#dark italo

[secretmeaningofthings]

Strict Tempo - Body Heat: Dark Disco Holiday Party 12.22.2022 (Live @ Underbelly Seattle)

YouTube - https://youtu.be/Czu8pA43ZL4  Mixcloud - https://www.mixcloud.com/VoxSinistra/strict-tempo-body-heat-2022/ Soundcloud - https://soundcloud.com/voxsinistra/strict-tempo-body-heat-2022

OTHR - Deltoid (Pablo Bozzi Remix) Anbau - Radioactiva Fluid Ghost - Echoberyl's Prisoner (3am Shado Remix) Pablo Bozzi - Lightless Area Petros Spatharos - Dystopia Aspecto Humano - Black Light Black Light Odyssey - No Future Machinegewehr - Antimaterie SDH - All of That (Pablo Bozzi Remix) Invoker - Batumi (Biesmans Remix) Nico Band - Let It Show (Curses Edit) Tobias Bernstrup - Hitman (Cute Heels Remix) Neurotiker - Yautja Kendal - Mort Sur Le Dancefloor (TGC Mix) M83 - Road Blaster (Lauer Remix) Neurotiker/Dani - Ojos Distantes (Chinaski Remix) End of Mortal Life - Disco Paranoia Franz & Shape - Lump (ft. Shrubbn!! Gesaffelstein Remix) Antoni Maiovvi - Valencia Forever Pablo Bozzi - 42 Chambers Vibe Impact - Hypnotic Connection Boytronic - Under the Red (Leaether Strip Remix) The Problems - Living In My Car Neurotiker - Dystopian Romance (NRT and DANi's Vocoder Chronicles) Louis de Tomaso - Frank Too Radondo - Dusk (Curses 'Lucid Dawn' Mix) Machinegewehr - Human Visage

[raivokasmagma]

Tobias Benrstrup - Legend

New single from modern italo disco royalty, Tobias Bernstrup. This one is darker sounding than previous one, Chiaroscuro.

From some reason this reminds me of some video game music I've heard in the past. Can't remember what exactly....

[manicmortalmushroom]

"...the world is falling apart and tries to lure me into its disintegration."

- Italo Calvino, If On a Winter's Night a Traveller

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Khalil Gibran. Charles Addams. Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anthony Burgess. Italo Calvino. Vladimir Nabokov. Rachel Carson. John Muir. Jane Austen. Arthur Rimbaud. Marcel Proust. Maxim Gorky.

More: Quote Prompts

[lontanodalpanicoo]

Milan, decmember 2023

Ig: @privadinuvole

[thatstudyblrontea]

October 11, 2023

Rereading one of my favourite books of all time, Zeno's Conscience, as I plan my bachelor thesis. Let's do this!

[arnirea]

I, on the other hand, in the darkness felt with complete discomfort, myself

[soillodge]

Listen/purchase: LLORA by LLORA

[nonstandardrepertoire]

Cities & The Dead 4

What makes Ariga different from other cities is that it has earth instead of air. The streets are completely filled with dirt, clay packs the rooms to the ceiling, on every stair another stairway is set in negative, over the roofs of the houses hang layers of rocky terrain like skies with clouds. We do not know if the inhabitants can move about the city, widening the worm tunnels and the crevices where roots twist: the dampness destroys people's bodies and they have scant strength; everyone is better off remaining still, prone; anyway, it is dark.

From up here, nothing of Ariga can be seen; some say, "It's down below there," and we can only believe them. The place is deserted. At night, putting your ear to the ground, you can sometimes hear a door slam.

— Calvino, Italo. Invisible Cities. Translated by William Weaver. New York City: Harcourt, 1974 (p 126)

[389]

[yellowmanula]

Dark Disco mix by DJ Yellow Manula - CLICK HERE to LISTEN

[anokha-swad]

[ithisatanytime]

(italo disco forever and more)

[manicmortalmushroom]

"Life is nothing but trading smells."

"Life and also death, you might say."

- Italo Calvino, If On a Winter's Night a Traveller

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A Writer on Writing: Italo Calvino

Italo Calvino:

A fine thing it is to have a distant friend who writes long letters full of drivel and to be able to reply to him with equally lengthy letters full of drivel.

The poet turns in on himself, tries to pin down what he has seen and felt, then pulls it out so that others can understand it. But I can’t understand these things: these discourses about the ego and the non-ego I leave to you. Yes, I understand, there’s the struggle to express the inexpressible, typical of modern art, and these are all fine things, but I …

I’m a regular guy, I like well-defined outlines, I’m old-fashioned, bourgeois. My stories are full of facts, they have a beginning and an end. For that reason they will never be able to find success with the critics, nor occupy a place in contemporary literature. I write poetry when I have a thought that I absolutely have to bring out, I write to give vent to my feelings and I write using rhyme because I like it, tum-tetum tumtetum tum te-tum, because I’ve got no ear, and poetry without rhyme or meter seems like soup without salt, and I write (mock me, you crowds! Make me a figure of public scorn!) I write … sonnets … and writing sonnets is boring, you have to find rhymes, you have to write hendecasyllables so after a while I get bored and my drawer is overflowing with unfinished short poems.

I’m still too ignorant to write articles and as for my output of short stories, a famous summer of overproduction has been followed by years of crisis. … All the ideas currently in my head are subject to a strange phenomenon: while I work on them and perfect them continuously from the philosophical point of view, they stay rudimentary and barely sketched on the dramatic and artistic side. In my creativity thought has the upper hand over imagination.

When you’re working you get buried, drowned under things. You’ve no more friends nor art. Only when you’ve an evening or afternoon free can you roam the streets or court a girl. That’s all. In short, working is pointless. I mean, from the point of view of education. But it’s essential. I cannot — and I don’t want to — live the writer’s life, that is to say write for a living. The novel I was writing, which for months and months had sucked all my blood (because, stubborn as I am, I was determined to finish it even though I no longer felt it was going anywhere), is dead, awful, full of wonderful clever things but desperately bad, forced, it’ll never work and I must not finish it. And I must not write for some time now otherwise I’d make more mistakes. I hope that Einaudi will publish my short stories eventually, they’re the only thing I believe in and which I believe are useful.

For seven or eight months now I’ve been mucking about with a novel that I began in a moment of weakness and it’s turning out to be very bad, causing me to waste lots of my time. But at least it’ll get rid of my desire to write novels for four or five years, which is what I dream of doing, and will allow me to study kind of seriously and learn to write decently.

To write well about the elegant world you have to know it and experience it to the depths of your being just as Proust, Radiguet and Fitzgerald did: what matters is not whether you love it or hate it, but only to be quite clear about your position regarding it.

My problem today is how to escape from the limits of these books, from this definition of me as a writer of adventures, fairy-tales, and fun, in which I can’t express myself or realize myself to the full.

The fact is that I already feel I am a prisoner of a kind of style and it is essential that I escape from it at all costs: I’m now trying to write a totally different book, but it’s damned difficult; I’m trying to break up the rhythms, the echoes which I feel the sentences I write eventually slide into, as into pre-existing molds, I try to see facts and things and people in the round instead of being drawn in colors that have no shading. For that reason the book I’m going to write interests me infinitely more than the other one.

One should never have taboos about the tools we use, that as long as the thought or images or style one wants to put forward do not become deformed by the medium, one must on the contrary try to make use of the most powerful and most efficient of those tools.

You can imagine how slowly my fictional output has been going this summer, you who know how much labor, dissatisfaction, irritability, uncertainty this work costs … However — and this is the point — it is worth it. Or rather: one does not ask if it’s worth it.

We are people, there is no doubt, who exist solely insofar as we write, otherwise we don’t exist at all. Even if we did not have a single reader any more, we would have to write; and this not because ours can be a solitary job, on the contrary it is a dialog we take part in when we write, a common discourse, but this dialog can still always be supposed to be taking place with authors of the past, with authors we love and whose discourse we are forcing ourselves to develop, or else with those still to come, those we want through our writing to configure in one particular way rather than another. I am exaggerating: heaven help those who write without being read; for that reason there are too many people writing today and one cannot ask for indulgence for someone who has little to say, and one cannot allow trade-union or corporate sympathies.

Even more annoying are those who theorize that the novel has to be like this or like that, that one must write the novel, etc. Let them go to hell! How much energy is wasted in Italy in trying to write the novel that obeys all the rules. The energy might have been useful to provide us with more modest, more genuine things, that had less pretensions: short stories, memoirs, notes, testimonials, or at any rate books that are open, without a preconceived plan.

Personally, I believe in fiction because the stories I like are those with a beginning and an end. I try to write them as they best come to me, depending on what I have to say. We are in a period when in literature and especially in fiction one can do anything, absolutely anything, and all styles and methods coexist. What the public (and also the critics) require are books (“open” novels) that are rich in substance, density, tension.

As a young man my aspiration was to become a “minor writer.” (Because it was always those that are called “minor” that I liked most and to whom I felt closest.) But this was already a flawed criterion because it presupposes that “major” writers exist. Basically, I am convinced that not only are there no “major” or “minor” writers, but writers themselves do not exist — or at least they do not count for much.

I found this letter that I had started to write yesterday evening and I reread it with interest. Dammit, what a lot of drivel I managed to write! In the end it’s impossible to understand anything in it. But better that way: the less one understands the more posterity will appreciate my profundity of thought. In fact, let me say: POSTERITY IS STUPID Think how annoyed they’ll be when they read that!

[robosexualunderground]

New Nuovo Testamento single today!

Boy I'm looking for a fire

I'll burn it down if you don't give me

What I'm dreaming of

I'm only asking for desire

Are you ever gonna fight for what you want?