Liber Ars

Never underestimate the power of a crisis.
At some point, you have no choice but to jump into the void. That’s when you find out whether you have wings… or simply know how to land on your feet. Either way, you rise stronger. And the paradox? What you left behind was nothing but cowardice dressed up as ego.

Liber Ars, 2026

"Hey, mi ignori sempre. Inizio a pensare che ti do fastidio".
"L' hai capito quando mi hai chiesto altre foto di me diverse da quelle che ho su FB e io ti ho mandato la foto delle bollette?"

Al festival della canzone italiana emerge uno con outfit da imbucato a una festa di una gang criminale, una "canzone" con la profondità testuale che avrebbe un tredicenne in calore e una posa con anello a dir poco imbarazzante, che tutt'al più può aspirare a diventare fanbase del futuro karaoke neomelodico nazional-popolare con tratti dialettali per la colonna sonora dei matrimoni da Roma in giù, mentre il Ministro della Difesa è bloccato a Dubai insieme alla sua famiglia, in attesa della riapertura dello spazio aereo dopo i bombardamenti su Palm Island, dei quali non era stato preventivamente informato nessuno.
Il Paese si commenta da solo.

Avrei voluto una tisana rilassante per dormire, ma ho finito il rum.

Let’s be clear and grounded: there is no protocol to “tame” a partner who becomes violent after discovering that you are going to break up with them. Violence is not a wild instinct to soothe or manage. It is a choice, and it is the (legal, social, cultural, psychological & ethical) responsibility of the person who commits it.
When a partner reacts with aggression in this situation, what often surfaces is not (wounded) love but control, entitlement, and fear of losing power. Your priority is not managing his emotions. Your priority should be safety.
Nevertheless, there is a version of this story that feels almost surgical in its precision. You become polite, distant, steady. The shared rituals quietly dissolve. If you are not able to physically defend yourself, you contact a support centre before taking steps, so the exit is structured and protected.
You do not provoke jealousy, nor do you announce another man. You simply become unavailable in spirit long before you become unavailable in fact.
In some cases, this gradual disengagement can lead to something important: he begins to detach. Not because he has been outmaneuvered, but because the emotional circuit no longer closes. Love that does not feed on reciprocity fades in the absence of response.
But this path only works under specific conditions:
• His violence is reactive and situational, not coercive and controlling.
• There is no history of serious physical harm or credible threats.
• He is capable of losing interest rather than escalating to regain control.
It is like a limb threatened by gangrene.
No careful surgeon reaches first for the saw if circulation can still be restored. They assess. They clean the wound. They stabilize the patient. They work patiently to save what can be saved. It is slower than amputation. It demands vigilance. It requires discipline. But sometimes preservation is possible.
And when the treatment is over, the limb may not be what it once was. It may carry stiffness, scars, a different sensitivity to weather and pressure. Still, it functions. It supports weight. It allows movement.
When young children are involved and the situation is strained but not at the edge of severe danger, managing the transition with timing and care can matter. Gradual detachment. Clear boundaries. Reduced emotional volatility. No dramatic ruptures. Structure instead of explosion.
Handled this way, you may be able to rebuild your life without immediate backlash, while your children retain a father who, despite his flaws and past errors, continues to love them and provide for them.
But the metaphor holds one crucial truth: preservation is only possible when the infection is contained. If the limb endangers the whole body, delay becomes harm. Saving is noble only when it does not risk greater damage.
Discernment is everything. Trust your gut.

©Liber Ars, 2026

When your boss tells you a hellish week is waiting for you at work…and you just smile, because you’re already booked for your real nightmare: Festival di Sanremo 🎤
(Ok trauma, but make it televised✨)

(L'eccitazione è tutta in testa)

Inclina il bicchiere
dell’aria e lo fa decantare,
La curiosità preme
Sul labbro muto
del giorno,
frizza tra le ciglia
del mondo,
Straripa coca cola
Dal fondo,
ogni bolla, un corridoio
Di zucchero scomodo,
persuade il tempo,
Assetato
a riflettere, a desiderare.

©Liber Ars, 2026

Image credits: V.P., 2026

Vorrei saper confondere con la stessa professionalità di Carlo Conti che, nella serata di apertura del festival di Sanremo, ha ricordato morti a caso per prendere tempo, per precisare in un secondo momento di non aver ricordato tutti i morti per tenerne qualcuno di riserva per la serata successiva, e concludere salutando il Presidente della Repubblica (che mi auguro a questo punto avesse almeno una, se non entrambe le mani, nella posa scaramantica di rito all' italiana).

🤓

🗣️"Si nous voulons être libres, ne laissons pas les mots penser à notre place." . 👉Pour terminer l'émission, Hervé Le Tellier nous lit un texte inédit, écrit pour l'occasion, droit dans les yeux. . 📺(Re)voir l'émission sur France tv : https://bit.ly/48LyFsf

Gli altri pensano che sia fredda perché:
- Arrivo 5/10 minuti dopo agli appuntamenti.(Seriamente, chi vuole arrivare per primo e aspettare tutti per un tempo indefinito?);
- Prendono alla lettera quando dico "un giorno di questi prendiamo un caffè". (È soltanto il mio modo carino di interromperli quando la stanno portando troppo per le lunghe);
- Fingo di non sentirli quando mi chiamano con diminutivi amichevoli (è già tanto se mi adeguo a un Paese in cui si tende a chiamare subito uno sconosciuto con il nome di battesimo e non per cognome);
Dico chiaramente che non saranno mai invitati a casa mia per festeggiarne l' acquisto. (L' accesso a casa mia, che è una violazione della mia intimità, è riservato a persone che si contano sulle dita di una mano, che sono quelle che contribuiscono alla mia serenità).

Between the dust and broken stone,
where sirens stitch the dusk with tone,
In the Gaza Strip two sisters stand,
Memory, with names cupped in her hand,
And Oblivion, loosening grief’s tight seam.
One guards the truth of what has been,
one cools the blade of might have been.
Between them, brick by careful brick,
they build a peace no bomb can nick.

Memory carries names like seeds,
pressed in the earth of unmet needs.
She builds with stories, bone by bone,
a house where grief is not alone.
Oblivion moves with gentler art,
lifting the rubble from the heart.
Not to erase, not to deny,
but to unhook the endless cry.
Memory sketches doors that open wide,
for children on the other side.
She lays foundations deep and clear,
with "Never again" carved into fear.
Oblivion hums, "Release the blade.
Let yesterday not ambush trade.
Let vengeance, like a rusted key,
fall useless in the olive tree".

Together, like architects of air,
they measure justice, brick by care.
They raise an arch of listening stone
where rival griefs are both made known.
Peace is not built by amnesia’s sweep,
nor by a memory that cannot sleep.
It stands where truth and mercy meet,
a trembling bridge across the street.

And war, that old devourer of names,
finds fewer rooms to light with flames
when Memory plants, and hands forgive,
and both decide the other may live.

So let the blueprints start tonight,
with candles, classrooms, shared daylight.
For even here, beneath the scar,
a city dreams beyond the war.

©Liber Ars, 2025

Image credits: V.P.