73 stage name It is called 'homophony', she recalled thanks to the aforementioned humanistic baggage that she always carried with her, along with the hand luggage. It is when words or phrases have the same sound, but different sense. She had heard it in one of the last films of that Greek director: On the bus there are twenty hearts and twenty asses; however, if you listen well, On the bus there are winners and losers. If only they knew how to read surfaces in depth, how to compose the mosaic of a playlist on Spotify combining it with biten nails, with likes on Facebook and the way one rolls up spaghetti, it would be possible to realize that the one generically called 'soul', itself without a proper name, probably is nothing more than the projection, at regular intervals, of a tone of voice, a perfume, a way of saying goodbye, the favorite writer. As in Alpeis, when the first question to relatives of the deceased to bring back on stage the life of the dead concerned who was his/her favorite actor. As in Kynodontas, when the main character, unnamed like her two brothers, decides to be baptized 'Bruce' after having secretly seen Jaws. It is not a name filed at the registry office to make an identity; it is obsessions settling inside yourself. It's hard to get rid of obsessions. They are obsessive. They obsess you. It is impossible to get rid of obsessions. She looked at the number stamped on the keychain of her room: 101. Room One-Zero-One, she remembered the torture room used by the infamous Ministry of Love in 1984, George Orwell, to raze every feeling through the last form of brainwashing: the implementation of one's phobias. Which was also the same room number of the protagonist of that film about blind love and governmentality that is The Lobster. Amazing how literature, stories on cellulose, and cinema, stories on celluloid, know how to focus on correlations so glaring to blind us: it is around that obsession called 'love' that some of the worst contemporary totalitarianisms are basted, around the freedom to choose whether to love or not, whether to hear or not, to see. Around love. Around its impossibility. Around the blindness that it - like its opposite twin, hate - can produce. She remembered Tiresias by Sophocles, by Apollinaire, by Ezra Pound, by Primo Levi: man, and then woman, and then again man. Diviner. Blind. Cellulose and celluloid have often suggested, to a humanity at best astigmatic regarding their own choice of freedom, that the only ones capable of loving - far beyond the narration of languid slush, clichés, gymnastic-muscular performances - are the blind ones, freed from Cartesian symbioses and pre-established symmetries of form compatibility, because eyes represent the first driving force towards a surface that is not depth. She looked away from the key, she looked around: a lame couple was walking in the front hall holding their hands. Two epistasics at the bar poured ketchup on their chips. Matches made in defect, when you are suffering from the ability to see, weakening that of feeling and that, exquisitely anarchic, of choosing, because the first form of government is given by the management, remote controlled, of the glances. But look how wonderful is that lady in the parking lot, perfectly made up and dressed, clearly blind, totally alone. Look at the splendour of that child in the sofas, long hair and bleeding eyes. Yet there had been a time when she too danced freely over the abyss, without wanting to be anything she previously could have saw. Then the lights crashed into her eyes imprisoning her, paralyzing her, like a moth fatally attracted by the purple neon lights. A piped music incoherent with itself, but very consistent with the environment in which it spread its notes, schizophrenically alternated György Ligeti with Prince [Prince is not dead?, wondered the protagonist of Alpeis when the singer was still alive and, nowadays, seeing again that scene is alienating, thinking how ignorance can be transformed by time into glory], a Stabat Mater with Frank Sinatra, electro bpm for solitary dances with languid couple dances worthy of a third-rate ballroom, mirroring the multiple personality disorder in the library of the reading area: The Uncanny by Freud shared its space on the shelf with Vogue’s September Issue, Kafka took Buzzati by the arm, Mickey Mouse comics were arguing over human and animal justice with the box-set of the ancient Greek theater, Man into wolf by Robert Eisler ethologically justified Marquis de Sade’s violence, Deleuze's Logic of Sense came to terms with Ionesco's Bald Soprano, Fahrenheit 451 became the third testamentary act of the Bible. But above all, to fill the coffee-tables of the common areas, gossip magazines mostly stuck in the ‘80s, between the tor- «Oh no, not love. Love is not pop» Last tango in Paris, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, 1972 «Are we human or are we dancers?» The Killers, Human, 2008 " - Why can’t we use a pop song? - You're not ready for pop» Alpeis, directed by Yorgos Lanthimos, 2011
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