Ma… È lui o nun è lui?!

(questa ce la segnala un fan, uno d'ii pochi che ancora je funziona ‘a capoccia)

Solo er nome è tutto un programma… PHALLUS IMPUDICUS!
(er fallo senza pudore)

Evitamo de fa 'e solite battutacce da regazzini che questo è uno 'mportante visto che n'aa famija d'ee Phallaceae è er più famoso!

E perché proprio lui? Fondamentarmente pe’ ddu motivi:
1) Avoja ariccontasse fregnacce… sto fungo pare 'n pisello
2) Puzza de morto, ma popo 'na cosa tremenda

A spriggionà 'sta puzza nauseabbonda è 'na specie de mocciolo che contiene 'e spore der fungo.
Pe’ fatte capì… l'insetti che ce vanno sopra (ar fungo) se 'mpregnano de sto mocciolo così, quanno che voleno via, fanno cascà 'e spore dapertutto e eccaallà che er fungo se diffonne!

T'oo stai a chiede ve?
No, sto fungo nun se po’ magnà, a prescinde dai gusti…

Веселка или же Фаллос нескромный Phallus impudicus

Гриб интересный не столь своей формой, сколь запахом, им распространяемым, напоминающим запах гниющего трупа, который привлекает мух, разносящих грибные споры. 

Тимирязевский парк, Коптево, САО, Москва. Россия

Ain’t I a Woman?

The inspiration to write this short passage flowed in when I came across a “hidden treasure” that I had the luxury to discover yesterday morning, when I had just been having a splendid me-time. A piece of emotionally-driven speech, spoken  by a dark-skinned feminist who was at the same time, an abolitionist from the 19th century. The legendary speech, I imagined, was delivered with the intensity of clenched fist and temptestuous rage across her facial expression. Rage that had screamed, has strived for humanity and equality for all. The legendary speech, once again, was delivered at the Woman Rights Convention which was held on 1851 in Ohio. “Ain’t I a Woman” ,Sojourner Truth’s electrifying utterance had been a bite-back response to the condescending mockery told by a bunch of Phallus Impudicus ((my personal term referring to pompous, patriarchal pricks). They thought it was bloody histerical for a woman, who even needed a man’s help to merely leaped over a poodle dog, or lifted themselves to ride on a back of a horse. Sojourner Truth, who also was an attendance of the convention stood on her feet then roared her voice, on behalf of aspirations and hope from the down-trodden, dark-skinned women on her era.

“That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man – when I could get it – and hear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?”

The phrase “Ain’t I a Woman” itself has became a metaphor that exudes downright lethal cynicism towards the 19th century feminism movement. The phrase “Ain’t I a Woman” grammatically depicted a well-being that is not well-taught, that has not savored the luxury of formal education. The 19th century feminism movement had been dominated by middle-class white race, women who were born with a silver spoon in their calloused mouth. The movement in instance had alianted the existence of dark-skinned ones from the society, which majority of them were forced labors with low-paying wages and seemingly far too weary to afford a particular  opulence such as “a right to vote” .

My lifeline may be separated by  two centuries from Sojourner’s, yet her vigorous resistance against the socially-constructed mind-set that cunningly devaluate woman’s rank within the social stratification on a vertical scale. Women who were regarded as number-two citizen. Women who, on numerous occasions, were being synonymized with the adjectives “fragility, hypersensitivism, illogicalness and extreme narcicism”. The highlight of Sojourner’s admirable personalities and bravery came down to one trait I regarded with personal adoration, that is her wholly devotion to Jesus, her God, mine as well. Her devotion was blantantly exposed, explicitly stated in her sentence when she “cried out with her mother’s grief”, no well-beings ever take her tormented wailings into consideration other than Jesus. Reading the infamous utterance over and over again, now I am asking my own self,

 “Can I continue on living with the identical, smoldering flames, as fiery as the one that once streamed down inside Sojourner’s veins?