resurrection seems to me a basic project, not only the light morning resurrection that smells like good coffee, but also the radical resurrection that takes place after death. But the perspective changes, you don’t have to want to live the resurrection forever, you have to have one second chance to die more professionally. We all die amateurs, that’s the tragic and funny truth. That’s why I believe in God, and also because God is incredible, and there’s something funny about everything that’s incredible. So I think a series of resurrections which will have the purpose of finally letting us die flawlessly.
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Putin, 77% popularity despite mobilization. But it’s the second-biggest drop in his 20 years at the Kremlin
the fatherland. My homeland has nothing of the Risorgimento, there are no Garibaldi squares in my homeland, but only bumpy roads, dead ends lit by the sun, roundabouts looking for their own place. When I think of my homeland, all I can think of is my mother’s body, a container that throws me out into the world, vaginal cosmpolitism, the never-ending search for the nipple, in front of the bed. My homeland has a face, a breath, a fate of dust, like all created things. Long live the homeland understood in this way. A home made of encroachments, violations of imagined and dreamed territories. And the family can only be all of humanity. Every face I meet is my face in a different form, with different properties. With the exception of Salvini’s face, of course.
Instead of this. Instead of this We live in a rhetorical world, high-pitched, empty, composed of big words, behind which hide the darkest nonsense and the consequent contempt for the uniqueness of each individual human being. Who is the greatest enemy of rhetoric? The irony why Freedom of spirit comes only from irony, rejection and rebellion against every conceptual and cultural stereotype. You live by love, as a film by my friend Silvano Agosti teaches us. and for the country you must live in. Do not die. Dying means losing the most important asset: the ability to make an appointment. You don’t end up in heaven, maybe on a plaque, nothing more. Surely you end up in a graveyard that is furthest away from “See you at seven for an aperitif”. There is one exception to this speech: Ukraine. We are all Ukraine. Ukraine is our homeland, our face, our mother. If we don’t understand we’re already dead and gone.
Russia is also our homeland, but the Russia of Kasparov and Anna Politkovskaya, the Russia of the regime’s dissidents. gogol’s russia, certainly not Putin’s. And you see that irony returns, only irony saves humanity. When you hear a man in a cast threatening humanity with extinction, you know he is the enemy of all of us. Is there a face less ironic than that of the Russian dictator? The lack of irony is tantamount to death and destruction. Who writes these words? Ricky Farina. Who is Ricky Farina? A radical chic? Maybe. Spring, if people vote right, then I pride myself on being radical and chic. You broke me with all this obsession with bills and the end of the month. Why do you want to make it by the end of the month? What will be so important at the end of these damn months? I’ll tell you what’s at the end of the month: your life, always the same, made up of bills and scratch cards. But aren’t you ashamed not to be Ricky Farina? Something not Love freedom and irony? Aren’t you ashamed that you don’t have an uncle who wrote the music for Happiness?
Also read Ricky Farina’s blog
Luigi di Maio, check the first (fake) call according to the results of the polls: he called
Your God, country and family will always doom you to a glass of wine with your sandwich, but you still haven’t understood that we Radical Chic are your salvation? Only with us you get a chilled bottle of champagne. But you made the right choice! And for that I will take to the streets every day with my video camera, in my homeland, in my God, in my family, To take back her face swollen with rhetoric and bills to make you laugh with my eye of irony and recklessness. I’ll always be the Don Quixote of your parched mills. I won’t give you rest. With a martini cocktail in hand and in the other my instrument of rebellion: my eye. Knowing how to see is to invent, as Dalì said, and I see you, I invent you and I film you. For a ironic and free anthropological mutation. Without tyrants and maybe one day without bills.