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Alessandro Stracuzzi

@alessandro_stracuzzi

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I wish that I could tell you
I’d speak straight from my chest
You can’t rebuild your heart
as eas'ly as you fake your breasts

You called yourself a cab home
But you summoned an ambulance
You learned that you can cry
even bent over during sex

Maybe there’s no limit left
I should just say this: you're crazy, I love you
Finally you smile again
That's all I even wanted for you by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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3 months ago

They are both so absorbed in their own ruminations that they seem petrified: Luca and David, two Rodinian thinkers at a table in a suburban pub. They sit outside because it is hot and the place has no air conditioning. The bitter taste of gin puckers their lips; olive stones lie scattered across the paper napkin. Somewhere, an engine hums. The wind mutters. Otherwise, nothing. Silence. Only evasive pupils and breaths held at the edge of the chest.

Luca would like to stretch this comfortable silence indefinitely, spend the whole evening there, perhaps even the night. Fall asleep on that IKEA plastic chair and be woken by the wind at 5.40 in the morning. Have David’s numb hands pass him a phone open on UberEats, so he can choose a berry croissant and a soy cappuccino. Wait for the rider, feeling faintly guilty. Stay there, directionless, letting the minutes and hours drift past.

Then walk in search of shade and find it under a cypress tree. Rest their backs against the same trunk. Wait until their stomachs begin to complain. Stop at a Chinese restaurant, then follow David home. Turn on the TV, dissolve into the sofa, avoid the responsibility of conversation, resolution, maturity. Live life as white noise, giving up the pretence of giving it a tone.

Wake the next day, once again, in that house, but empty. Feel stupid as blood rises to his cheeks and the backs of his eyes begin to sting. Close the door behind him. Delete David’s number from his contacts. Walk home with wet lips and heavy feet. Take a shower, wash his face with the salt water of his own tear ducts, scald his hands and feet under the shower head: distraction, punishment. Step out and find three missed calls on his phone. Unknown number. Call back.

Hello?

Hey.

Hey.

Where are you?

Home.

Why?

I don’t know.

I got you breakfast.

Silence.

Berry croissant?

Yeah.

The sobs. The ear sunk into the hollow of the chest. The sweat, the sex, the taste of pre-cum. Alexa’s music. Aperitifs at the bar. A life without remorse. Two bodies without shielding.

Instead, David speaks. by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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4 months ago

i realised i was getting older when men stopped buying me drinks in bars, and twinks expected me to pay for uber rides. when i started to enjoy the taste of candied fruit in panettone. when i let my beard grow.
i realised it when i refused to numb myself with questions about ghosts and simply started accepting ms death’s schedule. accepting the bank account’s holes. accepting the silence of my almost empty room in a shared apartment at 27. the unreplied texts. the unfinished relationships. the haunting wisdom given me by some sort of kinky submission to realness.
they say that when you are young you are politically extremist and when you grow up you acclimatise. i think that is true: i, for example, used to be a bottom, now i’m vers. i used to drink vodka, now i drink gin. i used to believe in destiny, now i believe in marxism. (to a certain extent.)
are you a spiritual person, a date asked me a few weeks ago. i wish, but i’m not able to, i told them. i’m never quite sure if i get turned on by the other person or by the confidence i’ve grown into.
i was walking along ossington with this skinny brown twink. it was 10pm and i could feel the boniness of his hand in mine. he was talking about videogames. or was it politics. i was listening with part of my brain, meandering in the other half to recall his name. sleeping with him was a way of asserting virility. my hand around his neck, his lips half parted in delight, his knees pressed against my hairy chest, his gloomy, damp eyes looking for connection, security, home, reassurance. oh boy, i have none of that to give, but it does feel invigorating when the other person believes i do.
maybe that’s why people like to be called daddy. but i guess i’m too young for that. by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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5 months ago

signifier and signified; reappropriation and resemanticization; Mario Mieli and Pope Francis.

And THANK GOD it's summer in Toronto. Sort of. by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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6 months ago

We both could look better in this pic. by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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6 months ago

Embodiment, intersubjectivity, momentary communities: these are the words I am pondering through the lens of Jill Dolan, José Esteban Muñoz, Erika Fischer-Lichte. This is the lexicon I have decided will be my compass in reading and interacting with Toronto's theatrical scene. by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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7 months ago

E gli anni passano
Ma il tempo cosa vuoi che sia
Se senza stare qui
Non vai comunque via by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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8 months ago

Feeling a bit nostalgic about Milan! by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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8 months ago

What if I step into someone else's tradition? by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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10 months ago

2025, l'anno dei traslochi

Come stai? Come va?
C'è qualcuno che ti aiuta col trasloco?
Quando ti sistemi mandami una foto
Dormi bene? Ti riposi?
Vai a ballare? Ti risposi?
Hai rivisto i vecchi amici
O ne hai già fatti di nuovi?
Non mi dire che anche lì c'hai due lavori
Ma c'è il mare, la neve, i fiori? by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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10 months ago

We're mad to go
Mad to drive
Mad to be alive
We make the rules
We make a vow
To be mad by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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a year ago

by @alessandro_stracuzzi

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a year ago