Pieces adding up

“Bologna is a city of the bourgeoisie. The intellectual kind, though. There’s no proletarian culture, like in Genova.”
“Anyway, don’t you think somebody should take a hold of the situation? It doesn’t look like the association can go very far, this way.”
“You’re one of those hard-nosed types, uh? Take her for instance” looking at the woman that was addressing the reunion “she should be killed, skinned alive.”
“Why so?”
“She’s a monster.”
“She was my thesis advisor in university.”
“Where are you from anyway?”
“I was born here in Bologna. And probably a bourgeois, to top it off.”
“You dress awfully bad for a bourgeois.”

While I stumble across ugly lumps of leftover incongruity, I experience samadhi before knowing what it is. I chance upon it a few days later, reading Zolla, and I am now in love again with distant gods, with the alchemic view of life, with times when time wasn’t counted in days, nor years, but in generations, and we built pyramids of stone, not of trash. Other people seem more and more distant, whilst I break into tears admiring the beauty of insects and the fog in Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia.  Am I floating away again?

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