Don’t talk this up

There’s no glamour in this life
Your mothers face yells this loud
There’s no glamour in this life
Everyone should know
It’s sinking to the depths
On your own
There’s no glamour in this life
Only denial will keep you safe
But when that protection breaks
Down you will go
There’s no glamour in this life
And everyone should know
Head ache, heart ache
Body convulsions
There is no glamour in this life

-Allyson Wenhuda


“Unacknowledged sovereigns” first documentary: a view to their untouchable worlds

I need to start this giving a unconditional kiss to all the queens (and kings, actually) who recorded their videos for the documentary project: I deeply and patently attend for your power in all the places in which I worked to realize this (both public or not, both alone and with my twin sister). Thank you.

To make it more clear the concept behind the short documentary, I wish I could say something about it in here. First of all, the main idea was to record something real, something free, something auto-determinative, something out of the dreams (particularly) girls were recluse for so long, the Other Ones dreams/nightmares about them. It was all about subjectivation, free acting, testifies, playing and free talking too. When I first record myself doing something I felt from the inside, I was just playing with my feet, that had been found “ugly” by someone I deeply know. Then I just found myself talking in my own language – that I love, again, I deeply love – and reading some of my writings, something in English too. Then I just didn’t think of what to do and I ended up just making love to words, touching myself while I stay in silence and speak again -speaking in Italian, for I felt free to only make love to my language, or I would lost myself in translation. I was not sorry for you to not understand what I said: this is not important at all, this is not for you a thing to capture or understand. I just needed to physically impose myself to the world so that it would not create something out of me; something I never want to embrace, and that I never was first: something that is not even true and that still could make me feel bad about my own self.

In the clips they sent me that I just put together, most girls and boys just do what they feel they want to do – smoke, dance, stare at the camera, cry, lament, sit down, look at the mirror, removing their make-up or their clothes. I think the most important things was that the videos were recorded by themselves in first person, in the “freedom” of their “solitude”. It would be more hard to be themselves if I’d be the one to record them, and I also thought they would be the first (and best) recorder of them all: the truest. I, myself, do not even know why they do such things in their videos, or in what things they could feel free protagonist of their owns. Most of them told me via email when sending me the clips, but I don’t tell about their reasons in the video and I don’t ask them to speak that to me so that I will understand it all, properly; that is no reason not for anyone to understand why or what they are doing. No reason to not even ask yourself: they are just living their own worlds and that is all the beauty I clearly see in the project.

While watching the video, I just see at them all, I see myself too, and see and see again, and feel the beauty in those amazing reigns impressed with a camera or a smartphone for the world to see. I really appreciate the gratuitousness of this: I don’t know something else, something like the reason why they smile, cry, or smoke because there is no reason for me to understand: the whole video is nothing that can be ever understood. It is just about free expression. They don’t even want to explain something, they want to be. This is just so vivid seeing the video.

What is vivid is also that the “myth” (created and seen from strangers eyes) of the girl, just like that of the boy, need to die if they are not embracing that first. You cannot define a thing out of a thing, you can not define a person out of that person: it is violence to put an image out of them that don’t belongs to them and never will; it will give or steal them things that they don’t want to. They are just their reality and their fantasy, and they (me, too) wish that was just so clearly untouchable as it is in this video.

That is the maximum I can explain about that, because I patently reach the idea that give a meaning to the documentary is really out of reality.

To watch the video, give a look to it at the link below;

YouTube: here

Also follow the Facebook page to join, submit or follow the next documentary projects: here


@cantnameacat Disincantata

I need to write this as I need revenge: that is on how school made me a stranger to myself

I was thinking about how the pain I felt in high school would never completely leave me, and that maybe I lost a part of myself too in that huge mess. Then I immediately needed to write me, just a second after I finished embracing this reality with my sister. Talking about her, we were set apart in high school: we chose a different course and school. Now I am thinking that maybe it was for the best, because I could not be able to see the magical being that she always is inside my always-blinded-by-tears eyes in high school. Otherwise, I were not even able to look right through me.

I used to be a mysterious being since ever. Shyness and extreme secrecy I know to be part of myself since I can remember a whole me, but I used to feel ashamed of those parts of me that was the most patent ones from school.  Related to this vision of myself, I always used to also disrespect people who looked at me and immediately thought I was weird or interesting just because I didn’t speak too much or to everybody like others did in class, or because I’d wear different from the others, or I happened to like different things or to look sad, comprehensive or whatever they liked me to be to their stranger eyes. By the way, I did not like myself too, and I could not accept that other people, who did not know me deep, liked me or acted like they did, expecially because I felt it to be not so fair, and not so true: maybe I would have accepted true love or true friendship, but this gross, banal, faked feelings they had for me, I would not ever accept those ones. And in this, I admit I am particularly talking about my Maths teacher in the last year of high school. I hated him so much more than anyone in there, because he liked me.

I always and still feel a feeling for maths. It never is easy to me, but I loved to study maths since the second year of high school, or since when a young female teacher shown a really gentle, respective mood to me. I never thought about how much I was good in maths before, apparently because no one believed in me until her. From that time on I just changed myself in this, and just always felt a bit weird sensation looking at my really brilliant solved exercises for what that I used to think about me and my capacity on maths. I never do bad since that year.

For this reason, when my last year maths teacher seemed to like me, I immediately got it was for my predisposition for the subject he “loved” – ps he said he did not love maths at all, and that he just chose it after he got no chance to study languages. I did not respect that so much, but it was never a matter of this only; he acted like a friend with the class and when I did not show to like talking to him, he always insisted putting me in awkward situations, blushing or not knowing how to answer to his provocative questions. I hated it, and I hated that he always looked at me and always said I was the only one in the classroom who really understood his lessons – obviously, I weren’t. He said I was the most clever in the class, he said I could chose to study anything at university because of my intelligence, he always pressed me into talking with him and he even made me cry once, trying to put my jacket off my shoulders because he said it was too hot the weather – and I was wearing the jacket only to hide under it, to hide my arms that I used to think I hated and to feel protected from social anxiety. He said I need to fight and win my shyness, my insecurities that was actually ALL my inner self in those years: so I got he said just to avoid and to threw away my whole me.

Once he made me into a conversation I had fantasies about the continuing of it; re-living that moment, he said me “and what do you dislike of the place that is school?” and I said “It is too big”, but what I meant to say, if I would explained myself better, was: At that point he would had to say that our school was not so big to him, in terms of spaces. I would had said that I did not mean that terms. I’d assured to my necessity of letting him know that I truly am special, the fact that me and the rest of the school were just ants and huge feet that perfectly fits their shoes. I, as a ant, am not weak nor insignificant, either clever and resistant. The world, thought, and all its places are built to fit those careless, socially capable-of-everything feet only. I don’t manage to arrive anywhere, I can’t learn to do as they do, and in their world all is too big to me. I would had loved to say also that someone should not expect anything from a person because it’d force them to play a role they did not choose first. He always did such a thing to me. 

Multiple times I have had fantasies about him truly acting like he truly liked me, or saw right through me, or really respected my intelligence. I faked he also sincerely wanted to help me grow up well so many times that I need to force myself now into see the reality in him: he never was a mere thing of what I had fantasies on the whole time. And when I think about it, I felt bad for the high school me, because a total stranger made me feeling bad about myself. That is the most reason why I write my revenge, and my revenge could possibly consist in his self-pity, incessant tears over self-hate or humiliation too. Also if he is a stranger and he really means nothing to me at this time in my life, I need revenge and can’t be okay with this just because he really acted the worst to me in a time in which I really did not need so. Thinking about it again, now I know school is not too big for me to fit it, it never was; I would never fit school just because I was not the thing in which it was trying to fit me in. In fact, I had never accepted its stupid roles and superficial feelings and learnings.

@cantnameacat Disincantata

The Art of Myself

My father told me a few days ago that if I go on eating flowers as much as I do, I’ll eventually turn into one. When I walk through the streets and my mind feels misplaced, I imagine myself as fragile as a flower – quivering in the breeze, my roots aloft sliding on the tarmac, realizing most of the things around me could crush me. In my fragility I find a certain peace, I find a connection to the uttermost sensitivity of my surroundings, and there I feel as if all around me was aligned with myself as a part of my surroundings – in my delicate solitude.

I was a beautiful child, a happy child. When I was still so small I was unable to reach the doorknobs, I’d run from a neighbor to another, from table to table, where I remember I was always given sweets and smiles. I spent the most of my early childhood watching children’s movies, getting to know the fairy tales, and living them when I stepped outside of the door and headed to the forest nearby. In the forest me and my best friend would spend days, glazing all of our doings with our beautifully naive imaginations. Once I found a dead mouse in a familiar path taking deeper to the forest, and I became saddened for its having to leave its life. I decided I wished to help it, and remembering having told there was a special heaven for things, I went home to get a piece of orange colored rope which I came back to set around the mouse, wishing he could use it for climbing to heaven. I wasn’t told much about heaven at home, but I remember how they talked about it in songs in kinder garden. After we sang, we prayed. I didn’t know anyone else in the heaven yet, but the dog – Zero – my mother and father had to put to its end when I was born, so I talked to him. I wept, as I whispered how sorry I was, that I did not wish him to ever die because of me, and that I would do anything to undo what had happened, and I remember making a promise to him : I’d do my best to replace him. In the preschool, when it was my 7th birthday, I invited everyone with the invitations I myself had made. I always invited everyone to my big parties that were always themed as masquerade, to which I wanted everyone to dress as colorfully as possible, for after all my birthday was May the first – a colorful festival in my country. All the boys decided to throw my invitations to the trash not wanting to come, telling the reason being because I was a girl. I do not remember being very sad, but instead thinking they were only stupid, for saying no because of that, for I myself never had made much distinction between boys and girls. In preschool I also had my first kiss, it happened in the small locker where all the games were kept, there I gave a kiss to a girl I liked. In my first to third grade of school we had a small forest just outside the school in which we were allowed to play in. I remember loving the forest, and I remember it from the details of the branches and the plants. There was a large, old tree there, which around we used to play with. The first time when I felt my connection to the nature being much more intense than other’s, was when my friends decided to start carving its bark away, which I knew to be the tree’s skin. Shocked, I yelled at them to stop killing the tree, and as they ignored me, I felt desperate, sad and mad, not understanding why would they want to kill our beloved tree. Older, as I moved to another school a little further away, as I walked there through the forest I whispered to the wind to blow the trees more and more, to caress them, believing I held magic powers and that the nature could listen to me.

These are some of my childhood memories. I am older now, but still I am a young woman, who keeps finding herself from this child who was more sensitive than she ever let anyone know, that she even herself realized. There are some things that have followed me through all these years to my present moment in spite of growing and reaching adulthood, and those things are : I am still incredibly sensitive, I still feel a connection to nature, and I am still unable to place myself in the boxes presented to me.

My teenage years were not pretty, they were the opposite. I gave away my childhoods innocence way too early, having being disappointed so many times I started believing I myself was the thing to carry the misfortune within. This idea started spreading through me like a disease feeding on me, and soon I felt insignificant, unable and worthless. For thinking so, I soon found myself from the company which was the only one I believed to be the one I belong – people who believed to own all of these three characteristics too and lived to them each day writing their own story under these labels. I misbehaved, I treated myself unworthy of any good, and I gave myself away to things that would hurt me, believing those were the only things I would deserve. But still, I didn’t fit to the box I tried to hide to, and for a while I believed it was because I wasn’t destroyed enough, so I kept doing the things that would hurt me the most, all of the ones every loving parent would stop their child from doing, if they were aware, but unfortunately I was relatively good at being very convincing and as most who I talked to, my parents too thought of me as smart for my age. I was raised lovingly and free, I was able to go and try, I was not fed things as truths, and I was stimulated to explore, but under the love I felt there was something which I didn’t understand, and that was that it did not unravel to me why love as I knew it, would include cry and shouting in the nights that would keep me awake trying to listen what it was all about, till sometimes I cried hearing the acts of violence, and sometimes I walked to witness it with the tears in my eyes begging for it to stop. In my own relationships I grew according to the same way of being – I was two. There was the side of me that would bear being treated badly, acting till I myself believed I wasn’t mistreated, and the side of me that would hate herself in her agony, hate her weakness when it came about, punish herself, and later determine herself as failed and after the dust settled I raised the question of what does my existence mean. I spent many years letting people meet only my other face, as I myself stayed back, too afraid, I got hardened.

Now, today I am able to see a little more clearly  why my teenage years were as rough as they were, and I am able to see how finding my own personality has given me mostly agony, for I’ve always felt as if I was never understood. For some years, I’ve worked on dissolving my personality and forgetting gathering characteristics, following my intuition, letting my temperament rise from within me and making a new connection to the child I was, doing only the things I truly love and pushing aside the ”me” who used to work as my face, the zombie or the demon who ate on my energy. The child I still find within me had never left me, staying as pure and simple as it has always been. This child within is the one who dips her hands to the flood of creativity, who wishes to enjoy life through its playfulness, to live each day with wonder in her eyes and to love the world for giving these eyes and the opportunity of living in micro and macro perspectives – both places where I’ve learned to flee from my agonies of being a human being. My adulthood has grown to protect my child as the most precious of all, using all the good methods it was taught by her own parents and experiences: to explore, to love and know the many ways it may return, to have curiosity, to express yourself, to practice the things you love… But still, although having found a deepening connection within myself to myself, having integrity combining all of my multiple sides, having re-discovered a magical connection with all around me, having found some of the things that bring me the ultimate bliss… I am incapable of making myself understood and any of the boxes I am offered do not fit me – I have grown out of shape, my roots are lingering all around me. Therefore I have stopped wishing to be understood and moved to wishing to understand, my priority to be understood by myself so that I can keep on doing what I find a necessity – continuing self-inquiry and self expressing, and through understanding myself I may find a connection to all around me – the nature, my existence and the people and all between. Still, having found my ways and strength in my sensitivity and diving head first to creativity and seeing it manifest itself in so many different ways, I see I am just beginning my journey, I still have agony. I see how I have decided to build my own structures to shelter me instead of making myself an inorganic, clumsy pile of boxes, but as I still do not understand my creativity and definitely not how it wishes to be the most beneficial for me in the world of adults (it being more confident in enjoying its unpredictable child-likeness) I spend my days diving to it again and again, dreaming, wondering, practicing, smiling, crying and living. Refusing to waste many of my hours to things I would find complaining in as many still seem to accept as a determination of adulthood, chasing for my passion and finding glimpses of it everyday. Living in my dreams, making my life my story, and my story my greatest Art. My only box being my organic and ever changing Art of living.


Eveleen Poulain

Making love to tears is (not) enough to me


I just saw her pierced nose and a flood of conceptual tears all over it and the rest of her face, and I expecially see her hands in the making of this unforgettable piece that is always crying and suffering for killing the shed tears. It makes me feel a bit distant from her deep world, and think about how much I love tears and the overflow of them in other people’s eyes. I feel emotions and life and sensitivity when I saw tears and the face in which they overflow through. It is just normal to me: when I saw tears, I feel love, I feel loved too. My mother’s tears for a verbal fight against anybody else or me, my twin sister’s tears coming from her nostalgic heart, my friends tears about how life is bad… I don’t know how to react to any, verbally or physically, but they shake a entire world in me -but I did love tears on a beloved visage. I only love people that are not too false to themselves to accept tears, and I feel like I could not ever respect anyone out of that. Otherwise the true is not totally in that respect they make me feel; I love tears mostly because I patently see love in them. It is not even just a matter of the Others, it is a matter of me too, because I love my face when I am crying. I do not cry so often, not because I do not accept that, obviously, but for I do not manage to be in a deep feel so often. I always got that of me: I do not hate deeply, I do not love deeply too, or I do not do both of the things easily. I just hate someone I have rivalry with, and I just love my twin sister. When she cries, I often cry too: but that is not all. When the poor two or one I hate are happy about something I don’t want them to win, I half cry too. But that is not all. I don’t see beauty in all things and cry, I don’t cry over beautiful words or sad matters. I don’t cry when life is gentle to me or when it is hard: just as it is not ever too hard to me, or enough gentle to me, too. I may sound unsatisfyied.

However, making love to tears is a thing I find very easy or spontaneous to do, instead of crying. Just as tears had been my beloved lovers overflowing from a deep mountain full of opportunities to feel, I accept them and imagine to take their hand and bring them home with me, to make love to. I am always naked when I cry, always clear and always feel true and guilty too. Just like I do when I lose myself in feelings, I am not alone when I am with tears. If you could see me when I cry or when I am with someone who is crying, you could not get a thing of that: you would see me doing absolutely nothing that can be seen, except for crying or being with someone who is crying. It is all inside of me and, in words, I don’t know if making love to tears – from others or mines – is still enough to me.

Through this piece of art from her, though, I can imagine I cry with Helena at any time.


Art by instagram @plantimal

Do not assume this one incident will stop me

The journey of self love is one that most seek yet many fail to find.

I posted a video on Instagram. I was in my knickers, topless yet covered with a mirror. A video of me moving a mirror up and down reflecting in another mirror creating never ending images of my face inside the mirror held to my chest. This is what caused my mum, yes my own mother, to contact social services. My body, which like many others I have struggled with, shamed upon. It was art, and I was the subject of the art. Because only now after over four years of battling myself mentally and physically I had managed to see myself as the rose that I am. ‘Our natural form is something that will always be frowned upon’ is all that ran through my mind that night.

I felt so trapped and isolated for so many years whilst I wasted away in the darkness of my room, riddled with anxiety of judgement for opening up to others about the days on end that I would not feed my fragile body. I had to find a way to empower myself. Over the years Instagram made me build confidence and feel beautiful, yet I did not realise I had a limit. That limit being expressing my love for myself. Do not assume that this one incident will stop me.


She “muse”

This is mostly to my twin sister who always put me in the hard-ness of making her my own muse, making myself first a sort of Vladimir Nabokov to “her” Vera, or someone with a less talented narrative and less of a French-mots addicted.  I live with her presence all days and all nights and it can be of no help when it comes to highlight the mystery of a person, of a relationship even (I am saying this only because I love mysteries, maybe). I live with her since I can remember a thing and I still do believe she is a mystery to me. The biggest of them all. She still seems magic to me. She is magic, actually, and on a daily basis.

She actually sings to her French songs while she does her skin care routines, and she actually cries in enchanted sobs at night in her solitude. She treats her hair like treasure and she can actually relate to French movies characters. She actually take my hand and guide me in her dreams, so that I could nearly know from her inside. I even know she keeps secrets too and she still is a mistery to me, in her untouched, intimate reality.

First of all I need to say I never thought of her like “a other one, out of me”. I obviously know we to be two different person, but I never see her with my blinded-eyes-full-of-love, because I can see her through our eyes. I never reach a thing of me without arriving or passing by her things, or our out-loud thoughts -just like when we pray for our brother to come home lately, laying in our bedroom, both browned eyes and tied up minds. We do not just create our lifes together, just like a couple of wifes could do. We raised up two worlds from nothingness, we built up two sovereigns from teen voids, sadness and nothing more.

Maybe it is again just because I could nearly see the world inside her too that I can say she could ever be the only one who could say a thing about the powerful, beautiful and unique galaxy inside her. I could never say a word enough for her – to her power, that beauty and uniqueness. Maybe it is again just because I could be so near to her that I know how deeply alone she is, and how I am too.

Clearly, I would never misinterpret her desires or made her my piece of art (or something like that) and taking her away from the possibility to be her own only. I do love words, books, paintings and sculptures but I hate how much they can manipulate reality. I hate that it can only be known about the models from reinassence (or before, or after) by the male painter. I hate that Lolita can lives only through Humbert’s words. I clearly know that poets or artists sometimes are meant to make people last in time, and that everyone is not a poet. Therefore I know that there is only a person who could paint who/what the pale, nostalgic model from Melancholy by Francesco Hayez is and feel, and that is not Hayez at all.

This is not just to please you to be your first poet, first narrator and first painter of it all. This is for them to understand that it is not right to feel free to be the someone or something else’s artist or explain-er; they only own a world, that is their own. In the absolute solitude of the matter: a panorama belongs to its raw truth only, a dog belongs to that dog only, just as a flower belongs to that flower only. That is why I feel alone: because I know anyone or anything is in their whole, complete and un-needy loneliness too. I may see a flower and love it, and think I would be pretty next to it, or even free and happy too. The next day that flower may die and I would not even get the weakness of it, when I thought it would always look beautiful for a long time, not seeing its truth. I still have no access to it. I am alone just like this flower. Can you understand it? Can you cry over it?


To my dreamy-daytime sister who always put me in the hardness and beauty of it all,