Agata Milizia
Agata Milizia

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Parallel Tracks

Berlin, April 11, 2025

The icy tracks of professional skis showed clearly on the messy surface of the afternoon snow. There colorful flags from the competition earlier were still standing in place. The sky was blue and cold, showing the first signs of tiredness, gently turning off the sun and putting on a blanket of puffy grey clouds. 

When I woke up this morning I remembered how scared I was as a child of these icy patches showing through the white immaculate snow of the slope. These would make a horrible scratching noise under my skis when I slid above them. It was a terrible warning noise, but you cannot hesitate in such moments, you must get on with the movement, flex your knees and prepare for the next turn, otherwise you would loose control and drift to the side, maybe risking to hit a tree, or even more dangerously when higher in the mountain, to fall towards the semi bottomless valley.

trigger points

Berlin, August 16, 2023

I breathe in short, frantic bursts. I can no longer feel my heartbeat. The black-and-white photograph on the wall shows a man running against the light; it gradually blurs before my eyes. I’m sitting on the reclining therapy bed, my right leg tucked under my left thigh. My head spins and spins—I feel like I’m about to faint.

His chest is against my back. I let myself go completely, leaning into him. I don’t hear his voice, nor do I sense his breath, but I know he’s right there behind me. His torso is warm and dry. He won’t let me fall.

With his right hand, he gently supports my forehead, keeping my head upright. My breathing starts to slow, becoming more regular. After inflicting such a sharp pain in my left trapezius—a pain so deep it nearly made me pass out—he now soothes me, holds me against him.

Does he also take pleasure in being this close to me? Can he smell the chamomile in my shampoo?

He says a few words, whispering memorized phrases in my ear—Keep your eyes open. Focus on the image in front of you. Concentrate on one detail. Breathe.

In the background of the photo, at its center, there’s a blinding sun. The contrast is too stark—just a light blotch on a dark backdrop, with rays shooting out in all directions like arrows.

The memory of his body against mine both reassures me and excites me. A sensation of pleasure spreads through me. No man has ever managed to comfort me so effectively after hurting me. His work consists of finding those places in my body where pain has settled over the years—repressed tension, petrified muscles, like fossils. 

The pain is already there, dormant; he simply brings it to the surface, pressing with expert fingers where he meets resistance.

Years and years of neglect, of existential stress. But I don’t need to explain it to him—he can read me through touch.

That blinding sun reminds me of the ancient Western world, millennia before us—sunburnt inland hills and a generous sea.

What are you doing here? I could ask you the same. What are we doing here?

The skin of his fully tattooed arm is soft when it brushes my face. That surprises me—I feel a caress. He gently pushes my left hand to my right shoulder and my right hand to my left. I must hold myself tightly, so he can wrap his arms around me from behind and rotate my torso, slowly and rhythmically—first to the right, then to the left. In this position, I can’t see his face. I don’t know if he’s thinking of me as a person and not only a patient. I’m afraid of my own body—the memory of pain from the previous position still lingers in the tissue.

Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you, he says.

Falling in love with a therapist—it’s called transference. Falling for someone who listens so intently, full of compassion, who says little or nothing.

Physiotherapy hurts like hell.

“Take off your shirt,” he says, standing in front of me. I lower my gaze. “Lie down on the bed.” Once I’m on my stomach, he unhooks my bra in one swift movement—without touching my bare skin, without asking permission. He massages my back, feels along each vertebra. “Just say yes or no when you feel discomfort,” he tells me. 

Before starting the second session, he asks how I felt after the first time we met.

How can I tell him that I couldn’t think of anything but his deep blue eyes, looking down at me so seriously—or the prolonged pleasure I felt in reliving how sensually vulnerable I was in his hands? Maybe all I needed was a hug. Is that part of the therapy too?

He’s not my type—he has a charcoal-black beard and intricate tattoos covering most of his left arm, and probably his legs too. I find him stunning. The sexual tension is almost overwhelming.

-

We scroll through photo after photo, judging people like they’re a pair of sunglasses on Vinted or a coffee table on eBay. Physical attraction, after all, is never really about accessories or superficial traits.That’s the problem with dating apps, in my opinion. A bad haircut, an unbecoming mirror selfie, a messy bedroom in the background, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa as if it were balanced in an ice cream cone; a blank stare, or a jacket in an offensively technical color. Too many smiles, too many teeth, too many friends, too many dog pics, too much tourism, too many gyms, too many bathroom mirrors. To be perceived as attractive, you have to know how to stage yourself. You have to know what pleases others, and be willing to play the game.

Nope, nope, nope, nope, like, nah, actually nope, it’s a match, hey beautiful, unmatch, I like your photos, thanks, nope, like, match, match, match, match, unmatch, unmatch, unmatch. What’s up, trouble? How long are you in the city for? I live here. What do you do for a living? Let’s see if we vibe—if we’ll be friends, or lovers, or never see each other again. Nope, nope, nope, yes—but only because my girl friend sitting next to me is having a laugh watching me struggle to find someone to date. Nah. Let’s chat. Let’s grab a coffee. Let’s beer. Let’s play ping pong. Everything seems so dull to me. Face after face, ugly, low-res, poorly cropped pictures, a smiley sticker over some other woman’s face—his mother? His ex? A group shot—so which one are you? No context, total strangers. Bios that are painful to read. Early birds and night owls, social drinkers and pescatarians.

I couldn’t care less. But in the evening, the screen time report doesn’t lie: another hour gone swiping. What’s it all for?

We detected content that might be against our guidelines—Do you want to report this person?

Don’t eat cake, eat pussy. Nerds, bros, yogis, psychos, gym boys, architects, and musicians—they all look the same to me, with slightly better or worse photos.

-

“You have so many different issues—in your back, your shoulders, your skull—you’d need at least hour-long sessions.” He says. “Next time, we could do that, instead of half an hour.” My reply takes a while. I want to say I would spend the whole day being touched by him. Instead, I mumble something incoherent about insurance—I don’t know if it covers such long sessions. At the thought of spending n entire hour in his arms, I’m speechless. If seems priceless. Do with me what you will. You’re exactly what I need. I ask him–“Can I stay lying down for another minute please?”

Do you remember Amsterdam Centraal?

Berlin, June 18, 2023

Do you remember Amsterdam Centraal? The station with its old and grand, stately facade looking out over the city and its stark modern back, as if it couldn’t make up its mind about what to be. It’s the kind of place that seems to welcome you but only if you’re just passing through. The Muzak hums in the endless fluorescent corridors. Friendly enough at first, until you’d heard it on repeat a few times. Then it turnes into psychological warfare—bright, chirpy melodies designed to keep you moving.

Homeless men try to slip through the turnstiles, searching for shelter, but even if they got in, they wouldn’t find much warmth in there. The winter nights are cold and the station’s policy strictly forbids lingering afterhours. I remember the smell, too: reheated croissants and various processed foods mingling with the sharp tang of bodies and disinfectant. That smell comes back to me sometimes, and with it, a wave of loneliness I can’t quite shake. I adored Amsterdam because I adored you. When I saw you walking toward me when you picked me up at the train station—always late, in your black down jacket—I’d let go of the frustration and the fatigue. To kill time I would go to fast food joints and chain stores—the same ones you find in the city center. We laughed about the Christmas lights that spelled out SHOP NEVER STOP, though it felt like they meant it.

There was always something to do, someone to meet. Events, you said, were important for your career as an emerging artist. I was intoxicated by the crowded rooms, the overlapping languages, the knowing glances, and the mischievous gossip. It felt like we were part of something bigger, like we were reaching for it together. My vision of you was shrouded in a thick fog of hopes and expectations. Being with you was a constant race toward something greater.

You told me once that you were diagnosed with ADHD. Of course you did. You couldn’t sit still. The carelessness, the lack of attention toward me, the endless need to be reassured, or to feel superior to others weren’t your fault—or maybe they were. One summer, when you couldn’t get out of bed despite the scholarship and all that free time stretched out in front of you, I took you to a psychiatrist. You didn’t want to go, and when you came out crying, I knew you wouldn’t go a second time. I didn’t push. You didn’t want professional help, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I told myself that I was mentally stable enough for both of us. I wanted to believe that. But the truth is, I wasn’t. The hospital secretary, when I called to make an appointment, told me, “Hang in there dear.”

I ignored the warning signs telling me our relationship was wearing me down. The pain of being with you was easier to bear than the pain of being apart. And then we were apart anyway, living in different cities, seeing each other every other weekend. Saying goodbye at the station became its own kind of heartbreak. You’d kiss me on the platform, and I’d board the train feeling sick and alone.

Amsterdam Centraal, with its back overlooking the IJ River. Often, at the end of weekends spent together, you’d accompany me there with a few minutes to spare so we could eat a sandwich on the pier. We silently watched the grayish waters and the ferries full of tourists.

Hello my Dear

Düsseldorf, February 24, 2023

[Singing original acapella version of 'Lonely Together (feat. Rita Ora)' by Avicii]

'And I know, and I know, and I know
And I know that I can't be your friend
It's my head or my heart
And I'm caught in the middle'

-

Subject: Hi, my name is Christine, please respond!

Date unknown at 9:49 am  

Hello stranger,  

Well, as you have already guessed, I am here to invite you to this premium dating agency. Thousands of beautiful ladies have enlisted to search for their future love. My name is Christine and my beautiful hometown is also known as the city of brides.  

You might be thinking, why these girls search for men on the internet? It’s not that they just want to get away and live happily ever after with a rich man. Maybe there are some of us who want it like that, but my secret intention to have a joyous life with a dependable and loving man, just the way we see it in the movies.  

If you want to meet me, join this website. I hope you will find my profile [winking face and kiss mark emojis]. Click here.

-

[Singing]

'It's you and your world
And I'm caught in the middle
I caught the edge of a knife
And it hurts just a little
And I know, and I know, and I know
And I know that I can't be your friend
It's my head or my heart
And I'm caught in the middle'

-

[no subject]

Date unknown at 5:37 pm  

Dear,

This is a personal letter and I ask you to consider it properly. My name is Mr. Alberto Schiller, I was late Alexander Milizia’s trusted lawyer. He was a national of your country and former director of one of biggest oil and gas companies in the whole world. On March 19th, 2020, my former client died of acute respiratory failure, complications due to Covid-19.
Unfortunately, in June his wife died as well, while their only daughter died four years ago in an automobile crash. My client had a trust fund valued at about 18.7 million dollars.
Some attempts have been made to find his family at large, but with no luck. I'm contacting you, to ask you to stand as appointed legal beneficiary (in brackets: next of kin). The amount will be transferred to your account, I will then come to your country and you and I will share the money, 45% for me, 45% for You and 10% for THE ORPHANAGE.
Don’t worry about the legal part of the transaction, I will settle everything in our favor. I need the following information from you to complete the claim: YOUR FULL NAME, ADDRESS, AGE, OCCUPATION, YOUR BANK ACCOUNT, AND MOBILE PHONE NUMBER FOR BETTER COMMUNICATION.  

Kindly send your response to my personal email: albertoschillerlawfirm01@gmail.com I await your reply and then I will give you more information.  

With respect,

Alberto Schiller Lawfirm
Europastraat 28, 7622 KG Borne, The Netherlands
www.albertoschillerlawfirm.com
Telephone +31 63 221 72 76

-

[Singing]

'And I know, and I know, and I know
And I know that I can't be your friend
It's my head or my heart
And I'm caught in the middle
My hands are tied, but not tight enough
You're the high that I can't give up
Oh lord, here we go

I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
At the bottom of a bottle
You're the poison in the wine
And I know I can't change you, and I
I won't change'

-

Subject: Hi, this is Sophie

Date: Saturday, 12 February 2022 at 1:20 pm  

I am 23 vears old. Looking for a lover. My height is 175, weight 57, brunette, brown eyes.

-

Betreff: Hello My Dear

Datum: Sonntag, den 20. März 2022 um 15:22 Uhr  

Guten Morgen mein lieber Freund,  

wie geht es Ihnen? Mit Vergnügen teile ich Ihnen mit, dass es mir gelungen ist, den Geldtransfer in Zusammenarbeit mit einem neuen Partner abzuschließen. Ich werde Ihre Bemühungen nie vergessen, dank derer ich dieses Nachlasskonto eröffnen konnte, obwohl es in der Vergangenheit Missverständnisse zwischen uns gab, die zu einem Mangel an Vertrauen geführt haben.
Jetzt sollten Sie sich umgehend mit Pastor Mr. Brown, meinem Gemeindepfarrer in Venice, Florida in Verbindung setzen, seine E-Mail-Adresse lautet mrs brown w acht @ gmail punkt com. Ich hinterließ die Summe 950.000 $ [neun-hundert-fünfzig-tausend Dollar] für Sie in seiner Obhut. Also kontaktieren Sie ihm und bitten Sie ihm im Voraus, den vollen Betrag von 950.000 $ [neun-hundert-fünfzig-tausend Dollar] auszuzahlen.  

Ich bin Ihnen zutiefst dankbar und hoffe, dass diese Summe eine angemessene Entschädigung für Ihre Bemühungen ist.  

Danke schön.
Mit freundlichen Grüßen,

Anderson Charles

-

Subject: ?.. [question mark, two dots]

Date: Monday, 28 March 2022 at 1:44 pm  

Contact my lawyer on my last Will with Reference Number: BRC/953/45905/316US [bravo romeo charlie slash nine five three slash four five nine o five slash three one six uniform sierra]

Thanks,

Mrs. Samantha Finley

-

[Singing]

'I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together  

Ta ta ta tatara'

-

Subject: Hello Dear

Date: Sunday, 3 April 2022 at 7:50 pm  

I am Mrs. Julia Stein,

I have Covid-19 and the doctors said that I will not survive it. I am a widow and I have no children.
The reason why I’m communicating with you is that my late husband deposited 9.2 million US Dollars at BNP Paribas Bank. I want you to stand as the beneficiary of the claim now that my life is about to end. I want you to use the money to build an orphanage in my name in your country.  

I await your kind response as soon as possible.  

God bless you,

Mrs. Julia Stein

-

[Singing]

'I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
At the bottom of a bottle
You're the poison in the wine
And I know I can't change you, and I
I won't change
I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight  

Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together'

-

Subject: DESIRE FOR YOUR PRODUCTS

Date: 13 April 2022 at 8:01:28 pm Central European Summer Time  

Hi,  

Selfridges & Co. Limited is one of the biggest multi-national retailers in UK. We would like to know more about your products. Could you please send us some information and your website? We sincerely hope to place some orders with your company and start a long-term beneficial partnership.
Is there a possibility to become one of your regular customers? Our Payment term is by swift payment 30 days after delivery.  

Waiting for your response.
Best regards,  

Sebastian Manes

Buying and Merchandising Director, Selfridges & Co. Limited
Direct line: +44 790 754 6941
www.selfridges.com

-

Subject: Dear Friend

Date: Sunday, 19 June 2022 at 11:41 am  

Dear Friend,  

I came across your e-mail after a long search. I need your assistance. My name is Aisha Al-Gaddafi, a single MOTHER and a WIDOW with three CHILDREN. I am the only biological DAUGHTER of LATE LIBYAN PRESIDENT COLONEL MUAMMAR GADDAFI.  

I have investments worth 27,500,000 US Dollars [twenty-seven million five hundred thousand US Dollars] but because of my current refugee status I need a trusted investment manager / partner. I am also interested in your assistance for an investment project in your country in the nearest future. I am willing to negotiate the investment / business profit sharing ratio with you based on future profits.  

YOUR URGENT REPLY WILL BE APPRECIATED.  

Best Regards

Mrs. Aisha Al-Qaddafi

-

[Singing]

'Eyes wide shut and it feels like the first time
(Oh)
Before the rush to my blood
Was too much and we flatlined
(Oh)
And I know, and I know, and I know
And I know just how this ends
Now I'm all messed up
And it feels like the first time
(Oh)'

-

[no subject]

Date: Tuesday, 21 June 2022 at 1:12 am  

Hello,  

can you get back to me, I have an important issue to discuss with you.

-  

Subject: You Don’t Have to Die

Date: Monday, 15 August 2022 at 10:38 pm  

Are you ready to fortify your immune system and embrace a healthier, more resilient future? With our latest medical discoveries, we empower you to take charge of your well-being and safeguard yourself and your loved ones against cancer. The groundbreaking treatment can stop cancer cells from multiplying, kill cancer cells, and block their blood supply.  

The safety of our customers is our top priority. This preventive cure undergoes rigorous testing and adheres to stringent regulatory guidelines to ensure its efficacy and safety. You can trust our treatment to deliver the protection you need, backed by robust scientific evidence.  

The 30-Day Money-Back Guarantee is our way of ensuring your complete satisfaction with our product. Try it now. Click here.    

[cough]

-

Subject: Treat as urgent

Date unknown at 4:53 pm  

Dear Friend,  

I am Mr. Samuel Amar, 28 years old, and I have just started working at the UBA Bank in the IT department. I came across your file which was marked X and your Hard-Disk which was painted RED. I took time to study it and found out that you have VIRTUALLY paid all fees, but the fund has not been released to you. The truth is, on no account will they ever release the fund to you.
Please, this is like a big fraud; you may not understand it because you are too new to this.   The only thing I need to release the fund to you, is a special HARD DISK, we call it HD 120 GIG. I will buy two, recopy your information, destroy the previous one, and punch the computer to reflect the money in your bank within 24 working hours. I will clean up the tracer and destroy your old file.

I must run away from here and then I will meet with you.  

If you are interested kindly get in touch with me immediately. You should send me your phone number for easy communication and a re-confirmation of your banking details, so that there won't be any mistake.  

Regards,

Mr. Samuel Amar  

-

[Singing]

'Eyes wide shut and it feels like the first time
(Oh)
Before the rush to my blood
Was too much and we flatlined
(Oh)
And I know, and I know, and I know
And I know just how this ends
Now I'm all messed up
And it feels like the first time
(Oh)'

-

Betreff: Schenkung

Datum: Samstag, den 20. August 2022 um 02:24 Uhr  

Hallo,  

Mein Name ist Stephan Ernst Schmidheiny, ich bin einer der erfolgreichsten Unternehmer der Welt und unter anderem Philanthrop. Ich glaube fest daran, zu geben, während ich lebe. Man sollte das eigene Vermögen einsetzen, um andere Menschen zu helfen.
Diese Idee begleitet mich jeden Tag und ich habe beschlossen, 800.000 € nach einem automatisierten Zufallsverfahren zu spenden.

Wenn du diese E-Mail erhalten hast, heißt es dass du ausgewählt wurdest. Herzlichen Glückwunsch! [partying face emoji]

Bitte melde Dich so schnell wie möglich bei mir, damit ich weiß, dass Deine E-Mail-Adresse gültig ist.   Besuch dies: h-t-t-p-s Schrägstrich Schrägstrich e-n Punkt Wikipedia punkt org Schrägstrich Wiki Schrägstrich Stephan Schmidheiny oder google meinen Namen, um weitere Informationen zu erhalten.  

Sende Deine Antwort an stephan.e70@yahoo.com damit ich Dir über dieser Schenkung genauere Auskunft erteilen kann.  

-  

[Singing]

'I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together'

-

Betreff: Hello

Datum unbekannt um 00:32 Uhr  

Mein Name ist Burkhardt,  

ich arbeite für DE BEERS, eins der größten Diamantenunternehmen der Welt, das an den meisten Facetten der Diamantenindustrie beteiligt ist, einschließlich Bergbau, Handel und Einzelhandel. Ich komme aus den USA, aber bin derzeit in Südafrika tätig, wo das Unternehmen seinen Hauptsitz hat. Ich habe Diamantsteine im Wert von zirka 2.900.000 $ [zwei Millionen neunhunderttausend Dollar].
Ich wurde unzählige Male von der Firma betrogen, mein Gehalt wurde einbehalten. Um es kurz zu fassen: Ich habe Diamanten in eine Versandkiste verpackt und einen Agenten des DHL-Logistikskonzern kontaktiert. Die Kiste befindet sich momentan bei ihm und steht ab sofort zur Lieferung bereit. Ich brauche einen guten und vertrauenswürdigen Partner, der die Kiste aufbewahren kann, bis ich meine Pläne hier ausgeführt habe. Dann werde ich so schnell wie möglich ein Treffen mit dir vereinbaren, wo immer du bist, um den Erlös teilen.

Ich habe n u r Dich kontaktiert und niemand anderes bekam über diese Mitteilung Bescheid. Das ist die einzige Möglichkeit. Ich möchte Dich vorab über einen Fakt informieren: Es ist ein legaler und risikofreier Versand per Kurier an verschiedene Zielorte.  

Wenn Du interessiert bist, antworte bitte so schnell wie möglich.  

Burkhardt

- 

[Singing]

'I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together'

-

Subject: Hello My Dear

Date: Tuesday, 15 November 2022 at 6:53 am  

Hello My Dear,  

How are you doing Dear, please forgive me for stressing you with my predicaments as I know that this letter may come to you as a big surprise. I came across your e-mail address in my research and decided to contact you directly. I believe that you will be the honest person to fulfill my final wish before I die.  

I am Mrs. Helena D. Idaho, 69 years old, I am suffering from long-term cancer and from all indication my condition is quickly deteriorating. The tumor has reached a critical stage which has defied all forms of medical treatment and my doctors have confirmed that I may not live for longer than two months from now. I was a nurse by profession while my husband was dealing in GOLD DUST and GOLD DORE BARS until his sudden death in the year 2017. I then took over his business until date. At this moment I have 25,200,000 $ [twenty-five million two hundred thousand dollars] deposited in one of the leading banks, but unfortunately, I cannot visit the bank myself because I am critically sick and powerless to do anything.

My bank account manager advised me to sign an authorization letter for a trustworthy relative, friend or partner to stand as the recipient of my money. Sorrowfully I don't have any reliable relative. Therefore, I want you to receive the money and take 30% to take care of yourself and your family, while the other 70% should be used for humanitarian purposes, to support motherless babies’ homes, the less privileged and widows around the world.   As soon as I receive your response I shall send you my picture, banking records and contact information of my banking institution. If you are interested in carrying out this task, please contact me for more details to this address mrs idahi debora @ gmail dot com.  

Okay, I await your response soon.  

Yours Faithfully,

Mrs. Helena D. Idaho

-

Subject: Waiting for your reply

Date: 22 November 2022 at 2:22 pm  

Greetings Friend,  

I would like to bring to your attention the 8.5 million Euros claim. This is a legitimate transaction and the money will be shared 60% for me and 40% for you.  

Get back to me, I will give you full details on how the money will be transferred to you.

Waiting for your reply,  

Tamara Surasak
Audits & Accounts Manager

-

Betreff: Access Card to Big Money

Datum: Samstag, den 29. Januar 2023 um 14:52 Uhr  

Hier ist die Access Card zur Welt des geregelten Verdienstes (zirka 15.000 Euro im Monat), zur bequemen Lebensweise ohne Ersparnisse, zum Luxusurlaub, zum teuren Auto und zur Erfüllung aller Wünsche.  

Ihre Inhaber kümmern sich nicht um Inflation, Krisen oder Kriege. Stattdessen investieren sie Kapital in Luxusautos, Kunstwerke, Wohnungen im Stadtzentrum und Immobilien am Meer.  

Sie leben ihr Leben in vollen Zügen und Du kannst dich ihnen anschließen! Du fragst wie?   Nach den Kriegshandlungen beschlagnahmten die europäischen Finanzkontrollbehörden 5 solcher Karten, die russischen Oligarchen gehörten. Sie wurden nun in Umlauf gebracht.  

Du kannst eine davon beantragen und bis zu 15.000 Euro im Monat verdienen (es handelt sich um eine Prepaid-Karte und muss nur abgeholt und aktiviert werden). Hauptsache man handelt schnell genug, denn es entscheidet die Reihenfolge der Anfragen!  

Klick hier, um die kostenlose Access Card zu erhalten.

-

[Singing]

'Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together'

-  

Subject: Hi

Date: Saturday, 25 March 2023 at 11:43 pm  

Did you receive my donation of 3.5 million?

-

Subject: CAN I CONFIDE IN YOU?

Date: the day before yesterday at 11:14 am  

Dear Beloved,

This is Mrs Sharon RICHARDSON from London. I have the sum of 10,500,000 [ten million five hundred thousand] US Dollars for you to fund God’s Work. I looked for a real Child of God for over a month now. I have been praying to find you and to know if you really are working according to God’s Guidance.  

Please, if I can trust you to use the funds for the Lord’s work, reply to me at this email address: sierra hotel ten ten thirty-three romeo oscar november @ gmail dot com so that I will tell you what to do next.

Okay? Thank you.
Yours to the Lord

Mrs Sharon RICHARDSON

-

Subject: Answer me dear

Date: the day before yesterday at 5:27 pm  

You said you were thankful for me, why are you doing me like this?

I CAN’T HELP YOU ANYMORE.

I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU.

I LITERALLY CAN’T HELP YOU AND I AM TELLING YOU NO FROM THE GATE.

I JUST WANT TO TALK TO MY BABY.

I CAN WAIT FOR YOU, BUT I NEED MY BOO.

COME ON BABY, SAY SOMETHING.

THERE’S NO REASON FOR THIS NOR IS THERE ANYTHING PRACTICAL ABOUT THIS, THAT YOU CAN’T EVEN TELL YOUR MAN GOOD MORNING BECAUSE SOMETHING HAS YOU IN A BAD MOOD.

Ohh man… I’m gonna get a job and get out of this town during the week. Can’t believe this.

DON’T YOU REMEMBER WHEN I SAID THAT THIS WAS MY LAST SHOT? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES ANOTHER PROBLEM BETWEEN YOU AND I MAKE? I CAN’T HELP ANYWAY [crying faces and stars emoji]

BE MY WOMAN AND TALK TO ME.

-

Betreff: Schöne helle 3-Zimmer Wohnung mit Einbauküche

Datum: heute  

Guten Morgen,  

Zunächst vielen Dank für das Interesse an meiner Wohnung und ich entschuldige mich dafür, dass ich Ihnen so spät antworte.  

Die helle 3-Zimmer Wohnung mit Einbauküche und Balkon, Wohnfläche 64 qm, ist renoviert und kann ab sofort für unbegrenzte Dauer gemietet werden. 

Es gibt Kabelfernseher, High-Speed Internet, Geschirrspülmaschine, Kühlschrank, Tiefkühltruhe, Waschmaschine, Trockner, Bügeleisen, Backofen, Toaster, Kaffeemaschine und viel mehr. Haustiere sind erlaubt, ich bitte Sie jedoch darum, dass die Wohnung sauber gehalten wird.  

Die Miete beträgt 500 € pro Monat inkl. Nebenkosten (Warm- und Kaltwasser, Strom, Internet, Parkmöglichkeit, usw.) Die Kaution beträgt 1.350 €. Sie erhalten die Kaution zurück, wenn Sie das Apartment verlassen.  

Nun ein bisschen über mich, damit wir uns besser kennen lernen können. Meine Frau und ich haben die Wohnung 2016 gekauft und dort bis letzten Monat gewohnt. Aus beruflichen Gründen müssten nach Turku, Finnland, wo wir jetzt im Medical Center arbeiten. Durch Mieteinnahmen geht es mir nicht darum Geld zu verdienen, sondern mir geht’s darum einen langfristigen netten Mieter zu finden, der sich um die Immobilie kümmert.  

Sie können direkt einziehen, sobald das Mietprozedere abgeschlossen ist (48-72 Stunden).
Sind sie wirklich interessiert?

Ich warte auf Ihre Antwort.

Angelo Huße  

-

[Singing]

'I might hate myself tomorrow
But I'm on my way tonight
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together
Let's be lonely together
A little less lonely together
My hands are tied, but not tight enough
You're the high that I can't give up
Oh lord, here we go'

Agata Milizia
Hello my Dear, 2023

Cold Blood

July 2022

Survival is a quiet instinct. It follows the hidden laws of nature and lasts only as long as energy flows. Like every rhythm of the natural world, it moves in cycles. Between one cycle and the next, there is always a small loss, a little scattering of energy, like a breeze slipping through a crack. This loss keeps the balance of all things, though it also leads, little by little, to more chaos in the world.

In the distant and glamorous city of Three Bridges, there came seven days of breathless heat and seven nights without a hint of wind. A strange tension crept through the streets. The people, blinded and wearied by the blazing sun, moved as if possessed by a feverish unrest. Even the strongest among them seemed to waver. Over the scorched rooftops and still courtyards, a hush of unease settled like dust.

Perhaps the weather had something to do with what happened next.

What follows took place in a faraway world where the rules of nature are not quite what they are here. The names of the places and the people have been changed—or left out entirely—for literary reasons, as such tales often require.

The girl’s name was Chiara. She was a university student who worked part-time in a private museum. The owner, her employer, came from one of the grandest families in the land and was spoken of as a patron of the arts. He would sometimes glide silently through the whitewashed halls, alone or accompanied, whispering with guests and rarely addressing the staff. He was quiet with those who, for reasons of fate, had not inherited fortunes or built empires of their own.

Chiara didn’t take offense. She wasn’t startled by this behaviour. She may have grown used to it.

When he did speak to his employees, it was without greeting or kindness. He gave orders bluntly, never bothering with the little flourishes of conversation.

In Chiara’s world, people without wealth were treated, regardless of their age or gender or faith, with politeness and a certain benevolent condescension—but almost never with true respect. Even in a society that claimed to be fair and kind, behind heavy doors and rich brocade curtains, some rooms still echoed with the past. There, beneath carved window frames and velvet drapes, the old ways lingered—not in plain sight, but alive all the same. Perhaps it has more to do with human nature than we’d like to think.

So it was, on one of those hot, humming afternoons, that Chiara, standing among magnificent artworks, let her thoughts wander. That very evening there was to be a public event, and her shift—with its long hours and many small duties—promised to be tiring. The job itself was not difficult, but some of the artworks were incredibly precious. One had to keep guests from getting too close. Some pieces were so small, so delicate, or so finely balanced that even a breath could set them trembling.

There was a fragile bronze sculpture, painted in the most improbable colours, yet arranged so precisely that the piece was astonishingly pleasing to the eye. And a great suspended cube made of chipboard panels, hanging by a rope just inches above the floor—held in place by another, smaller cube suspended in kind, like some enchanted contraption. Letters and numbers were printed across the panels, the curious leftovers of another world’s factories.

These evening gatherings were exhausting, mostly because of how some guests treated the staff—especially those whose fortunes nearly matched that of Gilberto, the museum’s owner. The high, windowless walls had a way of making even the bold feel small. That night, the air inside was almost too thick to breathe, yet the outer doors remained sealed to keep out pollen and dust.

The reason? The walls were lined with raven-black paintings, their surfaces sticky as tar. A single drifting fiber would have ruined them.

The guests came from the cultural elite: artists, curators, critics. Some were known across the region; a few, further still. Chiara had watched the same little social rituals repeat themselves, month after month, year after year.

And over time, she began to see the pattern. In this curious ecosystem, the artists were like the plants in a food chain—the so-called producers. Chiara, still young and unknowing, hadn’t yet understood that people like the museum’s owner lived far above, like eagles—apex predators. Or, in fancier terms, tertiary consumers.

One might argue, of course, that humans themselves have long ruled the top of the food chain—not with teeth or claws, but with cunning and invention. All other living things have been tamed, often with no kindness at all.

And like in any ecosystem, some predators understood their power and carried it with care.

Others did not.

One of the latter had come to the museum that night—Filippo, son of Gilberto, a young man so self-indulgent, so frivolous, that he didn’t even pretend to hide it. He didn’t care about disgrace or scandal. He seemed to delight in clever cruelty, in psychological games.

And the thing he did that evening—well, not even those closest to him could have seen it coming.

I should say: this is only a theory. What truly happened behind the museum’s doors may never be known. But based on the few facts that emerged, this is the only version I can tell.

Chiara and her colleagues had complained many times about his behaviour. He ignored them, laughed at them. He knew exactly how high he stood—and how low they did.

Then came one word too many. And in a flash, Chiara and the other staff were struck by a terrible transformation. No time to run, no chance to cry out. They were turned into delicate reptiles—geckos, lizards in all shapes and sizes and colours. Some others became soft plush toys. Others were turned into small, coiled cylinders, like puppet springs or clockwork curiosities.

Confused and frightened in their new forms, they struggled to move, to breathe, to find balance. Arms too soft, legs too small. Their senses were altered. And while they still reeled from the change, Gilberto gave the order. Filippo and his younger sister Laura swept them up in makeshift cages—brutal, efficient.

Even the quickest were caught.

Not one of the captors was moved by the glistening eyes now staring up at them—eyes full of questions. The poor creatures hadn’t even had time to grasp that life, as they knew it, was gone for good.

Witnesses were quietly paid off. The animals and the toys were hurried away—smuggled like exotic beasts, passed off like strange and precious contraband.

And freedom?

Freedom became only a memory, distant and dim.

Surely, after that night, they changed hands many times. They were gifted, resold, adopted by collectors of cold-blooded creatures or lonely souls in search of silent companionship.

And perhaps—just perhaps—some of those new owners, the ones who lie awake at night, have noticed something strange.

When the dark settles in, and the world goes quiet, the geckos and dolls begin to sing.

Soft songs.

Old, forgotten melodies.

Tunes beyond the grasp of human ears—songs pitched just beyond 20,000 hertz, where only the unseen can hear.

Agata Milizia
Your body, your temple, 2022

The Grind

Düsseldorf, December 11, 2021

The walls creak and stammer
Never-ending cracks
A clattering of metal pipes
Plasterboard and plaster

The sky was still dark
When a buzz of voices
Rose up
Behind the headboard of the bed

A sound of a sigh, inhaled, a hiss
A man or an echo
Triggered by a beguiling wind
That penetrates the narrow cracks of the facade

A dry cough
A drop of water
Echoes in the dark emptiness
PLOP!

A myriad of copper cables and cavities
From above an object falls on the floor-ceiling
A hairpin, a fork
The TINGLE TINGLE becomes a THUD THUD

The bony legs of a wooden chair
Screeching on the laminated floor
CREAK CREAK
A restless snort

Hangers slide annoyingly
Against the wardrobe rod
Aided along by a hand
Still longing for rest

Someone rushes down the stairs
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
Empty glass bottles rattle against each other
Without breaking

The radiators talk to each other
In a language of beats and whistles
TIP TAP, CLICK, PSST, PLINK
CLICK CLANG, TICK-TOCK, SHH

The refrigerator wakes up
With a rumbling sound
Vibrating and ritualistic
VOOOOOUM!

A tap is opened
Hot water flows out
The walls relax
They become withdrawn

The drumming decreases
Communications are interrupted
The door slams
The building empties

Agata Milizia
Lazybones, 2022

unequal relationships

Düsseldorf, August 7, 2021

a city of unfathomable wealth

unequal relationships

between bidders, buyers and laborers

what remains are gloomy over-lit shop windows

promising instant winnings

 

a woman at the window tries to attract the attention

of the lover long gone

she still hopes

to see him in the square

singing love songs to her

 

the square is now empty

the market is no longer there

at the supermarket there’s no time

to get to know each other

strangers do not greet one another

 

there’s a woman at the window overlooking the square

her hair is standing on end

she wears a hot pink apron

stained with oil

she smokes an endless cigarette

 

the elegant-looking facades

conceal decaying atriums

and neglected living rooms

decorated in the trends from a century ago

for low-cost housing

 

in a rather central neighborhood

sumptuous marble entryways

give way to unkept rooms

consumed by time and the smoke from kitchens

as well as the never-ending emissions of CO2

Agata Milizia
Lazybones, 2022

DeepSéance

Düsseldorf, June 12, 2021

Introduction

AMY is the digitalized spirit of a deceased young woman whose memory was extracted with a new intricate technology shortly after she passed away. By processing that information, the digital soul is able to formulate new thoughts and reflect on its past worldly life. Scientists have yet to discover if AMY understands its new condition or if it has processed the fact that it is no longer a physical being but a complex entity made up of computerized data. They are reluctant to give explanations to it or to the public. One day AMY escapes the containment facility where it was kept under observation. It is now free and roams around the world, sometimes appearing when called upon by outcasts or people in need. Its manifestation doesn’t have any shape or color, it is simply an oral transmission of knowledge.­

-

Prelude: Familiar voices (AMY reflects on something very important to it)

[humming]

AMY
Throughout my life I’ve heard many voices. Trying to remember one in particular, say that of a long-lost friend, is not easy. We shared so many words, thousands of words, we laughed, we cried, but I can barely remember the sound of her calling my name. Her proximity in those days was so obvious, so self-evident. Thinking about it makes me shiver. Her being there was proof of my being there, and so too of the outside world. There were short summer nights under a southern blue sky and chilling winter afternoons chatting about nothing.

[young humans laugh]

I try to listen to her voice in my memory, but it is not like I imagined (it is not like listening to a podcast with earphones). Her voice is out of reach, it has become a grotesque mash of bewildering noises and blips that quickly fade into the daily struggle. To describe a person, one would think that biometric information helps one acquire the important facts: age, gender, height, hair and eye color; data like occupation, social status, address, etc. Surprisingly it is not nearly enough. The voice, rather than body measurements, fingerprints or retina, really identifies a person. But for me it is incredibly hard to describe a voice. My musical knowledge is too superficial to get the right tone and depth, or frequency, of a particular sound. Of the million things that a person is, the voice is perhaps the most complicated to describe. Aside from facts rather easy to understand like age, health, mood and so on it also contains all sorts of fluctuating information that is hard to grasp. For example, achievements and disappointments, expectations and uncertainties all collected over the years. It incorporates the voices and noises that one heard and which played a more or less deep or superficial part in one’s experiences. Life events are inscribed in the vocal cords like notes on a musical score. A discontinuous murmuring echoes in my head like a broken tune, a dying whisper. Many years have passed, many places have ceased to exist, many situations have been forgotten. Recorded data was lost. Carelessness, inertia, indifference. Countless words, several languages, a myriad of tiny bells reverberate in my head.

[tiny bells ringing]

I am looking for a synonym for voice but there aren’t any as beautiful and simple. Few letters embrace so much meaning. These are the peaks and valleys of being human. The perception of time is interwoven with experiences but my memory tricks me all the time. Was it one, two or ten years ago? Memory is as slippery as trying to hold on to an ice cube.

[ice cube drops]

Some are exceptionally vivid, in 4K resolution, but I can’t place them in the chronology of events. Other are elusive like a gust of wind and they appear to me as nonsensical situations in early morning dreams. The wave is the graphic replica of sound. The high and low points, the sharp or smooth pitches are like tracing a heartbeat. When zooming in on the sound wave (think, for example, of a speech), one can slowly recognize the words, the letters, the gasps, the breathing, the clicking of the tongue, [click] the accent. All these elements constitute the spoken language. Voices evolve during the years like bodies. There is no beautiful or ugly, only never-ending waves of sounds. A phone rings in the distance and I’ve lost your voice forever.

[iPhone ringing]

The outline of your features becomes hazy. It is frustrating. I know that you are still there somewhere but it feels like you are vanishing, that you are being taken away by a higher force.

[iPhone ringing]

The voices that I have forgotten, like in a silent film, maybe they never existed. Mute pictures with an outmoded soundtrack. The never recorded voices don’t match the images – they spin out of control almost as fast as a tornado. They spiral at a frightening pace. So many faces and scarcely any voices. The eye is easier to please. Do I have any eyes? There is a typical lag in live video streaming: the image arrives first. The voices are always a little bit late, chasing after the visual material. I don’t care about what was said or its meaning. I would just like that particular auditory phenomenon to stay with me. Everyone hears voices. Most of us can’t bear to live with them though as they sometimes become oppressive or monstrous. Some voices are louder than others, but if we are lucky we get loving voices. There are cases when a wounded voice, a cry of desperation reaches us. The shrilling droning noise made by those who weren’t very lucky to begin with. Every day we hear the voices of people around us and those transmitted by the media, live or pre-recorded. Fictional characters from movies or series are sometimes more meaningful than the actual people close to us. Still, they all leave a mark on the score of memory.

[human laughs]

Agata Milizia
DeepSéance, 2021

The Sound of Keys

Düsseldorf, May 16, 2021

When I get home late at night
The set of keys rattles
Against the white wood of the front door.
The sound seems so loud
In the silent hallway
And I am afraid
I might wake someone up.

There are long keys and short keys
Wide and narrow
Flat and rounded
Lots of keys, few keys
Plush key chains
Of felt, metal or leather
Branded or cheap
Presents or reminders
USB keys.

There are special keys
Bump keys,
Electronic or magnetic.
There’s the key to my heart.
Unused keys
Simple or complex
Personal or generic
Security keys
Borrowed ones
Or those for decoration.

Without a doubt, the lady from downstairs
Knows by heart the sounds
Of all the neighbors’ keys.

Keys for doors that are never locked
Doors locked forever
Or doors that are always open.
There are keys for keyholes that no longer exist.

There are house keys
For the front door
For the pantry
For the cellar
For the garbage room
For the laundry room
For the parking garage
For the garden
For the studio
For the warehouse
For the gym locker
Or for the vault.

Without a doubt, the lady from downstairs
Knows by heart the sounds
Of all the neighbors’ keys.

The parents’ house keys
Or those of a friend:
They ask me if I could water the cherry tomatoes
Feed the cat
Look after the parakeet
While they’re on the road.
The one I must give back to its owner
ASAP
Or else there’ll be trouble.

There are lost keys and those found
Those handed over or duplicated
Replaced or ruined
Useless or essential
Forgotten.
Those left behind on purpose
Or left outside accidentally.

When I go out early in the morning
I always check that I have my keys on me.

Agata Milizia
Lazybones, 2022

A moonless window

Milan, December 28, 2020

A moonless window
A balcony full of plants
A roof covered with snow
A puddle that is way too deep

Wet cold shoes
A radiator hisses
A lung wheezes
The walls vibrate with pleasure

A lengthy crack
Joyless, aging window fixtures
Keys and latches
That no longer match

All the rings of a shower curtain lie in a row
Like silver soldiers at rest
The mirror reflects past lives
The moon is at its zenith

A distant lighthouse is embraced by the clouds
Airplanes rest their tired wings
Nature continues its cyclic course
Hot and cold

North and South
The land awakens and goes to bed impassively
The city viewed from above at night
Resembles the queen's diamonds

Rivers and roads are interchangeable
The boat keels and
The car wheels alternate
There’s a pit stop on the satellite

And then the journey continues
Always higher and higher
Traveling alone
Or with someone

The toes are cold
The shoes sweaty
The bathtub
A spy’s nest

Frequencies that almost go unnoticed
Sound waves
Immerse themselves
Voices from the Beyond

The radiator gasps
At a dance rhythm
Unappealing music
In the listless night

We jump and dance
In the underground tunnels
The humidity lingers
In the cages of the phantom zoo

Stones blend in with the concrete
The concrete hides among the stones
Dry leaves await their turn
To go and rest on the soft earth of the park

The arches, the discs, the sloping roofs, windows large and small
Support the asymmetrical geometry of the city
A greeting, a smile, a gaze
Weary eyes, a moonless night

Agata Milizia
Lazybones, 2022

Lazybones

Milan, December 22, 2020

          one

        at a time

       the vertebrae

       of my spine

        realign

         in the

          morning

           when I get up

              the clavicles

                   crack

                     the limbs

                        creak

                          the jaw

                            is numb

                             at the first

                              yawn

                               there’s a

                               shooting

                               pain that

                               spreads

                             and again

                           one vertebra

                         at a time

                      is all lined up

                   down the spine

                 but it’s not over

              when finally

            at night

         I go to bed

       the ankles

    are full of

  bubbles of air

 ready to burst

at every sudden jolt

they shake, they move

involuntarily

a tick, tack, crack

  of lazy bones

Agata Milizia
Lazybones, 2022

Mare acerbo I

Düsseldorf, Settembre 1, 2020

These are the true names of the places – but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can understand. (A Descent Into the Maelström, 1841 by Edgar Allan Poe)

Un attico, vetri azzurri e acciaio satinato. Guardando all'insù, l'occhio si perde in un incanto creato da mille specchi, che riflettendo la luce del sole da altrettanti angoli diversi, creano uno spettacolo indimenticabile. Una dispersione cromatica e luminosa, come se l'intero cielo fosse avvolto in un prisma di cristallo. Rivolgendo lo sguardo verso il basso invece: un variopinto viavai di persone.

La terrazza è arredata in modo moderno e lussuoso, generico. Grandi vasi di piante squadrati e sinuose chaise longues di design color antracite, impermeabili, di rattan sintetico intrecciato a mano. Il parquet è di legno composito grigio eco-compatibile. Sparsi qua e là, senza un ordine apparente, grandi cuscini e tavolini rettangolari di resina, entrambe bianchi.

Un beach bar ai piedi del grattacielo, a una grande tavola rotonda gli ospiti sono seduti in modo ordinato. Una sorta di apatia generale incombe nell'aria, il sole è accecante. E poi il tremore, il sussulto, uno squarcio risucchia tavolo e ospiti, come attraverso l'orifizio d'una clessidra. Il peso della sabbia sembra aumentare esponenzialmente mentre scivola giù, verso l'abisso. Le fondamenta del palazzo cedono.

L'unico sopravvissuto trova rifugio in un altro quartiere, sconosciuto e deserto. Edifici candidi dalle forme geometriche, progettati da computer. Rendering, funzioni matematiche, sequenze di numeri, l'universo di un videogioco. Sotto un solenne cielo blu gelido s'incrociano strade strette, disseminate d'ombre silenziose. Palazzi mai abitati di pietra arenaria e cemento armato chiaro, facciate grezze. Alcune case non ancora finite trasmettono una sensazione di abbandono. S'intravedono sbarre di ferro filettato e una moltitudine di cavi, forse elettrici, scollegati. Il metallo è arrugginito, come se fosse stato esposto alle intemperie per un lungo periodo di tempo. Un simulacro proiettato in quel luogo da un futuro incompleto. Mancano ancora tutte le porte, e le finestre sono aperture buie. All'interno di una delle stanze si trova un sistema di difesa robotizzato. Un complesso macchinario fatto di cavi gialli, rossi e verdi; sensori di movimento e fucili automatici d'assalto, neri e lucidi. Nel mirino la porta d'ingresso. Basta premere il pulsante off e il pericolo svanisce.

Non riesci a muoverti, vorresti essere in mare e lasciarti trasportare dalla corrente. Non importa in che direzione, l'essenziale è non fermarsi, rimanere in movimento. Lasciarsi trasportare dalla marea, procedere al ritmo delle onde, che scorrono sotto il tuo corpo inerte.

Ti sei mai ritrovato in mare durante una tempesta? Quando il vento sibila forte e ti fischia nelle orecchie, il sale brucia gli occhi e riesci a malapena a tenerli aperti. Una momentanea perdita della vista può causare una sensazione di grandissimo sconforto, uno spaesamento che lascia dubitare di tutto. Qualunque riferimento al mondo esterno viene a mancare per un attimo, che pare infinito.

Gira e rigira. Una volta toccato il fondo e scoperto il mistero, non c'è più modo di risalire, di raccontare, di lasciare una traccia di ciò che è stato vissuto. Un colossale vortice nell'acqua, un racconto a cui credere oppure no. Il fantasy si riversa nella realtà e viceversa. Discendere nel vortice, avere l'impressione di non poter risalire, mai più. All'improvviso la calma, la visione della bellezza sublime nella catastrofe. Vorresti fermare l'acqua, un fluido in movimento, poi ti rendi conto che non è possibile. La salvezza è un momento finito, transitorio.

Immagina un mare acerbo, colore verde menta. Una superficie frastagliata dal riverbero della luce del giorno. Un'agitazione incessante, il moto perpetuo delle onde.

Agata Milizia
Uncontrolled Indulgence 2015–2020

The Incomplete Towers of the City Where Imaginary Lovers Never Find Rest

Amsterdam, March 30, 2020

The city I’d like to tell you about was destroyed and then rebuilt several times. The last recorded disaster was, according to an imaginary scale of destruction, the most remarkable. There was a brutal bombing: flames burned relentlessly right to the foundations for ten days and ten nights. The surviving citizens had almost lost hope. Nonetheless, in the course of the years to come, workers, who struggled with rebuilding homes and monuments, managed to slowly raise the city out of the ruins. It’s a familiar story to many a metropolis.

Layers of stones, bricks, concrete, debris, iron, sand, etc. belonging to different eras make up the seen and the unseen: foundations, houses, hills, skylines, tragedies and love affairs. I am not naming or referring to a particular place, but rather describing a chimeric one. It’s a collage or a superposition of words, events and stories that unite and/or divide the residential and social units of the known world. I’m thinking of a place where the towers were left in an odd state of incompleteness, irregularly divided vertically or horizontally or both, an ideal imaginary city where these leftover construction materials are of the utmost importance to lovers who are both here as well as in other places on earth and who are seemingly lost and yet find themselves.

It’s a city where bombed buildings are slowly and partially rebuilt with bricks and stones found here and there. It is impossible to sort through the piles of bricks as the process would be even slower and more unnerving. Sometimes it is necessary to resort to new materials. When the buildings are completed, the new bricks, with their different color and texture are immediately noticeable. On some of the stones or bricks initials are engraved and names or dates are etched. Before spray paint, people would carve on public (vertical) surfaces using sharp objects to leave a fleeting trace of life.

The first signs of organized civilization are engraved on large stone slabs. Following the introduction of more sophisticated methods of sharing knowledge, the stonecutter’s work has become superfluous and his backbreaking technique is now unable to record an increasingly growing number of documents. Graffiti written on stone or a wall has therefore gone backwards to become a primeval form of art, the representation of an instinct, the need to leave a more or less lasting trace. Someone marked a date, an important event, which today for us no longer has any meaning.

In the city described above some of the graffiti is found in a remarkably high place after the reconstruction, as if the building had grown from the ground up like a tree. Anachronisms, joy, past loves and sorrows, these stories have remained inscribed in stone and are indecipherable. Buildings have been reconstructed, but the tales of their tenants haven’t been. Experiences now forgotten were sketched and then abandoned in stone. Such stories have played an important part in the history of society no matter their modest and unintended role. Such events are similar to other events, some of which can be read in novels, and which are more or less scientifically reconstructed chronicles that have been recorded, perhaps by mistake, in annals or diaries. These are the stories of oversights and omissions.

Fires, earthquakes, epidemics, wars, bombings, etc. have cold-heartedly erased everything in their path without a concern for ethics. If databases had existed a thousand years ago, I wonder if we would have gone mad in the vainglorious attempt to archive and catalogue all that information. In the end, who gets to decide whether the information should be stored or deleted once neither the author nor the interested parties or their heirs are around to do it?

Today, we have massive amounts of information at our fingertips and we don’t know what to do with all of it; we don’t even know whether to believe any of it as we await confirmation. Piecing together stories from stone tablets and paper documents that have been handed down to us is an extremely risky task. What if all we learned at school was nothing but a mountain of fake news? The Egyptians behaved in this or that way, the Greeks like this and the Romans like that. It’s a very Eurocentric history. What is the difference between a novel, a series, the movie Troy (2004) and a history book? Scientific papers based on previous scientific papers. It sometimes becomes impossible to verify all the sources because the archive was incinerated in a fire or flooded by a tsunami or swallowed up by the earth.

Now there is an alternative scenario: the database has fallen victim to a cyber attack, the titles and dates of documents have been scrambled into a mess of names, numbers, values and vectors that is hard to disentangle. Rebuilding and reorganizing it would be a lengthy and demanding job. It was the same in the city where citizens collected and rearranged bricks. Information is to bricks as truth is to the lithosphere (1).

The “here and now” is enough to fill an entire life.

(1) lithosphere rigid, rocky outer layer of the Earth, consisting of the crust and the solid outermost layer of the upper mantle. It extends to a depth of about 60 miles (100 km). It is broken into about a dozen separate, rigid blocks, or plates. Slow convection currents deep within the mantle, generated by radioactive heating of the interior, are believed to cause the lateral movements of the plates (and the continents that rest on top of them) at a rate of several inches per year. (Britannica.com, last accessed on 30/03/2020)

Agata Milizia
Uncontrolled Indulgence 2015–2020

Smells like shopping

Amsterdam, March 27, 2020

I'm on the platform of a subway station and I feel lost. Something makes me lose my balance and I fall on the tracks. The fall doesn't stop immediately but continues beyond and through the cold tracks covered in soot. It continues in the dark for an indefinite period of time. It could be a moment, or it could be a year. 

All the big shopping streets have the same smell. I don't want to say stench because I don't want to pass judgment. I’m simply trying to analyze the ingredients of this smell that is unique yet very common to the places and shops I’ve visited. If I try to make a list of the typical elements of these places maybe I can figure it out. The first that springs to mind is the smell of plastic emanating from the mountains of Made in China polyester and polyamide clothing and accessories. In a random order there is the smell of dust that’s accumulated in the darkest corners and on the highest shelves; the smell of air conditioners, which sometimes become clogged; the odor of damp cardboard boxes piled up in the backyard; the acrid smell of the feet of all those people who are trying on new shoes; the smell of well-worn shoes; the smell of skincare products; the smell of plywood and of low-cost building materials; the smell of sugar, preservatives and sweeteners; the smell of French fries, fried food in general, sweat, physical and mental stress caused by traffic jams; the smell of pollution, cigarette smoke, soft drinks, of farts; the smell of wet asphalt, sanitizers, various disinfectants and other chemicals. Less distinct but nonetheless important there is the stuffy, humid, moldy smell of house pets, laundry soap, aftershave, hair conditioner, cooking oil, garbage and public toilets. There’s the smell of the airport, a ship, a waiting area and traces of the intercontinental breakfast buffet still clinging to a tourist’s clothing.

In Amsterdam there's also the smell of weed. From coffee shops it spreads to restaurants, stores, museums, public transport, squares and sidewalks, which are crawling with tourists. Walking along a certain street that is known for globalization and consumerism, I realize that almost everyone wears the same shoes. In Amsterdam I have the impression that everything is made of brick, even the sidewalks. There are the Timberland, Nike and Adidas shoes on the bricks. The footwear may be the same in every capital across the world but bricks like these are uniquely Dutch.

The houses downtown are all a little crooked and a little below sea level. My favorites are the black ones, the buildings with white enameled wooden window frames and golden detailing.

A boat passes under a bridge and it is crammed with tourists. I, too, am a tourist. Here there is so much space and yet people cram into the same streets, where everyone wears the same shoes to shop in stores that are found in every city center and shopping mall the world over – or at least in the places where the tourists come from. Still, international retail chains exhibit different products in different countries based on varying demand. It's certainly worth going to see if we have just missed another item made in Pakistan, India, Vietnam, Indonesia, etc. by women, men and children who collapse in the factories and get sick prematurely due to the unhealthy air and inhumane working conditions.

Maybe if I smoked some weed, I would stop making such connections, such considerations. The fear and the certainty of being powerless in front of superior entities such as macroeconomics, geopolitics and multinational corporations make me sick. I want to slow down. I tell myself: No need to rush... Oh, wait a minute! I quickly walk into Zara. I had almost forgotten that today is Black Friday.

Actually, I imagined all this, when I need something, I just look for it directly on Amazon. Online shopping doesn't have any smell.

Agata Milizia
Uncontrolled Indulgence 2015–2020

Malerba

Düsseldorf, March 9, 2019

Il mostro mi attende dietro la porta, negli angoli bui della casa. Non ha sempre la stessa faccia e a volte ne ha più di una. Per questo di tanto in tanto dormo con la luce accesa. Cerco di tenere gli occhi aperti per non vederlo. Non è l'incubo che mi preme sul petto ma la mia immaginazione che non mi fa dormire. Con la prima luce del mattino e le auto, lui svanisce. La sera tutto ricomincia, l'acqua gocciola nella vasca da bagno, rimbomba nella mia testa e sto all'erta.

Agata Milizia
Uncontrolled Indulgence 2015–2020

Old Ideas

Düsseldorf, March 5, 2019

They tell me: Stop smoking!

I think: I don’t wanna live forever, ‘cause I know I’ll be living in vain and I don’t wanna fit wherever... (I Don’t Wanna Live Forever: Fifty Shades Darker feat. Taylor Swift by ZAYN)

Black and white checkered floor, golden inlays, marble walls with opulent, sensual veins, wild coral, fringed biker jackets, an ashtray encrusted with Swarovski crystals.

You don’t want to live forever in these bodies that don’t belong to you, transformed by plastic surgery, kept alive by cold machinery, by electric respiratory systems activated by hasty nurses impervious to existential philosophical issues of vital importance. Corn-yellow hair, ravenous white teenage teeth and cheeks wrinkled like crocodile skin. A masquerade for everyday life. The beating of your heart monitored by an Apple Watch. They know when you are about to fall in love, when you are scared shitless, when you feel lonely as a dog and when you think about ninety-nine point ninety-nine ways to end it all in the lack of a tangible, buyable, consumable meaning. The wrinkles, the white hair, the television that no longer says anything interesting. But you will not be able to forget how you were. An infinity of images that sooner or later will fill you with horror, that you will no longer be able to erase. The sublime, seeing your reflection age in the mirror: the first white hair, the first wrinkle, the cheekbones start to sag, maybe a touch of Botox wouldn’t hurt after all. Ourselves or the others? Anchoring to the past, destroying the seabed of the present and making it impossible to react, to thematize, to classify, to salvage, to save yourself, to be satisfied. On Instagram (sponsored) the young American woman with gray hair says: ‘Hey, there are people who pay a ton of $$$ to get a look like this one!’ There are people who pay a ton of money for a bunch of things, and if all goes well they end up living in a (rented) car and subscribing to the newsletter of amazing cruise deals of Costa Crociere S.p.A., promising voluptuous interiors and Filipino waiters in tuxedos.

Average attention span... But on what do you base these statistics? My lack of concentration kills me and I do not want to hear someone-or-other tell me that in the year two-thousand-whatever we are no longer able to read complex texts the way we could a hundred years ago; a hundred years ago women didn’t even have the right to read complex texts. All kinds of senseless ideas come to mind, like: one day I would like to buy myself a big Macassar ebony bookcase and stuff it with failures of people I don’t know who get off on rubbing up against other strangers in those shiny crowds on Saturday and Sunday afternoons or during holidays in the big modern residential areas. Always the same story, the same stories endlessly repeated. A toxic mass, incomprehensible experiences.

You are not even the masters of your time, neither in the first reel, nor in the second. Endless corridors, drainage canals, labyrinthine crowd-marshaling passages, empty halls, dead-end stairwells. To get shut in or shut out. The deliciousness of failure (when others fail). Coming in second, third, fourth, last, and then feeling a grudge that knows no solace, that banishes sleep. Don’t make me stop smoking, don’t stop me from going outside with a glass or a glass bottle, don’t get me involved in your collective start-of-century crisis. The errors of the past weigh like millstones on future generations and then at a certain point they vanish, they dissolve in the void to make room for quotations in bad taste. And the errors are repeated. I want to write a history of errors.

I walk without shoes, they stole my Nikes at the dormitory.

Don’t trust men who use AXE deodorant and women whose hair smells like Pantene conditioner. Ice Chill makes me think precisely about those interminable party nights and the smell of bars that all reek of old lime, sugar and rum. * Sometimes I have trouble taking the person in front of me seriously. Open the window, let in some fresh air, it’s starting to smell like years, years of labor in here. Spaces get smaller and smaller. I’m afraid I will be shut inside. Don’t trouble yourself, let things go the way they must.

Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on as it has always gone on–that is, badly. (Animal Farm, 1945)

Let time pass, flow, take its course; who knows if sooner or later everything will start over, from the beginning; from the beginning of the beginning of the beginning; from the moment in which the end has been conceived. How frightening. There are no longer rules, just opinions. And I reply: ‘Give me your opinion!’

P.S. The tiger or doctor costumes, the one you get at Primark, are out of style: starting today, we will disguise ourselves with the skin of another, a different one each day, to know how it feels and to finally be in “someone else’s skin”. And to see if it’s still fun, anyway.

P.P.S. Everyone wants to go study in Cali-California, but I don’t know how to count dollars, dollars are all the same. They like beautiful things and I like ugly ones, things that are bad for you (figuratively speaking). I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time, as in a vortex of adolescent paranoia. Nobody understands me. Bad timing. Enlighten me with knowledge. The logo is nice, I like the logo, the logo represents me, the fake is not for me–yes, but they’re still wearable shoes!

Agata Milizia
Uncontrolled Indulgence 2015–2020
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