An apple a day

To sin mean to miss the objective – so what if the objective of life was to be yourself fully?

God wants you exactly as you are because love means to have you shine of your brightest light and to be purely and simply you. Free in your own being and free in your expression. That is how I want to serve, that is the only way I can really give. To be so abundant of love and joy that it naturally radiates from me to others.

It is a sin to disregard myself, to belittle my needs, to cage my inner desires and intuitions, to mislead and manipulate my vitality and call for connection. It is a sin to deprive myself from love and touch and abundance and fulfillment.

Who asks you to SACRIFICE yourself for them is making you a sinner. Is torturing you and misguiding from your god-given path of full self-discovery and freedom to a path of disconnection and compartmentalized love.

Life is a calling you for you to be fully human, and therefore fully divine.

To be fully yourself, fully honest, loving each and every part of you. Your shadow as your light, your vital pulse, your sexual flow, your appetite for joy, your everything.

Balance with the universe comes from listening to yourself fully and loving every corner of you.

All the voices that told you, don’t ask, don’t eat, don’t feel, don’t look, don’t don’t don’t DON’T LIVE !!!! Are just the small shitty fear of being powerful creatures. AS WE ARE.

I WANNA SHINE of the fucking brightest light and I want to find my infinity, flow in my infinity, live in my infinity.
I AM EVERYTHING and I HAVE A RIGHT TO BE.

FULLY MYSELF.

Don’t ever ask me again to starve myself, to sacrifice myself, to cut myself short, to be less of who I am, to be obligated to please you and bow my head to the unholy – because HOLY is my being, my full being and my way to love. And unholy is everything that makes me less me.

You act against GOD when you act against yourself.

Love what you love, be honest with that.

It takes balls to live up to GOD, not up to sacrifice.

To fucking stand tall and enjoy every corner of you, to be judgment free and let your soul radiates. That TAKES BALLS.

And all the tiny shitty little demons that were eating your energy will attack you and tell you to go back to the cage, to go back being comfortable for others, to be malleable and easy to manipulate, to put your own value in their hands so they can tell you what do and how to be.

BUT FUCK THEM !!

Devil is what divides. It is what separates me from MYSELF and therefore others. The more parts of me I condemn the more hate I will bring to others !!

We are in the epidemic of self-hate and emotional starvation, we are so fucking full of hate for every kind of human way – we hate races we hate sexual orientations we hate body shapes we hate styles of clothing we hate books and ideas and and and and we fucking hate and judge every single breath someone is taking, cause we ARE NOT BREATHING !! And we hate seeing someone happy and free.

LIBERATE YOURSELF, don’t be a sinner, please yourself, listen to yourself and give to yourself as much as GOD would.

Give yourself unconditionally.

Love yourself unconditionally.

UNCONDITIONALLY.

YOU WERE BORN HOLY and they made you a sinner.  They have made you a sinner against yourself and what GOD gave you.

Go back to your original shape, to the way you loved when you were born, to the purity of expression when you were free to be hungry and sad and tired and happy and everything.

KIDS are the most beautiful being because they are fully human.

Shame and sacrifice are the sins. They are the Snake. That made you feel guilty for something that was true in you.

SO eat the fucking apple, share the apple and live life like it’s heaven on Earth.

HIC ET NUNC (here and now)

When I say “I love”, I wanna make sure I am actually loving.

When I say, “I LOVE YOU”. I ask myself:

Who is “I”?

What is “Love”?

Who is “You”?

When I say I love someone, I wanna make sure I am loving the reality of this being and not just my own feeling of being in love.

When I’ve been enamored I’ve been blind because I’ve overlapped my own ideal of who others were or could have been with the actual way this beings were. I’ve focused so intensely on my own images for them that I’ve ended up only seeing my own fantastic, colorful, immaculate projections on them and then I felt in love.

I’ve painted other’ souls with wonderful shades of what I needed to see. I’ve forced my own world on them, my own perception of good and sacred and worthy on them. I’ve stuffed their space with my own candles and wings. And then I felt in love.

Oh! I felt so disappointed when, simply naked and beautifully real, these souls disrobed in front of me for who they were: brave and fragile humans exposed to me.

I’ve done the same to God. I wanted Him strong, perfect, impeccable, infinite. But oh ! I’ve seen Him end, filled with black holes and uncountable imperfections. I’ve seen Him modest and bare. And humbly Beautiful. Standing in front of me.

Thus I’ve learned.

The breathtaking never-ending grace of Others that can fulfill an entire existence, lays in their heroic attempt of always trying to overcome their own tenderness and clumsiness.

This, is what I Love.

This, I can love for an entire life. Because it won’t go, when youth is gone. It won’t go, when gold is gone. It won’t go, when glory is gone.

In this, I can have Faith and Love.

In this, I can love myself and others and God. Because it’s written in every cell of all beings that we will simply TRY to love.

I will try.

This is all I have, all I know.

Life will always try to be. Love will always try to care. In its openness and in its closure, in its darkness and in its light, in its perversion and obscurity and cruelty and massacres, in its deaths and explosions. Thus Love will try, in a thousands attempts, to Love.

Therefore I forgive.

I forgive all my-selves and all my parents and all my lovers and all my Gods. And I eventually always go back to being fully open hearted.

Whoever said God is perfect condemned humans to misery. Our given reality is the most gorgeous gift. Heaven is Hic Et Nunc. HERE AND NOW.

I take it for what it is.

And I fucking love it.

Erica.

Venezia (per Nicolo’)

D’amore immenso muoio e d’immenso amore vivo.

Mi nutro dell’essenza segreta delle foglie sottili, negli arbusti divini che crescono al riparo da sguardi indiscreti. Nei terreni screziati di marmi sepolti dal tempo, nei solchi infiniti delle lave celestiali che rimandano echi di ere trascorse. Io vivo.

Nelle intemperie dei monti cerebrali che si incastrano appena alle scogliere dell’anima. I paradisi del mio essere non troveranno mai riscontro di forma o parola. Le poesie di tutti i poeti non basteranno mai a coprire l’estendersi sterminato del muschio vellutato delle mie valli votive. Nella vocazione, Io vivo.

Cercando quegli incastri effimeri, fugaci e liberi dei viaggiatori del cielo. Che con me condividono la sete di Luce e Bellezza d’inquietudine estetica che attanaglia le frasi del cuore e porta con se filari di chimere e intarsi magnetici. Il mio etere elettrico ammalia e affligge, come un turbine inedito, in allerta. Vegliate, anime vigili. Io vivo. Nelle altitudini di Icaro, ai confini tra incendi di cielo e tessuti non scritti. Le equazioni del mio mondo si dispiegano nelle proporzioni auree dei miei tracciati interiori. Semino fiori e raccolgo imperi. Se ti accosti ai navigli sii pronto a solcare. Dio e’ mio vertice e mio fondo. Al centro, io. Che d’amore immenso muoio, d’immenso amore vivo.

E le soffitte dei miei simulacri prendono piede nelle forme più astratte. Il melograno ritaglia le sagome di ponti soffusi, sospesi, a malapena stagliati nelle nebbie d’autunno. I rossi invernali, gli aranci cremosi delle vertigini verticali si dipingono su tutte le mie pareti. Nei miei corridoi, quadri. Di uomini che fui – che furono e non saro’ più. Conquistatori di mete irraggiungibili, sognatori latenti. Io sono negli specchi di carta fabbricati da ritagli del vero. Come una premonizione pensata, mi fermo, rapita dagli intarsi del vostro legno. Sulle scale dei mondi altrui, inesplorati. Io vivo.

E respiro l’incanto passivo del riflesso dell’uomo nel cielo, proboscide di elefanti cangianti che travolge spirali vergini dell’ Eva che in ogni donna risiede. Ampolle e scacchiere di vasi sacri. Mi accosto e non tocco, semplicemente ascolto. Le meraviglie dei vostri mondi, ancora inesplorati. Io vivo.

Cosi vivo.

E nell’anima prego.

Che venga l’Amore. E Sia.

The Funeral

Every time I die to myself I learn the power of life. Death is neither a life threatening experience nor life’s nemesis nor opposite. It’s a supreme gift. When I learn to die, I learn to exist. I expand the possibilities of my being. I experience the “small death” when I am in abstinence. When I choose to renounce. When I choose to have faith and remain still, without chasing pleasure and excitement. When I choose to be void. To be in absence. To fast. I learn my capacity of being beyond life. Every funeral is a celebration of my own essence, in which my soul can rejoice and restart, reset and yet continue. I am a non-linear presence. I am discontinuous yet evergreen. I can perish and still be alive: I can be fully active but choose to remain adamant; I can die but choose to still move forward. Faith, is the fuel for both. It’s the recognition of my own light, of my own nothingness and fullness – of my own space beyond time.

I learn. – Every occasion I am ready for the funeral-

I will find my will to be stronger, my Faith to be my foundation.

I trust.

That all that is mine will be mine.

The essential only.

The excess solely creates anxiety in me, it forces me to carry something my energy doesn’t require. I don’t need everything.

Therefore I die. I die to sex, I die to food, I die to relationships, I die to life itself. To be more alive than I ever was.

 

In this process. What wasn’t for me

will be shaved away

and all that is mine will be mine.

 

At the end of all times I will be me.

 

Erica

Lost and Found

I travel – at the speed of Light. My age is timeless. I might look seventeen but really, I am an old ancient soul…Thousands of years old. The seed-like marks in my eyes are the key to the secret, that kind of joy you only experience in His presence, in the presence of Life, or Sky or God or Science, however you call it no matter your beliefs, I call it Love. For from the smallest part to the biggest part the key is one: all is born from a relationship, from a connection, an interaction. Nothing exists without the other. Quantum physics says a fragment of presence can be found in two places at the same time – as it necessary for this Creation to Be. When you realize this simple pattern, this beautiful and honest design. That repeats itself in the Universe. You will sit still. Amazed. Like a Buddha in his temple, enlightened.

I have been saved innumerable times, rescued and healed by others. Maybe for a short while – I was lost. Maybe for a long time – I was lost. And always another man, another woman, another being, called me back, brought back to myself.

There are places of myself I could never see. There are sides of me I would never know – in my physical body as in my spiritual body: I will never see my own back with my own eyes. Some parts of me are just hidden to me, because it is the relationship with another being that will make them visible, tangible, palpable. Revealed and real. For from the microscopic to the macroscopic the dynamic of the cosmos is one. There is no man for himself. There is no land of the free in the land of disconnection and loneliness. I have rooted myself in Love. To be flexible and ever changing, to be like a season, like a plant, like an animal, like a particle.

 

I follow

 

the Bliss of life

to be in Bloom.

 

I Breathe.

 

Erica

Right to Live

I need to be reminded

that I have a right to live.

I look at myself

and I don’t like all I see.

I stand

Facing the vastness of this Creation

The overwhelming beauty of this Firmament

The breathtaking landscapes and horizons of this Earth.

And I compare myself

to find myself so small,

almost insignificant.

And I feel terrified and lost.

Yet a voice speaks to me

and awakens my soul.

To remind me that I am called

to be a part of this creation

I am

alive to participate and contribute

to the Majesty of this Universe.

My Life

My Existence

Are necessary pieces

Called to be alive.

And I compare myself

And I find the Universe in Me.

 

Erica

 

Africa. And Freedom of Speech.

I don’t know what came over me… It’s been several weeks now that I’ve been feeling something unsettled inside. Something I hold dearly. It has a mixed taste of sweetness and bitterness; gracefulness and sorrow. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I confess to you, I felt I had to sit down and take space on this blank page, and let go of all my thoughts and wonders. Something hit me, hit me hard, not long ago. “Brick and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you”. How ? Now tell me, how is that true? Boom. That, just broke me! The amount of violence we are able to convey through words..! Words hold incommensurable weight. It’s a soulful exercise of the spirit to filter them and question them before I let them be, I let them be heard. Daily. I am, responsible. Every single time I speak, every single time I write. Every single time I touch someone else’s space with my ideas, with my subliminal verses. I am responsible. Is this too much to say? Guess what, too bad. Listen up my friend, ideas can hurt. Some ideas can dig deeply into wounds that I might be unaware of, but they are salt on flowing blood. Because an idea has many faces and it can soon become a voice, a voice a presence and a presence, pain. That will be tangible and real. Guaranteed.

I have an infinite power of evil within. So it is an exercise of will and strength deciding daily to do good, be good, loving and kind. It’s a damn steep staircase that challenges me every single step. Because come on! The thought of slipping, stop caring, stop being responsible, stop choosing.. it’s so temptingly sweet at times! It comes to me like a final relief, like evanescent nectar spread all over my mind. But that’s when Africa comes to me. Africa: my protector. She comes to rescue me, to reconnect me to what truly matters, with the smell of family and fire. She brings me back to that ancient extraordinary energy the human race carried among centuries. The thought of Africa comes to me strong. And I remember. That I am here to love, to serve, to be a tool of the infinite beauty I lay in. Words can always hurt, my friend, they can make me worried and small; wounded and angry. Bitter over time. So caught up into my own tiny bubble that, I am told, has to sparkle at all times so no one can see how ashamed I am, how insecure I am, how fragile I am. But when Africa comes, like a wind among the thick trees of my intricate mind, the bubble explodes. And I can finally breathe. Because my pain is nothing but your pain, my love, my fear is nothing but your fear. My bubble and my mean words are just like yours. So maybe, for a moment, when I look at you and you look at me, we can just laugh about it and let go of it. All of it. And meet each other naked in the heart of a village that celebrates the everlasting dance of Love.

Erica

 

America

La solitudine dei monti ardenti nei perenni grovigli della mia anima inerme, agile e snella.

Mi perdo in queste miriadi americane senza fine senza assoluzione di coscienza. Vortica. Le marea di gente che si muove lenta, ignara. Dove mi stai conducendo Etere?

Mancano le parole, l’aria, l’amore antico che mi spingeva tra le vele di poppa.

Sono lontana. Da casa. Dai miei luoghi, dai miei rifugi di gioco e luce.

Come si sta senza mai sentire?

Le dita colte, I volti profondi, gli sguardi  degli intrepidi pensatori folli del tempo che  fu.

Come si fa a stare sempre svegli? E mai accesi?

Vivo di interruzuoni continue, di ritmo maldestro. Di flusso discontinuo, di giorni alterni. Senza peso, senza tridimensionalita’.

Le luci di Hollywood e I miei bui interiori.

Non c’e’ pane per I miei denti. Non c’e’ dolcezza nelle mie sfere. Sono sempre sola, in questo etere volatile che sfugge alla percezione delle moltitudini. Sono raggio filiforme, sottilissimo. E il mondo indossa occhiali scuri.

Vedono solo I propri riflessi e null’altro.

Ridammi una Voce, Dio. Ridammi un’Immagine, un amore.

Sono lontana. Dalla partenza e dalla meta.

Vorrei vapori argentei per ripulire l’asfalto che ho dentro. Sedimenti di cemento che non si lavano con nulla.

Solo sapore amaro nel palato della mia mente.

Vengo Travolta. A volte.

Nessuno cerca nulla, qui. Tutti hanno gia’ visto, gia’ fatto, gia’ provato. Io chi sono? Qui nel mezzo del tutto e del nulla? Io che volto ho? Che magia porto?

Freddo. C’e’ un freddo vertiginoso qui, in America. E’ ancora la terra di nessuno. E’ un luogo perso, e’ l’isola che non c’e’, che non c’era, che non c’e’ mai stata. E’ la Riviera dei sogni infranti e dei giorni spenti.

Menti brillanti e anime morte.

Nessun campanile si erge, solo grattacieli spogli e lucidi.

Mi prendete per mano? Per favore. Mi potreste prendere, per mano? Mi potreste toccate? Dove siete, dove siamo?

E anche il ritmo dentro tace. M’aqquieto. Per mancanza di senso.

Si chiude la gola e taccio. Ascolto solo.. la voce dell’oceano. Che ancora porta voci di salmi e preghiere. Sono sospesa sul baratro.

Vorrei essere cometa, squarciare il buio e portare una nuova direzione, un suggerimento, una fiamma ardente.

Una scia.

Portare il cuore delle moltitudini a battera, almeno una volta. A sentire, a sentirsi.

A sapere della propria esistenza, e scegliere di vivere. Ma faccio fatica, un’enorme fatica. Guradami, Dio. Ti ricordi di Me? Mi manchi molto.

Non ci sono I nodi del legno a ricordarmi della tua presenza, qui. Non ci sono luoghi a te dediti, anime sagge, pascoli di luce. Non ci sono luoghi sacri, in America.

Solo dissoluzione e collasso.

E soldi. Questi splendidi soldi. Che rodono l’anima. Famiglie infelici, rotte ancora prima di essere. Nate storpie.

Vedo orrori Dorati in questo angolo di mondo.

E mi chiedo chi me l’ha fatto fare?

Dio. Ho fede, ma per ora non vedo. Non capisco. Cammino, mi fido. Sfido, cammino, porto, varco. Sono nella selva oscura. Mi fido.

Ricordati di ME. Ogni tanto. Vienimi a trovare, visto che io non so dove abiti, Qui.

Mi manchi tanto.

Tua Erica.

Lettera a

Questa e’ una lettera a me stessa…e’ una sensazione strana, quella che ho oggi, in petto. E’ come una gravidanza in petto. Appena nata e completa al tempo stesso. Oggi e’ uno di quei giorni in cui so, sento, che sono qui da sempre e che sono appena nata. Ma in modo diverso dal solito. Oggi so che esisto da sempre, ma che ho capito qualcosa di nuovo. Ho realizzato qualcosa, ho chiuso un cerchio che era forse aperto,in sospeso, da tante vite. Ho capito l’alimentarsi a vicena dell’amore ideale e dell’amore reale. L’equilibrio fecondo dei due, in me, nella mia anima, nel mio cervello, nella mia vita. Sto sentendo tutto, e di tutto, il tutto. Sto sentendo rabbia, amore, dolore, frustrazione, gioia, allegrezza, rancore, reverenza, dannazione… c’e’ di tutto, che mi passa dentro come il Gange ed io, sulla sponda, che osservo.

Ho cosi tanto da dare e cosi tanto da prendere, cosi tanto da chiedere ancora, e cosi tanto da donare, ancora.

Mi siedo al cospetto di un suicida, di un drogato ed un vecchio, e poi capisco, e Vedo. Sono al cospetto di tre Uomini, tre possible me. E vorrei solo dirvi che la vita e’ bella, che verra’ qualcosa di buono, per voi. Nei miei occhi, per ogni lacrima che verso, per ogni colore che vedo, per ogni diamante che nasce negli emisferi del mio creato, c’e’ una preghiera per voi, perche’ altro non ho. Vi amo, a fondo. E vi perdono, perche’ cosi voi farete con me. E non e’ il Dio ideale, che venero. E’ il Dio che fonde perfezione ed errore, solitudine e amore. Che amo, e venero. E lo porto con me, nei miei paradossi e nella mia cattiveria. Nella mia intolleranza e nell’ infinita gioia che ho di provare ad amare. Ci sono delle onde di me, che non vedranno mai la luce, e il mio pescatore anziano mi raccontera’ storie che nessuno sapra’ mai…nemmeno io.

Certe Bellezze non sono nate per essere viste, come certi bui rimarranno per sempre segreti.

Noi siamo I custodi di tutto questo.

Sono piccola. Ed e’ faticoso lasciarmi amare e sapere, sentire, che quello che ho sara’ sempre , sempre di piu di cio’ che rido’. Ho la polvere di fata nell’anima e spero di far volare in alto I cuori di molti, cosi che ricordino, anche solo per un frangente di volo, per un frullio d’ali, che noi siamo Umani.

Hollywood lights

This “Industry” we are in,it is so intensely sexualized for both men and women, that it is for me so hard to draw the right lines.

How is it for you?
I don’t want to be used, I don’t want my talent or my heart or my body to be abused and then thrown away.

I am not a toy, I’m not a doll you can play with and then get bored of. I want to be free in my sexuality but that doesn’t mean I want to be pushed around.

I don’t want to feel the need for validation,I don’t want to be approved. I want to be loved, and I want to tell a story. Of beauty and mystery, of passion and humanity. I want to be present not absent. I’m not a pretty empty envelope. No one should be treated like one.

I Love you all.