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 It's only an essential and neglected shed, at
the mercy of the wind and of the drunk, that, at night, falls in love with the moon; it's
a shed without grace neither poetry, that, from the rifts of it's powerful body sends out
sounds, noise and pauses, like the breathing ,that strongly bangs against it's chest, up
till it sets free, in a long, endless, silent and invisible voice. I curiously go near a
door that is half-closed, spying without evil and capturing with my mind the doutbful
charm of the chapped walls and pieces of carnival without identity, like dead bodies with
colors and forms that lie in an eager corner, to relive only for an instant, and then
falling down in limbo of the memory. Truly, that those fragments of mixed colors and the
ruins of a body, still to be modeled, are moments of a carnival, that, for the crowd,
still has to arrive, but for many others is ending, or maybe it will never end, I know
only now. Now,
that a man with sticky hands, wears, garments buried under the artificial skin, harden
color fabric, leaves me to enter, in his world of cartons, colored cloths and pieces of
iron to be weld, like a show only for me, abandoned to the shadows and to the silence, of
an audience that doesn't exist. Witchcraft,
sorcery, miracle, a show ,of a show, that still has to be represented, prelude of magic,
colors and sounds that seduce the people, and squares drunk by euphoria and happiness in a
carefree way, to make merry, in this feast, that every year involves tourist groups and
those who are fond of beauty, arrive from who knows where.
 With calm and reassuring voices, in his dialect,
a little different than mine, this small man starts to tell a real tale of a carnival that
started many decades ago, at the end, never concluded. Almost, the natural process of
flowers, that sprout in the Spring, grow pleasant and scented, of soft colors, to
gallantly welcome Summer, that appears with it's tanned skin, and he whispers in an ear,
to live until the end of it's time, while the calling of death gets closer, those damp
Winter days. But the flower does not die, it hides in the bowels of the earth, where the
frost can not reach, and it sleeps. Within some time, the next Spring, it will blossom
stronger and with marvelous colors always brighter. It will be like this, up until the end
of the world. My
Virgilio gives me a sign, to sit in a corner, accommodated in this construction of magic,
fantasy and secrets, that he, will never reveal to me. "Carnival here, it been
lasting seventy years, at Acireale - he tells me, with a bit of pride and subtle vaunt -
The father of my father was one of the most best cart makers, he would pass whole nights
to model patiently and devotedly shape, as if it was crystal, nearly the crystal could be
modeled and shaped, his masks of papier-mache. He left me, in heredity, the passion for
those pieces of colored and sticky papers, it's a tale of "Master Luciano" that
every year, built his cart in the hall of an seventeenth-century building of the
"Brutti" of San Michele, creating around himself a pleasant and magic confusion,
of marvelous masks without time. Now, after half a century, the papier-mache
becomes a luxury suit of a frame in iron, of generators for the lighting and sophisticated
mechanisms that move the "puppets" in a slow invented dance, where our
buildings, elegant and intrinsic of spectacularity allow it. They stand high, on their
feet, overpassing fourteen meters.
It's an old history of
carnival, as old is the desire to concede a moment of natural madness, so long searched,
at least once a year. In a time, so far, to call it centuries ago (referred to XVII
century), the few nobles ,of that place, will march through the town in their refined and
superb carts (Landaus), distributing to the crowd, sugared almonds and the illusion, of
few moments, to all be part of that same feast, without a hierarchy scale and neither
respectful bows in their passage. Truely, to arrive to the carnival of today, to know the
magic of the masks in papier-mache and of their flowered carts we had to wait for 1929,
the year in which, the foundation of an agency, that would look after to the organization
and the carnival manifestation". He talks, with pauses and in a pace, as if he's
reciting, and I invent, among the memories, the color sepia and the ruined film, of a
carnival ,of one time ago, while the hopping of a tired and imaginary reel, reminds me
that it's only the madness of yesterday. A sweetish madness that never satisfies and that
drunkens me tomorrow, I am sure, how it happens for years, in this paradise or hell of
subtle oblivion.
 "Now, you don't see
anything. - he tells me, indicating to the fragments of art and glue - They are only
pieces of something that will have life within a day, when carnival starts ,even for you,
we all go down to the square to have a good time, to throw the confetti in the mouth, to
blare away, to become again a child, in this healthy spectacle or maybe a little crazy,
but that doesn't exceed the limits of the town's tranquillity. A moment still remains! Now
we will light up a fire for the meat and we will drink wine to heat our soul. This is our
dinner from some time. If we want that even this year, that it's carnival at Acireale, of
little, we have to be pleased, but we are happy to be able to give the people and the town
moments of oblivion and carefreeness, leaving in the dim light, the habits and the work
that absorbs us too much. It's time to have fun and to smile a little. Viva the carnival
of Acireale". They
seem to me craftsmen of souls, masters of essential, elusive, perfect and old art, copied
from the Gods or from the demons, intriguing like a mystery that we can never explain. I
returned. Sitting on this wall, where the town seems coming down on me and being able to
embrace it. Where in the horizon, in a spot, indefinite and barely perceptible, the
splendid wonder and refined of this place, is eternity. On this wall, I wait that it's
carnival. I returned, because I promised this friend of one time, because I promised it to
myself.
It's art. Art of hands,
sinked in the cartons soaked of glue, of hands that weave strings and weld iron, that
search in the dark of the minds, the attractive and seductive muse of an idea, to invent
for the cart, to built piece, after piece, after piece, to forge and to animate on a
mediocre stage, of a shed, that hides the secrets, most secret, of a seductive, sly and
cheerful carnival, of long nights without dreams. Now that the dreams seem to come true,
in a big show of music and lights with their own language, without words and long shadows
projected on the balconies, of old rock, dark and white according to the nature. At times,
they seem to be lost in a dimension where imaginary walls do not exist between the fantasy
and reality. Here which reality of monuments, buildings and caryatid, from the strong
scent , sweet and sour, at the same time, of baroque that confuses and almost frightens
with his definite, strong and marked lines, becomes a theater of the fantasy and the
fantasy, in a game of words, of geometry and of strong, livily colors, becomes a screening
of the reality most magic and subtle. Screening, timidly conceited, and yet delicate in
it's elegant style, to make irony and to poke fun at, in a friendly manner, the political
reality. For example, with puppets from their exaggerated faces and ramshackle of
Andreotti or of Bossi. Unreachable and perfect screening in the world of fable, where we
all want to go, but do not admit, leaving it to be a desire and an absurd dream for the
young, to delude us, for being grown up and becoming strong. Dragons, from the gasping
fire of their tongue, of preys to tear, or mermaids and nymphs, elegant and perfect by
their long and attractive eyelashes.
 It's metaphor, of oblivion and madness, this
carnival. It's a show where everyone appears suddenly or main actors with faces made up,
and fake hair of bizarre colors. A show of people with masks and big puppets similar to a
cartoon, magic to live and not to forget, that for once you don't stay there just to look
from the cold screen of a TV. They jerk me, without violence neither arrogance, they bang
me here and there and in an instant I'm a princess or a clown among cloths and shinning
satin of thousands and thousands of costums, meticulousily reproduced and sown by hand,
for a short moment of farce and natural gladness granted from the last days of Winter.
People and more people, so many to stun me and to feel lost in nothingness , in a state of
dullness, at times pleasurable and bizarre. Masks in
papier-mache against masks of lavic rock, perfect works of hands, sculptor or tricks of a
magician; light games that chase eachother without touching, never lost, in the shadow of
the day that dies slowily. Hairstyles, faces made up, colors, barons and princesses
bearing, only for one night; hands stretched out in the air, trying to seize the most
merriment as possible, while I feel a swindler of happiness in this place that doesn't
belong to me. Flowered carts, my teacher has told me, but where are they? Looked for it
with a stare, lost in the empty space, as if, in one moment or another should appear from
nothingness, towed by unicorns or tired arms of children, towards me. I notice one from
far away, it seems to me a procession of ladies or Gods, a procession of carnations, one
on top of another, so that, there is a spot for everyone, so that, everyone can march in
their own clothes, pink, white and yellow, an unusual butterfly dance in this sharp and
unawared wind. Confetti everywhere, between the hairs, on the lips, deep in the mind,
enough to last till the next carnival. Who knows who has invented them, the confetti? A
poet, a wise thinker wrote that, at times, reality exceeds the fantasy. Here I included,
that which, ambiguous and contorted words of the poets, try to explain.
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