LET’S UNITE!
Let’s unite! The Animal’s spoken, distant lands are drawing near,
the slave’s unchained himself;
poor people will get back their souls!

1949. Pier Paolo Pasolini
Translated from Friulian by Lucia Gazzino

COMMENT 1
Speechless in front of his words,
the calling of The People! and us, in this North full of black gold paved with mental depression.
The soul needs movement!
To absorb it all in these days of shadow play and despair.
I want to believe, but I doubt more.

2015. Tone Gellein

---------------------

a preposition into a shimmering image of Rome
A SCRIPT

I leave the city for some hours to contemplate the death and works of Pier Paolo Pasolini, to recapture the persisting mark of his works in film and literature: The Gospel According to Matthew, Uccellachi e Uccelini (The Hawks and the Sparrows) and Theorem (Teorema), which also is a published novel by Pasolini.

I record this sound from his memorial at the Via dell' Idroscalo in Ostia, where Pasolini was found murdered, thirty-seven years ago.

(sound)

And when you listen to it, you can hear it could be any sound from anywhere - some crows, some gulls, a faint motorcar sound, wind, planes. Yet, it is from this particular place and I am here because of what happened, and this memorial is created for the same reasons.

(video)

It is almost no place but a location for remembering.
I walk out on the ruined wooden path, feel the un-coloured breeze in the air creeping about, visible for people obsessed with details and a particular nerve system.

The taxi driver reclines the money I reach out to give to him, he slowly shakes his head, opens the gates for me, walks around for a bit, then says Arrivedecci Signora and leaves with a nod and this serious look on his face.

Pasolini, I salute you: I carefully place a dusted grain of my own puzzle, part of my soul, in the palm of your work. I imagine your body on the ground, a hovering spirit trying to get back into flesh and bone, but brutally cast out, kneaded, flattened.
And as I sit first on one bench, then on another I remember my father,
a man not at all like Pasolini. I call him. Every day I call him, and send postcards, almost every week. And he places them on his shelve where he can see them often and smile a little and receive a tiny piece of warmth into his skinny bones behind the checkered shirt. Now in his final steps towards a human, just that, where all experience, all empirical determination becomes erased.

I turn away from my father and Pasolini and stare into the smog-infested horizon, towards central Rome. A slightly pink pull back, further into, closer...

(2012, Rome)

LET’S UNITE!
Let’s unite! The Animal’s spoken, distant lands are drawing near,
the slave’s unchained himself;
poor people will get back their souls!

1949. Pier Paolo Pasolini
Translated from Friulian by Lucia Gazzino

COMMENT 1
Speechless in front of his words,
the calling of The People! and us, in this North full of black gold paved with mental depression.
The soul needs movement!
To absorb it all in these days of shadow play and despair.
I want to believe, but I doubt more.

2015. Tone Gellein

---------------------

a preposition into a shimmering image of Rome
A SCRIPT

I leave the city for some hours to contemplate the death and works of Pier Paolo Pasolini, to recapture the persisting mark of his works in film and literature: The Gospel According to Matthew, Uccellachi e Uccelini (The Hawks and the Sparrows) and Theorem (Teorema), which also is a published novel by Pasolini.

I record this sound from his memorial at the Via dell' Idroscalo in Ostia, where Pasolini was found murdered, thirty-seven years ago.

(sound)

And when you listen to it, you can hear it could be any sound from anywhere - some crows, some gulls, a faint motorcar sound, wind, planes. Yet, it is from this particular place and I am here because of what happened, and this memorial is created for the same reasons.

(video)

It is almost no place but a location for remembering.
I walk out on the ruined wooden path, feel the un-coloured breeze in the air creeping about, visible for people obsessed with details and a particular nerve system.

The taxi driver reclines the money I reach out to give to him, he slowly shakes his head, opens the gates for me, walks around for a bit, then says Arrivedecci Signora and leaves with a nod and this serious look on his face.

Pasolini, I salute you: I carefully place a dusted grain of my own puzzle, part of my soul, in the palm of your work. I imagine your body on the ground, a hovering spirit trying to get back into flesh and bone, but brutally cast out, kneaded, flattened.
And as I sit first on one bench, then on another I remember my father,
a man not at all like Pasolini. I call him. Every day I call him, and send postcards, almost every week. And he places them on his shelve where he can see them often and smile a little and receive a tiny piece of warmth into his skinny bones behind the checkered shirt. Now in his final steps towards a human, just that, where all experience, all empirical determination becomes erased.

I turn away from my father and Pasolini and stare into the smog-infested horizon, towards central Rome. A slightly pink pull back, further into, closer...

(2012, Rome)