECAME THE HEART OF THE NIGHT, which revolve around the philosopher Friedrich Nicolai. STADT HOTEL PARIS IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD, STAY 'EVEN Madame de Stael. Completely destroyed in the bombardment, the neighborhood was rebuilt to the CRITERIA of socialism. But today it has regained some of its original charm, is' a scar HISTORICAL immense, contagious ROMANTICISM. The river flowing and 'his music.

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Metro Milano di Paolo Melissi recensito su Alias del Manifesto.



on charges today (May 8, 2010) review of the Milan Metro. Guide to capture a town of Paul Melissi Editions Historica. Cahier Series Travel.
(Comella thank Margaret for her pictures so beautiful, authentic, family, true, where the words appear on a book that should be. A warm caress)

Watch Ikusa Otome Free

Diario da Berlino 6



Soteria Fornaro

Then they came for me, blows on the head. "Stay standing here" - they said.

"Peter, think about your family. If today you are a confessed spy,

not be shot. "

" Whatever. "(Sound of weapons being loaded). And I was standing there.

"It was only a test. (Laughter) Confess? "

No."

"Whatever." (Sound of guns that are loaded)

Then I fainted. I had been distorted by the legs.

( Peter S. 1951)
What I questioned was telling me something, and then suddenly I said

"Be careful. I'm through.

And if you do not understand, if not confess, you know what happens to people like you

?

Watch that this is not child's play. You cut his head.

Your small little head rolls down, zak. "

So I became an enemy of mankind.

( Peter B., 1955)
It may seem surreal, but if you let go

even in jail, behind bars, you can be a free man.

It 'important to take seriously the interrogations, for example.

to play the game of their absurdity.

One asked, "So, if you are a Christian, I have a question.

You must be an idiot to believe that Jesus walked on water. "

replied:" You have an idea of \u200b\u200bthe materialistic world,

and therefore agree with me that all natural laws follow statistical rules.

If I do drop a stone falls down.

Ma se io sono uno scienzato, devo poter credere,

che anche una sola tra un bilione di pietre possa cadere verso l’alto.

Se non riesco a pensarlo, non sono uno scienzato».

( 1961, Christian W .)

Mi accolse una luce accecante.

Il silenzio assoluto.

Non sentivo assolutamente niente, ma niente di niente.

Si dice che quando arriva una luce così,

si sta vivendo un’esperienza vicina alla morte.

( 1968, Bob W. )

STRALCI DALLE TESTIMONIANZE DI PRIGIONIERI DEL CARCERE DELLA STASI A POTSDAM, LINDENSTRASSE 54, OGGI MONUMENTO Memory. YOU CAN HEAR THEIR VOICES IN THE INSTALLATION OF VIDEO Stefan Roloff, "LINDENHOTEL", UNTIL 6 June 2010.
(Some works by Stefan Roloff here )

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Diario da Berlino 5




Soteria FORNARO

Tribute to Herta Müller, 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature.
(Romania 1986. Ceausescu regime)

Nettles, brambles, weeds everywhere.

The road is gone, buried by neglect.

Fixed carefully uncultivated plants, leaf by leaf, to avoid it with my steps.

Cautiously, the usual way, tachycardia, via ingoiata dall’erba selvaggia.

E’ sera: le corolle si chiudono per la notte. Si nascondono.

Il buio, immenso rassicurante nascondiglio per ogni cosa.

Camminare sulla strada nascosta dall’erba, tra fiori nascosti, nascondendomi a mia volta.

Caldo o freddo, indosso un vestito abbottonato, chiuso sino alla gola. Caldo o freddo, stivali allacciati sino al ginocchio.

Sotto il vestito, dentro gli stivali, carta, carta scritta.

Cammino incerta con la corazza di carta scritta.

Su me porto quel che ho di più prezioso.

So, lo so con certezza, che entrano in casa, in mia assenza. Lievi, senza fare rumore. Cercano evidence, no trace of my commitment to the rule. Frisk to show my opposition. My house raped. Invisible violence. Breathing, but you can not touch.

I surrender, I said 'no' and I pay.

They interrogated me. Until I fainted. Then they let me go with sarcastic smile, 'is far worse - they told me .- You will see what it means to live in fear'. And 'much worse, it is true. The world becomes a prison. Freedom is a scent of freshly baked bread, if you're hungry.

are not on a rope stretched over a pit protection.

They are looking at this moment, in drawers, with their frantic hands rummaging through my books. I feel their breath held. The haste. Details disappearing: a book out, a souvenir from Paris found the market, a postcard, a newspaper clipping - traces, traces of their terror, the remnants of my fear. Traces of a ghost of treason. Traces of me scattered because the eager hounds gather. They do not know, I have my shield and my treasure him.

Every time I go out I wear my dress paper writing.

On the road, hidden by grass, flowers way of hiding secrets, I am walking blind.

A refuge for my paper inked.

And as I walk, I repeat poems in memory of others. Short verses, short breath, short steps.

And never looking back.

The poems are easy to learn, they rhyme, have pictures.

E 'during a dictatorship that we understand what poetry is a way to com-moving, and with a kick to the emotions can distract you from the usual angst that provides continuous monitoring, continuous state. A 'daily anguish which can not be used to it.

anyone following me? Someone I spy?

repeat, recite poetry.

save.

I flee. Gotta get away. Berlin is not far away.

fear, I fear as through sentiero nascosto, mentre recito nella mente versi brevi, mentre con le mani nervosamente tocco la carta sotto il vestito, la faccio scricchiolare, mi accerto che c’è, e vado avanti a passettini, per non sciuparla, per non rischiare si strappi - sarebbe strapparmi la pelle.

Gli uomini che hanno paura sono affamati di sentimenti.

La loro vita è violata; solo alla poesia, che turbina nella mente, che torna nella memoria, non si possono porre divieti, non si tracciano limiti.

La poesia supera tutto ciò che è proibito. In poesia si può pensare quel che non possiamo nella realtà.

Ripeto a memoria. Nel silenzio della notte all’inizio, nel respiro pesante, frightened, screaming the verses repeated by heart. Verses not mine. I steal them.

They are at my house at this very moment, I know.

not find anything, at least this time.

But until when?

I run away, go away - Berlin not far away. Meanwhile

: recite, in the meantime.

Verses prey, sinking her nails into the feelings.

Verses clawed to the heart.

not turn around, the secret. Never looking back. Go.

With the armor of a written document. With the secret that can rip apart.

Escape.

Berlin not far away.


(In 1987 the writer was able to flee to the Germania occidentale, e da allora si chiama Hertha Müller. Vive a Berlino, nel quartiere di Pankow)