Category: Diary

Volcanoes

If you ask about how it feels, to be a Volcano, I know it.

Alas, did you ever ask yourself about it?
Are they happy when they break the crust and sprinkle all they got?
Or maybe they are angry?
Is it tears that they scream out of their burning head?
Is it passion?
How much did it take for all of it to come out? Was she suffering all of the time? In silence?
Was she ranting? Maybe she tried to channel it out in other ways, where? Did she succeeded in doing so?

It can take ages for a Volcano to finally come out, days, weeks, months, ages. It mounted up slowly, and most of the times Volcanoes do not end up being Volcanoes. They fade before, but when they do, is that an happier ending?

Volcanoes do shape the world, they create conditions for life, they modify the athmosphere, bring out life and feed the ground with novelty, renewed energy and soil for the new.

Volcanoes,
beautiful beasts,
beautiful Volcanoes,
Your energy is holy.

You are a metaphor,
a metaphor of the soul,
something to learn from.
Holy Volcanoes.

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Souls Connection

One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone.
They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds too.

Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility.
There is no silence without a cry of grief,
no forgiveness without bloodshed,
no acceptance without a passage through acute loss.

That is what lies under the ground
at the root of true harmony.

Awareness, overcoming, bonding.

My mind, my heart, all they feel,
Her heart, Her pain, Her joy.

A single water drop holding it all,
in its transparent globe

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Those like me

When I love, when I care, when someone is in my heart I am curious, I get curious, I am both constantly thirsty and peacefully confident.
I am curious about her, about anything hers, just anything.

Her morning breath, her dreams, her thoughts, anything she does, her pains, sorrows, smiles, boring routine. Before anyone else’s activity my heart is curious about hers, naturally before.
It is not restlessness it is rather thirst, thirst for something whose mere existence is, in whatever way, enough to quench this thirst, and trigger more, more passion, love, nearness, joy. Just the thought of it all suffices, but the thirst exists. I am not lost if I don’t satisfy these needs, but I am better, stronger, and feel happier, with pursuing them. They do add, they do add to my life, and spirit.

Together with this there is also the desire to have her feel it. To have her feel that I am curious of anything hers and have her feel she comes first. To have her know it. The fact that she knows it already is not a good reason for not proving it, for not showing it. Not a sufficient reason to not celebrate it, and celebrate her every little thing, valuing each of them and letting her know it. There is no need of big things, sometimes no need to say a thing, still, it is important to let her feel it and from my side to proof it to her, as unnecessary as it is. And I know it is an unnecessary necessity for her too, I’d go further, I’d go as far to say that it is so for everyone. in a relationship. In my world, it is so, in my too extreme mind, it is so and it has to be so. Who is in my heart does not need to say a thing, every one who is truly loved deserve to feel it, to feel that way. Every loving heart deserves it, and no loving one should need to ask for it, it makes me feel I would have failed, if I realise I dont deliver that. The way I am is this, it’s like that, for those like me, I couldn’t do without having this push, this curiosity, it would mean she’s not the one I have in my heart, because having love for someone means having that, doing that.

I’m just like that.
More than that, as crazy as I am, I think it is the same for everyone (in a special personal way), then, I’m just crazier than others, and that makes me say it out loud (needing to, maybe), and writing it down.

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Old Saying

In Italy there is a saying: “Un colpo al cerchio ed uno alla botte”.

It dates back to medieval times, the time in which master craftsmen were used to assemble piece by piece the wooden barrels. To do that they had to use iron rings, inserting them around the structure and then gently hammering first the iron ring (cerchio) and then the wooden barrel (botte) in order to achieve the perfection they needed.

Repeating this procedure over and over, they ended up with something perfectly balancing, strong, and sealed.
So: one stroke to the ring, one stroke to the barrel.

Over the course of time (centuries) this saying started getting used for something more general. Now it has become a proverb. It is now used when someone wants to underline a behaviour of people when they do something, and then, to correct it, or to balance the effect of it, they do something else, on the other edge, either to balance, or not to apparently displease, or to please both parts. It is now common to use this way of saying to underline those cases in which someone does something and then for the fear of having creating an unbalance, or displease, they do something else, to “make happy” even the other arm of the scale.
It is mostly used in an ironic way, yet, it hides a deep meaning. It is a sweet way of saying, very true, and very often pinpointing perfectly a situation.

Fact is that most of the times these little taps to “adjust” are unnecessary, and instead of adjusting they rather underline having created an unbalance that’s just “silly”, and was not to be created, overall.

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The Imagination Game

These last days, before entering the realm of dreams she sat on her own bed, assuming the lotus position and playing her own little “imagination game”. After the shower, after preparing her own body for the night sleep, after having herself smooth, scenting fresh, after all the sounds of the day dims into nothingness, she gets to the center of her own double bed, and in the quiet darkness she does it.
The hands move from her own thighs to her face. There, she caress and cups her beautiful face. In doing that she looks up, at her, the ghost of her, standing still and looking forward. One inhale, and she feels her, she gets in her, she melts with her. Her body moves, slowly, rhythmically till their breaths are synchronised.
Then she bends, slowly, ever so little. Till her head rests, on the tummy of her summoned love.
The tummy moves with her, the breasts caress the top her head.
She then kisses her navel, the face now perfectly aligned to the body of the summoned blond beautiful figure.
Moments, seconds, one minute, enough to send her “Love”, the sacred one she holds for her.
A little whisper, their hands join, the kiss.
She bends her head and kisses the forehead, my forehead.
I turn my head up, she moves to my lips, the softest of the kiss seal this moment.
Her hands slide, their fingers departs, the summoning ends.
She is ready now.
if the sleep Gods will be good they’ll meet in her dreams.

Love
Kitty

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The Dream

A dream about pain, release, and retribution

I never really thought about “how” a dream start, I simply never really stopped to think about it. I know however how it happened for the past night one. This time, in fact, I woke up remembering it all. It all started with flashes, it was like watching an old movie. Thinking about it, right now, the best description I could give it so say that it started with me being a spectator sitting in an old cinema. It had the same kind of magic, as if my subconscious mind were suggesting me that I was going to experience something special, intense, magical. So, yes, it was that kind of magic we feel moments before the movie starts: the heart beating faster, the lights dimming, the squeaking of the old wooden chairs caused by our getting comfortable, the smell of the past and that sensation the unknown in front of soon going to be revealed. Yes, describing how the dream of past weekend started for me was very much like that, and even more so because the true start of the dream came with images forming in my mind in same way. At first all became white, and then flashing images started appearing, projected in the canvas at the end of the room of my brain. One image, then the big white, the film rotated some more, then, another image and another, with the interval between images getting shorter and shorter, till it became a continuum. Till I left my chair, and became part of it. 

When it happened I was in pain, a deep pain, a deaf pain, a pain so silent and deep to have me paralysed, to have me with no escape, and unable to tear, unable to grasp on the black walls on the well where I was, unable to dig the nails on that well to make it bleed, and climb out. It didn’t take me more than the time I needed to close my eyes, to know the reason of that pain. It was a loss. It was the awareness of the solitude that it would have meant in my future life, it was the realisation of a chasm that opened in front of me, in this life, between me, and my mother.
She was gone.
Would she be ok? Was her last breath a silent tear, or rather a ripping of her heart?

Black, black black, and no tears, why was I not able to cry? The world around me continued to turn, to move, to make noise. It was as it should have been, but I couldn’t find peace, and I could not cry. I know why I could not cry. The same thing happened to me already, it happened to me after an accident, when I was 18. It left me tearless, for two years. My mother deserved my tears, my emotions becoming liquid pearls. I don’t know why I dreamed that, but in my dream I could not let it be like that. Not this time. Not two years, no silence, not for my mother, no. 

Down there, with my naked feet and my naked body in the mud of the black well I had to do something. 

Dreams are like that. 

I knew what I needed, I needed pain, I needed pain, and it would have to be holy pain, it would have to holy pain. Pain, pain pain as much as I could endure. Holy pain, pain till my tears would have surrendered and they would have surfaced again, from my stupid eyes unable to cry. 

I knew who I needed. I knew who would have understood that. I knew who would have not considered me totally insane, who would have not stopped me, and who would have understood my need, who would have listened to my begging, who would have understood what it meant, the  holiness of it, and how there was nothing in the world that could have been more sacred and no act of love, to my Mother, and to Her, that this. Than my plea. 

And so, it happened. I summoned Her.
She came to me.
She didn’t smile, no, no smile, She didn’t try to convince me not, to teach me how. She stood in front of me, I raised my face, while the most silent and greatest of pains was clinging on me and suffocating my heart like a black ivy draining my very soul.
Naked, completely naked I reached for the center of what seemed like a dungeon, but I should rather call “Church”. In there I offered myself and I begged to be blessed with pain. I got whipped, from right to left, diagonally, left and right of shoulders, then down, then to the back of my thighs. I felt the pain and the tears filling the room, filling me, Her, the walls, the air. It became rage, whispers, moans, laments, sweat, and burning pain, swelling, and then, it happened. She came closer, put her gloved hand over my head and bent it back to face Her. It was at that point that my eyes filled with tears, the image of the beautiful exhausted Her became blurred, blurred from the tears they were “Lacrimae rerum quae afficiunt mentem et animas mortalia” {the tears-of-all-things, touching the mind and souls of mortals}.

The tears of all things, all together, flooding me, from head to toes, North to South, East to West.
Tears, tears, tears and feeling loved and feeling capable to love, to reach, to suffer, to be near to those I love and feeling found, and the awareness I will never be alone, and do will be them.
I fell, I fell on the floor, and the time for kisses came.

No words,
Kisses,
Kisses and tears.
Kisses and tears.

This is how I woke up. 

As for “Her” – She is “my” SHE.
She is Dominea Bethany Ann. My submission belongs to Her, such as my total truth, and the bonding Love w/We share. She has me, She just “HAS” me.
To Her, i proudly kneel


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About Intelligence

Another uninteresting and very personal reflection about intelligence and A.I.

Intelligence, Mmmh.

I remember the time when people used to say that we will have a “thinking machine” when we will be able to realise something (or the code) that will be able to beat a human in the game of Chess. For many many years this would be the true benchmark for an intelligent-capable-machine. The idea behind that was that game of chess and the incredible complexity that opens up move after move, in a chess match, seemed to be something that only a “true thinking brain” (organic), could eventually master. It seemed to be a realm where computation is not anymore sufficient, and other skills needed to kick in. Skills that could only arise in an intelligent system, organic or not. Skills like creativity, intuit, “thinking out of the box”, etc.

Generations of programmers worked on that (not many actually), and time came when the machines got better and better, starting to beat humans. °Oooh, just a glitch, just luck”, was the first reaction, but then it happened again, and the code got refined, and it started happening, again, and again, and again. Then, four years before the end of the millennium, Deep Blue won over Garry Kasparov. I am not going in detail into narrating the path lead to the epic challenge, and the evolution of it (it is a beautiful incredible story though).
I rather prefer (for now) to just move to what happened “after”.
So: the code was able to to win. The question now was: was it intelligence?
What happened to the above statement?
Well as we can imagine, the outcome of it all was something very “human”.
What happened was that the human genre moved the bar. We started saying “Oh, no, Chess was not the right choice, we will rather have a thinking machine when the code will be able to win with a Go grand master”. We were joking, it’s Go, not Chess.
Well, You all can guess what happened next. Yes, it happened.
We refined the algorithms, we developed a new mathematics, and out of that came “Alpha Go”. And Alpha Go won the greatest of all Go players. And You can imagine what the humans did.
We moved the bar, again, without much worries.

I have much more to write, and I will write something, in part II.
I stop in here for now. Before doing that I want to take your hand and take you back to the original question. To think about that, in a different way, in a deeper way. The above facts forces us into a different class of questions, questions like:
What is a true benchmark for “human intelligence” ?
and
Will we (human race) ever be ready for a different kind of intelligence?
Will we ever accept it?
Is it in the human nature to refuse and battle against the mere existence of such thing?

Next One on this will deal with:
Intelligence and Common Sense

PS: and there is more about that. There is the story about how AlphaGo works, how its daughter AlphaZero works. There is the question about the very nature in which they work, and the reflection about the mechanism in which our mind works, and … more.

With Love, humble appreciation for the beauty of Nature
(and passion for Science)

TheCrazyKitty ❤️

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And I Write …

And I write and I write and I write.
Then I write and I chant my verses, and my views, and the thoughts.
Like buds, from the tree of my soul, becoming leaves, glowing green, then becoming yellow and then falling.

Wind comes, and they fly,
unseen they rustle, unheard.
Is this important, or not?

No, it isn’t, yes, it is,
yet no, it is not,
yet, it is.

The sap of my heart will never stop them living,
blossoming every season passing season,
new snowdrops, and lilies, and shamrock leaves
and deep sorrow willow branches.

No, not important,
yes important,
The tree sees the other trees
and smiles.

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When I love, i LOVE

When I am in love, the kind of love that for me is soul sharing, devotion, selfgiving, the kind of love that for me is the peak of “love” I behave in ways that maybe are not the ways other do. I understand that each one of us has her own way of loving and ways to express it, I got mine.

When I love, for me it means curiosity.
It means curiosity even if I am by no means a person that is curious about what people do or think, in general. Yet, I am always “curious” about my beloved one, where the word means being thirsty about everything hers and everything she wishes to share with me. For this reason I feel natural for me to have her know what I think about this or that, and I think it is natural and the way to be, to have HER be the first to know.
For this reason, to my mind and soul, the natural is for me to have her knowing what my day will be, or was, what are my plans, if I am to endure a trip, or I will be away, or unavailable. And I feel like it would be insulting and lacking respect to her, if I would let someone else know these things first, normal personal things about me, to have her know something mine from someone else, or hearing it from someone else, not directly.

In this sense, for me Love is sharing, and the pleasure in doing it, having the whole of me being a home for her and feeling unbalanced and wrong when the world forces in a different direction. There are different expression of love, of loving.
I do not feel the same for a friendly type of love, no matter how deep that is.
I do not feel the same for a family type of love, or the love for my brothers, or my sister, or my mother. Those can be silent, although this does not mean less “deep”. Yet totally different that is.
This deep personal commitment to sharing is a vital part of my “loving” in a relationship. This not conceiving to have a total mutual relationship for me, without me giving this: this is part of what is for me loving someone, a central part of what it means for me to consider each other’s half. Not giving this, for me, would mean to not be truly honest and not honouring what we have.

This is not so for many, and I see people being ok with that, and it is perfect. I am always at the same time surprised, admired, and shocked, when I see relationships having totally different dynamics respect to the ones that are core, for me.

World is beautiful, and it is beautiful that there are so different ways to compose a symphony, different rules that can create an harmony. It find this thing to be enriching, to see how there are other approaches to anything, kind of beauties at every scale.

Kitty

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Genius

When we think about “genius”. When we are in front of a work of genius, when we experience the art of a “genius”, when we read a poem that makes us inhale, exhale, and say “Wow”.
When we experience that, in the end, what we get, what we are left with, it’s “inspiration”.
It is not the work “per se”, it is not in the contingency of that creation that the genius lies. It is in what it inspires, in the doors it opens.

So, to me, a work of genius is something that inspire, it is about the things that comes because of that, after that, because of that idea, that door, that vision. What is even more amazing and beautiful about all that, is in the universality of it.
The same holds in fact true for all aspects and spheres of the world. It is like this both for science and art, both for the spiritual and the factual. It was like this for relativity, it was like this for ancient philosophers, it is like this about new math theories, it is like this for the works of Renoir, the poems of William Blake, Quantum Physics, and on and on and on.

It is like this for acts of Love. Too

#kittymichele – Oct 2020

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