Houses
Garnet colored house:
darkness, no memory, only poorly told stories.
My blood brother pointing his finger at the camera, me looking at his finger.
Fifteen percent grey colored house: the fear of the dark cellar,
the monsters nearby, the deaf woman, my mother’s photos in the snow, the friend on the other side of the fence.
The lady who looks after me in the house below.
Biscuit colored house:
the bookstall where we dream of being something other than ourselves by listening
to “Voglio volere”.
The garden where I learn the smell of resin, where I sew leaves with pine needles,
where I discover love and friendship are different.
The balcony where he secretly climbs.
The balcony where I watch him passing by.
The phone that rings in my heart, directly.
The police there all the time.
The sofa where I wither
along with the summer of '99.
The night.
And Kim.
A teddy bear afraid of dying.
Teal colored house:
the smell of salt, the smell of ancestral rage, knotted families’ smell,
the open eyes of the dead.
The bed where I play the mistake.
Running, running toward the
Earth home:
my cousin's hand while we climb, our bodies, little girls, naked in the shower
at the mandarin tree, picking tadpoles, shouting to the wind, the foam in our hair
giving us a few more years, the dark alleys, us blind in the dark alleys, us silly blind, we sisters for better or for worse.
The sirens, the sea, a love song carrying away the golden age.
Periwinkle home:
where we go only to make love, until the day love is no more.
Zinc home:
where we go only for sex, too often, until the day the house is no longer there.
Ivory home:
a sister cooks veg over the night while singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. A sister sews the dress that’ll make me a bride,
brothers discuss Chekhov's nightly lines, we await the Masters,
unaware that this time is condemning our eternities to nostalgia.
Orange house:
the attempt to shape our souls, to let ourselves be, the struggle among us and with the time. Legs locked, exhaustion, the inability to kill the monster, many mirrors,
few reflections, where he’s divine, eternal, I fail and blame time.
Rainbow house:
we mothers and fathers of ourselves, we sisters, we brothers,
we and only one thing in front of the TV,
with hot soup in the bowl, legs crossed, lives fulfilled.
A painting of Gandhi, fallen in the predetermined night.
Silver house:
sparkling water, goodnight herbal tea,
a flower of a friend who opens the doors of the heart I love.
House of Fire (and Embers):
where I burn lightly with love, where I blend with error,
where staying is leaving, where songs burn in my throat, days are sweat and misery. Where he’s a crack in the destiny.
Where I scream Mother's name, to save me from oblivion.
House of Fire (and Ashes):
where the bathtub is my bed, where I lose. Everything, all of myself. Where he is a beast, where he is a gift taken from me
before I can unwrap it,
where I lose my senses,
where I lose consciousness,
where I burn, again. With love.
House of Water:
where I am nobody and I am everything.
Where I decide the color of my eyes, where I decide the size of my hands, where I no longer have roots, uprooted by the night storm.
What a blessing.
Where the white stones left on the path bring me back to my heart,
divided, fragmented, still alive.
Suitcase homes, car homes.
This home.
Where there is no room for the shadows. Me: always a guest of myself.
Home of wind, I dream,
daughter of gypsies: that’s me.
MariaRosa AndreaCeleste Criniti is a blend of places she comes from: southern Italy, Greece, Sardinia, Ireland, Central Asia... of nomadic blood. Born in 1987, she currently lives in the celtic valleys of northern Italy. She is a social and community theater director, performer, singing therapy-integrated arts facilitator and writer. She is the artistic director of Teatro Kim, of CASA Centro Arte Suono Azione art residency, and Humana Natura, the performing arts festival of the Imagna Valley.