I was at the post office recently. I was in line to pick up some books that I had ordered. Some seniors were not happy arrival of Christmas. They did not have much money to offer some gift his grandchildren. The tone their voice showed a paradox, because it was trembling for the sorrow and guilt for the happiness of being able to see again. They felt a strange shame to a sense of inadequacy – What I can offer but simple objects or some money that it will be less of their weekly pay? –


Some grandchildren were almost infants and others were teenagers. They spoke their childhood and how they satisfy themselves with small things. Their memories, however, showed anecdotes and episodes that they were a heritage their grandparents or great-grandparents. The improbable reconstructions were perhaps an attempt to regain his childhood and recall the child who was already in them. And maybe they wanted to talk to their deceased relatives, now. They evoked the lack of time as a limit to think about buying the appropriate gifts, but I believe that their excuses were more a limit due to the idea of having little time to live, because they were not seen younger.


I remember my Christmas holidays. Some holidays were sad and boring, others are not. I remembered the gifts, which at that time I forgot the next day. Have we have the charm only in childhood? When we are adults, there is no longer a child?


In the row where I was placed, my uncle appeared, my cousin, and other aunts and uncles. The days appeared confused: before and after Christmas. I helped my grandmother and my aunt to beat the eggs to prepare a donut with cream and chocolate frosting. I took wrappers silver cookie named greek and I witnessed my cousin to make up stars and animals. We support sheets of paper on a bench in the hallway. We designed with the pastel green grass, brown trails and then we built a small crib with over the pyramids of clothespins. My sister waved icing sugar to bring up the snow. In fact in those areas it was hot, but, in short, that suited us just fine.


In another Christmas I asked in vain for the game of “Battleship”. Someone joked that I had been bad. I cried, but after I took two sheets, I divided them into squares, and I wrote letters and numbers in the column on the first line. I drew two sheets. And with squares cut from another sheet, my sister and I We inserted (with the stapler that I gave my mother) small rectangles to invoke the idea of the ships.


With other cousins, we designed every ship with various symbols to divide them into two naval fleets. We finished the job in two hours all together. The adults played with our game. We are not going to play, because in the euphoria, we began to draw, each, a small path to the game of goose. When we finished we draw, we put in our designs in a box for shoes and delivered it to an uncle, that he gave to the poor kid. At that time, we were sure that Uncle would perform the task. We had to award the mandarins and we ate them together.

Io sorrisi, e gli altri in fila mi chiesero perché io stessi ridendo di loro. Io raccontai i Natali di ieri e quelli che avrebbero potuto essere oggi.


I related a recent Christmas. We did not have the tree. We used an umbrella stand and we put leaves with photos. Old toys became branches. We called: “tree of drawings and thoughts.” The fruits were envelopes for letters.

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Tree of ideas

We compose another smaller tree with an ashtray, paper clips, pens, caps without the ink. With a roll of toilet paper, we simulated the stars circling comets them as a vortex of a lampshade. We wrote some astral constellation names and the names of deities. Even the younger cousins wrote (in code) all the beautiful phrases that we would have wanted to say to our affections and laziness or pride, or we did not say we could not say (Some relatives were no longer alive). We put the phrases in the envelopes of the first tree. Each of us had his own gift: “I love myself, my life, your life only.”


The elders in a row (they laughed) asked me, how old was the youngest of us in this recent Christmas. I said thirty-three years.




November 8, 2015. The Municipality of Colleferro (Rome) for the eightieth anniversary of the founding of the city, organized the project “STORIES FROM THE REFUGES”, in the historic city refuges. The initiative recalls the facts of when the people took refuge from the bombing along the tunnels, between 1943 and 1944. The documentation work of Renzo Rossi, the actors of the “Theatre Workshop of Colleferro”, with the artistic direction of Claudio Dezi the participation of the vocal group “the Slam” of signs, have formed a touring theatrical action in different “circles” in the galleries. They have presented the costumes, the objects of their age and they have played some testimonies of those who lived in the refuges.


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Colleferro and neighboring countries such as Segni, Valmontone, Artena, Montecassino were behind the Gustav Line (the defensive line that was prepared by Hitler on Oct. 4, 1943 and it was destroyed May 18, 1944). The plain of Colleferro, chemical plants of the arms industry (the largest in Italy), the Lepine mountains around (with countries of strategic control as Segni and Carpineto), the way “Casilina” – who arrived in Rome – constituted, all , strategic military sites.


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The German lines of fortification.


Colleferro suffered terrible bombing by allied forces from November onwards, as the March – the fortieth – where were destroyed the electrical connections and any useful infrastructure. The people tried to survive the refuges that were built before the birth of the city. The refuges were pozzolana quarries that were used to build the first buildings for the workers of the munitions factory “Bombrini Parodi Delfino.” In the hills within the city they were traced 6km tunnel, with fifteen different entrances. There was a ban on the use lighting. It set up the artificial fog to hide the sites of interest to allied planes.


The refuges were a second Colleferro and life oscillates from hell above, the catacombs below.


The actors have recalled the activities of each day. Solidarity (a donut for a wedding that was prepared thanks to the black market). Firefighters, every day after the bombing, they climbed to extinguish fires, to recover the dead, to shine the unexploded bombs and they were going to control the chemical deposits in the industry, so that it would not explode, because it was operating: the workers were forced under the control of the fascists and the Germans.


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The Factory “Bombrini Parodi Delfino”


Young people drinking wine, in the evening, which was bought on the black market. They played and sang along with the Germans, the Russians and Ukrainians prisoners, and no one understood a word. The next morning, all they went up in hell as enemies, to obtain the salt, for drying clothes because of the moisture of the subsoil. They could not light fires for the small air exchange. Inside the refuges there were a chapel, a registry office, an infirmary. Women did not go out for fear of being raped, if not killed (the film “The Women” with Sophia Loren, is an example in this regard).


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One frame of the film “La Ciociara”


Fear, darkness, hunger, dirt, infections and the control by the fascist authorities, were the pendulum of days.


I have witnessed the magnificent traveling representation. Everything has been a blow to the stomach to every word. Everything seemed to happen at that time, while the public walked at the descent of the dead.


I feel the same feeling walking in Amsterdam (Netherlands) at the Anne Frank House (the Jewish girl who died in the field of Auschwizt, – the author of the famous and tragic “Diary”): fear and claustrophobia. Half my family is originally from Valmontone. It is the country that borders Colleferro. Valmontone was completely destroyed in 1944, except the Church, the “Doria’s Building”, and two or three houses. Every square meter was bombed. The deaths of these countries are the patrimony of each family. It is no coincidence that there has been a re-enactment. Witnesses died almost everyone. I was little and adults who had more than fifty years, and they said that they were old, they told these events, in the seventies. I peered through the door, because “old” did not want us small we listened. And at parties, after lunch, in the afternoon hours of digestion, telling them the facts of that time, and their eyes they were changing: their was young, but with tears.


We speak of the bombing with extreme superficiality, today. A bomb shakes the body, even at a distance. Well, you have an empty air. The ear stores the noise and any balance is lost. And in the future, for every such timbre, the brain reverts to primordial patterns, causing the beat of the teeth, leaving the adrenaline and the iron in the mouth. The nightmares become brothers every night, if we remain in good health and if we do not go crazy, because insanity is the ultimate gift.


The refugees have no homes today. They do not have water. Every ten minutes a difficulty appears. Lice do company. You may not feel the smell of dirt. The skin and hair age immediately. The teeth are lost. Diseases gnaw the body. The little food is dry and bland, but it leaves the temptation to eat insects.


The refuge away death, but it shortens life. The population, before the horror was surprised: “To us, just us? – Near Rome? From the Duce?”.


I offer a paraphrase of what my grandparents told him (which they did two years of military service in war and they left soon after), my grandmothers and aunts: “War is not the bell tolls. The war is not knocking at door. The war is already within “.

@ 24 POETICALLY: The Expulsion from Paradise

November 25 is the day of violence against women. Violence against women is expressed through the phrases “stalker” and “femicide” in Italy. The discussions mainly concern the brutal facts of chronicle. Journalists oscillate between an apocalyptic vision in one of irrelevance. Conditions at work, on time management for the care of family and self, and access to education, have improved significantly since the seventies for all: males and females. The element of discussion in Italy is still elementary: the woman’s body. Public opinion sometimes doubts on physical violence to women. Many people debate whether the responsibility is the victim. The media analyze a single event and not the system of social networks. The system of repression, the legal, health and economic minimum subsistence, amplifies all the violence and the condition of subjugation of women.



Males do not speak. They are indifferent. Some males are violent. Males comment on the violence, sometimes with witticism and stereotypes. Or not?


Men should recognize the phenomenon. If men were witnessed events of violence against women, they should honestly express judgments about themselves and about their attitudes.


It was a Sunday afternoon in late May in 1985. The air was warm and the sky was clear. I was sitting with friends on the stairs of the main entrance of the municipality of Marino (town near Rome). A woman appeared with the dress to the nines. She ran to the streets asking for help. A scruffy old burly man chasing her. The man grabbed the woman and threw her to the ground. The brute slapped the woman. It all happened in less than 10 seconds. We did not have time to move. We looked at each other in disbelief, inert and dazed. A young man came over and ordered him to stop the brute. Another man arrived: an undercover policeman.


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Colonna’s Palace – Municipality of Marino (Rome)

The brute calmed down. The woman gets up and pulled himself together. We remained standing as puppets. Some acquaintances of the couple arrived and they talked animatedly. Everyone left a few minutes later.


On the side, there were some ladies sitting on the balcony and others on chairs outside their house entrances. I knew them all along: how many times they told me to be careful of the cars when I was a kid and I used to play with their children, and when they offered snacks to their children and to me. They infused the stability, security and a sense of time. They were lovely: a trace my childhood.


Their look was grim and dour. I observe for the first time those faces. I listened to their harsh comments against the woman who was appealed as a “prostitute”. I do not I caught no judgment toward the man. The “acquired” aunts looked like statues full of cold and soot, now.


The houses appeared black with a sky without a reflection. I had the image of the first page of the novel “The Protocny’ alley” Elijah Ehrenburg, where a man hit in the head with a brick a woman in the street. And what for me was experienced as a fiction, all this he twisted bowel, now. I stammered incoherently as my two friends next door.

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We looked at each other still blushing. We were humiliated our inactivity and fear. And after a long time before the mirror and no excuses, I realized that the shame which I had after the event, was also an excuse: we thought to ourselves, not to the woman. The tangle of emotions was a network off the violence and absurdity of the scene. I had buried the woman in the streets of my mind. I had become, in spite myself, an accomplice of that violence. It answered that, at that moment, the safe childhood was disintegrated: I was expelled from Paradise.

@23 Poetically: Occurrences

Occurrences make real the illusion of order events between “before” and “after”. They are feeble ties between individuals and society. We share schemes on the day and night with fictitious dates. We establish contiguity between symbols and meanings.


Social conventions and personal prop memories with hope are a real segment our lives, for which we, at every moment, we bring entire memory and the past here, now.


It was a hot day on October 25th 1990. I was on leave for a day from the military service. Early in the morning, before dawn, I ran to catch the train. I had to take an exam at the university. It was a day with a positive view of life: from the air, the trees, warm and gentle wind of Rome. I went through the exam with a calm and confident style and with the highest vote. I went back to the barracks and fellow seemed pleased to listen my stories of that day, times, steps, crossings, the shops, the anecdotes that follow after the storms, operations and blood tests.

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Near Spanish Steps (Rome) on Sunday afternoon.


And even more so a qualifying exam for History and Philosophy October 25, 2001, I sustained a qualifying exam to teach “history and philosophy.” I wrote about the wars of a hundred years. I quoted the battle Azincourt – October 25, 1415, where the British won outnumbered against the French. After just a few days, I saw the film by Kenneth Branagh – “Henry V” that deals with these vicissitudes. That day was happy.

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Kenneth Branagh – “Henry V”


In a more remote time, in another 25 October, in a quiet street (a Sunday afternoon), I received a modest kiss and I blushed with surprise and joy. It was only a kiss. And then there was a smile all day.

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Paradiso Street – Valmontone (Roma)


And finally, I ran a marathon of 12 km. I got my personal best (25 October 2002). During the race, the rain was almost a caress.


The anecdotes with the meanings about real facts, are used to embroider a pattern of flashes of life, where we want that day, like every day, we thank ourselves, because we try to keep the promise to preserve a treasure .


It’s been three years since the publication of my first book of poems with associated images, “Suspended Dreams” ( print format digital format  ).

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The poems had a very long gestation period, but relatively short for the drawing. I contacted Italian and foreign painters and photographers talking about their works. Some did not consider it appropriate to join my project. I relived every their image. I corrected him for months and months poems, later. The study was characterized by a handicraft correction. They were prompted by the only photo I snapped my published during the Midnight Sun last border of the port of Riga (Latvia). I exchanged the knowledge and skills with other writers to edit the book in print and in digital format. I continue the good cooperation with the painters today.

The second book of poems with images “Mutual Rebirths” appeared after a year ( print format e digital format ). Some of these poems were already sketched during the writing of the previous book.

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I had to change some pictures and I continued the research on entire catalogs. I pose myself as a sounding board that tries to reflect the characteristic traits of each of us dreams and rebirths. Some poems invite the reader with issues seemingly easygoing and relaxing, then there are the doors of nightmares and terror. The “nothing” and “nothing”. In the poem, however, even oblivion is brought as a constituent element. The thesis states that, perhaps, nothing disappears. Everything reappears.

I wrote the story in digital format “Everything under control. A body in the mirror” (http://www.ibs.it/ebook/Milita-Lino/Tutto-sotto-controllo/9788868856229.html), after the two works poetry.


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This story a monologue where the mirror describes the desire to control the body. The mirror describes a body completely manipulated by overexposure technology. The story offers a hypothesis. The part of us that is deemed to be weaker in suffering, perhaps it can be a anchor of salvation.


I have published the English translation of my book of poems in Italian “Mutual rebirths” in recent months ( print format   – digital format  ).


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The painters and photographers who collaborated to write the story, asked to translate for the English speaking audience.


I relived a new creation with the hope that is another sign of a common path.


And the journey continues

* 17 Special Guest: Mutual Rebirths

I have been asked to translate into English my book of poems in Italian “Mutual Rebirths” by painters and photographers not Italian who co-wrote the book, and also for some potential requests to English readers . I relived my book in English: a new creation. I have recited and I have rewritten my poems. At the same time I re-read some texts of the British and US poetesses of past centuries. After more than seven different drafts, I have proposed the reading of the text in a selected audience and then I have entrusted the text to the translator Diego Luci.

Rebirths occur sometimes spontaneausly, due to events which require radical changes, and they can be wonderful for what life can offer more, or they can cause desperation for unespected occurences contingencies that take away everything, except those dark visions the future.

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@ Samanta Lai: “Tai Chi”

Fortune and engagement allow you the luxury of being reborn as adults, keeping the memories of your past. In this case, it is also necessary that the memories concerning the others and stored in ourselves have to be really in order to avoid a mere reproduction of what we were. The real rebirth needs the others and the support of those we had an intimate relathionship with. If we pursue a revival with not causing pain to anybody, we will be able to express feelings and deep desires: doing so, we will become truly adult, wiser and sincere.

This collection of 50 poems accompanied by pictures, some of them in color, wants the readers to think over the world, the human relationships and the wonders that every person carries within itself.

Paper: Youcanprint: HERE


Smashwords: HERE


@21 Poetically: A conversation in progress. Anniversary of “Everything under control. A body in the mirror

A year has passed since the publication of the paper in digital format “Everything is under control. A body in the mirror. “A work, sublime or mid-level, if this is, both for the author and for the space of formal communication that incorporates, it acquires or it should buy its own life, so that it accompanies the reader and the writer in a still to explore.




With reference to the “public” potential that I imagined in a timeframe annual, that I thought in lesser quantities, because my two previous writings are poetry, this written in prose, lonely and under track, continued with a constancy from marathon runner to meet more new readers every month.


As the cost of the writing is a little over a euro, I have found that it has been taken mainly by assonance, stimulus and curiosity about the title and a few hints about the content. At first glance it seems to me to talk about anorexia as a symptom of a malaise known to all, but already the first lines, the reader understands that the “food dysfunction” is a symptom of the processes that they are so unique and unrepeatable for each of us, and that they have, however, a common reference to long-term social processes.


The body was already once understood as a product of a technique, albeit for references supramundane, and now it is registered in the laity criteria of “best management resources” in a horizon for which “doing”, “act in view of a defined objective “and management” domestic “their livelihood, their elements are already separated and fully available. We are therefore confident in disposing of the body in time patterns already foreshadowed, according to well-defined actions and safe in a procession that it is similar to that of a pilgrim towards a relic, which give a certificate, diploma, or a performance sexual and convivial, with emotions and feelings that are well pigeonholed in the procedure of a serial satisfaction and nuanced.


Everything must be under control, because the body is wanted as if it were already an essential and original, and not a goal to reach. We have a faith towards a simplification of the world with a double inversion of means and purposes, where the control is at the same time an element of the body which must be produced and in the other a set of behaviors and views of the world, which are adapted to change it. It is a short circuit. A mirror that you want to fake, and you want to tell the fake: “This little thing you see is the whole of reality.”



Tina Modotti, The hands is working.


The problem comes when the body itself, the part deemed simpler, split and weak, rebels and does so through the same violent and unlimited vision that we want to create. The background and the material available, which is almost despised, in addition to being the source of what it is, offers other possibilities of existence.


Almost every reader of the text has first started a conversation through www.linomilita.com website, and everyone fairly even before reading, requested clarifications on those terms, and then almost more than half of the readers, until now, has returned to write combining their experiences, compared to the path that is offered by the text. By the words and experiences, unique and unrepeatable for each, it appears that “we”, “our” image, “our” body have an indefinite surplus still to be said, seen and experienced. And this “more” is unlimited. And that all will to make it static and uniform, clashes against itself. The interview is still in progress.


The book can be downloaded

Ultimabooks: Here

Bookrepublic: Here

ebook.it : Here

Amazon: Here – in kindle format.


#21 Contamination: The chaste intimacy.

The other year today in the day of Blue Monday, I listened the Flunk’s song – Blue Monday. Do not know why, but  I listened again, as I wrote under hypnosis. I reread the poem or rather what it’s intentions were and I felt a sense of shame, like I’m naked in front of everyone in the main square of the city. My intimacy without veils. After the surprise, I wrote the verses that automatically tried to express that my state. I published the second paper, but not the first. The second paper speaks of the first that has not been done to see anyone until now. And after a year I expose him, still do not understand why I had that feeling. And maybe I touched something beyond me.



 I bent

by hands


for the error

that was believed.

I treated

with crap

by empty


for the hypocritical


I reversal




which are reverse

on deaf


I wish


a ship


for routes

without yet,

that are far

by orders

of greedy



This is the script that later censured the first written:



You know when

is too addictive

and you do not want to post

an idea, a script

or a poem?

Because it is too


and defenseless?

Here this time

poetry does not appear

although present,

but this is a sin

not offer the music

in this moment

acrid present.

To listen Flunk – Blue Monday, you click HERE

@ 20 poetically: deficiencies final

I recently met a friend at a Pub, and after a few minutes came upon an acquaintance of his. The conversation was long and comfortable and we talked about topics informal and private circumstances of our past. The acquaintance said he had no relations of any kind with their parents (living) for more than ten years. I did not want to think about the reasons and any judgments about the events that led to this break incurable. Me and my friend responded with phrases and arguments of circumstance and we talked about lighter topics, but we were enveloped by a sense of wonder and anxiety that lasted for days. In some cases, if the stories of life were marked by trauma, by quarrels and repressed hatred and resentment, detachment is a painful scar. In family relations and in the relations of the couple and also in friendships and conflicts cut for claims, remains, even at a subconscious level, in the claim and in pain, memory and desire repressed, miserable and grim, to know something of who was once dear. The hypocritical curiosity persists in knowing if those who were dear, suffer or are incurred in painful events. In this case, although the curiosity was not expressed, we realized that he had listened to a funeral detachment with the paradox that we talked about human beings. The simple answer is the hatred that generates cold and calculating power conscious pride.


The most abysmal doubt that continued to spin around my head was not so much an analysis of a son did not want to see their parents, what about future consequences. There are those who have elderly parents with a progressive deterioration of health conditions, where the old age port in the road of pain and finally death. Some are orphans from an early age. Usually the presence of parents is considered obvious, though over the months, they often begin to suffer from minor ailments, more and more widespread and intense. And if they do not appear in the Earth, each one has thought and doubt of having lost the time that was not shared. The same parents who attend every day, at a time when there is a tragic event, they have the regret of not saying important phrases, real and heartfelt. The sense of inadequacy is common and it also reflects the way we live. The end of days for others, makes us think of our departure; the time has already passed and the constellation of opportunities easily achievable, but for laziness, superficiality and ignorance, we have returned to an imaginary future.

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Alicja Bloch. The Image is taken HERE


The disappearance of the parents is fully understood in the days to come, in which everyone is measured by the daily rituals and celebrations of the seasons. Do not have a contact with their parents, implying a temporal leap, because the role of the son is stopped at a point in the past or in a gate of the mind, where we expect to enter to repeat the episode of detachment. The absence of cause a permanent closure, although the “dead” still appear. The problem, then, is the moment when you know or come to know that there are more.


What can happen after the final mourning?


A first answer is that all the past appears in front, with all the anger and pain that can not be resolved. In addition, perhaps, it appears as an empty feeling excruciating mixed with helplessness. There is a risk that the structures deposited over the years in building the dam of the division, might collapse. And what we encounter then?


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Tom Bennett , Sleepwalk 20, 2010, The image is taken HERE


What happens in addressing the dead for the second time? What happens when the meeting is final? Such deficiencies hurt us?

@19 Poetically: The Apocalypse of carbon

The Apocalypse also refers to the catastrophe and then to the upheaval of the fundamentals and lack thereof. The table and the hamper that hold the food can be broken. The entropy has to do with the change that can cause disorder and anxiety evoking the shortage. The nightmare of the collapse of what supports us to live, to stay and to continue to exist, may reappear from the depths our unconscious.


In the last decades there is a specific day of the year where the Earth and its ecological systems do not transform, so favorable for us, the carbon cycle because we consume more than it can be absorbed and reproduced. Like a ship at the time of “Moby Dick” where you wanted absurdly energy, life and hope from the whales, now we depend on ships that carry oil. We are in the black water. And the other energies are living on it. It is a low energy, which is preparing for war for universal access to safe drinking water.

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Christine Lindstrom – The image is taken HERE


The nature there always will be, but the problem lies in assessing whether there will be a second equilibrium comfortable for us. The ship creates the city and the mainland depends on the docking of these whales made ​​of steel. The towns are supplied by ships that connect the arteries of tubes that penetrate into the waters. It is the largest city of energy that lives near the ships swaying from one bank to another. This has more than 150 years and it is ending. Even if we found other sources of gas, and the loving embrace of a future poisonous atmosphere of Venus would attract the Apocalypse.


In the war of dirty water, but drinkable, it may happen that with our technological support we would find other sources and recycling, sustainable and reformulate a view of nature with free seeds and domesticated animals for companionship or for food. In Italy, for example, since centuries, there are no forests, woods or places that have not been uprooted and replanted by man. Every natural ecosystem Italian is sham in the sense of artifact, because it is made by man, both in technique and in the flow of water, both in building up the city and remember in art, symbol and gesture. And the cities are made of time, of production and consumption, dawn and night, rain and sun, and everything is maintained by plants with the continuous pulsation of chlorophyll synthesis. This lady green and lymphatic that exists and can exist before and without us.


Us how we can come to terms?


Here is the dilemma, and it is no longer to consume less, or be aware of it the same way as revived environmentalists, because we are already in the Apocalypse, and this is no longer the time of the prophets. We are already in the irreversible process of change and the inability to sustain a consumption below the maximum level of sustainability descending.

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Giacomo Costa – Imagine Taken HERE