@catholic followers: can we please relish the fact that apparently the trump’s family idea of ‘appropriate outfit to wear when meeting the pope’ turned out to be ‘have watched too many sophia loren films and subsequently dressed up for a funeral in southern italy sometime around 1965’, because i’ve been snickering since this morning and still can’t stop
for visual reference:
someone on facebook photoshopped this picture to look like an ad for a funeral business and i am LIVING!
please everyone tag yourself i am the pope
look there’s ppl saying that’s vatican dress code protocol but i can guarantee that it’s NOT, they’re just cosplaying mid 20th century italian villagers in mourning!
seriously that protocol stopped being enforced in the 80s (americans just haven’t gotten the memo, michele also wore black + veil but her faces were much less unfortunate) and nowadays if u dress like that for a vatican state visit NOT ONLY you’re not gonna get any points but u WILL be mocked. case in point: me
looks like the old rich sicilian grandfather died and his second wife, younger and pretty, is trying to hard to look sad when she’s actually just happy because she’ll get his money, her daughter isn’t even trying to look sad, because she’s the one who killed him, his brother, who was having an affair with the now widow, is smiling at relatives to greet them, but he’s actually the only sad one. the pope knows what has happened but can’t say anything, he’ll insert some phrases that will scare the murderer in the sermon tho.
i can get on board with ivanka as the killer.was it a mafia death? this is the only mafia AU i could actually get behind
you, about italian summer: aesthetic, beautiful people walking at dusk holding hands on the beach, reading a book by the shades of a tree, falling in love with the first italian person you meet, orange palette colours
me, an intellectual: sweating from every pore, too much heat, tree shades won’t save your weak soul, sunscreen cream PROTECTION 100, bugs, mosquitoes, MOSQUITOES EVERYWHERE, you look like you’re ill of chickenpox for all the mosquito bites, Divieto di Balneazione™, “COCCO BELLO COCCO”, people completely drunk and wasted on August 15th, when even the tiniest bit of wind rises people cheer and sing hallelujah all together
you: aw, I’m so jealous, I wish I could spend the summer in italy
me, emerging from my darkened living room at 2pm on a july afternoon like some kind of swamp demon, my hair a mess and my skin nearly bioluminescent from the mosquito repellent I just bathed in: you have no idea what you’re talking about
italian summer aesthetic: tv newscasters warning you about The Exodus. beware, they say. but you cry. you know you can’t escape it.
More aesthetic: StudioAperto saying is the hottest summer of the last 800 years( *war flashbacks from 2003). Towns looking like ghost cities in the Old Wild West from 12 to 5. Radio is still playing Sotto I Raggi del Sole by Brusco. Kids playing football on the beach IO VE LO BUCO QUESTO PALLONE MI INSABBIATE L’ ASCIUGAMANO
sun dried corn fields and scalding asphalt from the summer of 2003 are my default post-apocalyptic aesthetic
That guy on the beach who sells bracelets and summer equipment that you never buy but you’ve befriended him anyway
Mothers crying at tops of their lugs “Don’t bathe, you just eat, you’re gonna die” to children who are gonna bathe anyway. “Cornetto” ice-cream eveywhere. Playing soccer of boiling sand. Autostrada del sole under the scoarchign sun.
Taking public transport and either dying in a pool of your own sweat, or finding the really modern bus and freezing to death because the driver doesn’t know the meaning of ‘moderation’. Waking up in the middle of the night because the mosquitoes decided to buzz right into your ear
“It’s not the hot weather, you know? It’s the humidity!” They look at you, nodding knowingly while they gasp for air, same as you.
And this summer’s tormentone follows you everywhere, just like every other year. In shops, on the radio coming from 50 different stations all at the same time, harassing your ears from the ads and being used in every single fucking Youtuber’s video you might happen to come across. Popping from everywhere, you hear it from the cars speeding by as you try to sleep, you hear it hummed by teenage girls with shorts and a gelato in their hand while they go around the town’s market, sometimes you have to see people pull some ugly move from the little dance that comes with it (but Occidentali’s Karma is an exception, you’d dance it all day screaming ALE’ and that would never tire you out).
It lasts 6 months, and then it just… disappears. All it leaves in its wake is a vague sense of nausea, frustration, and fear that you’ll have to listen to the same damn song for the billionth time.
And worst part – what they never tell you about – is that, through the brainwashing, you end up liking it. Tapping your fingers if you do happen to listen to it again. Just a little.
All schools are closed. Kids are free. They are everywhere. Watching you. Judging you while listening to Volare out loud. Calling you signora. You feel unsafe. You try to escape but the melting asphalt has melted your shoes. You’re trapped. DragonBall Z is on tv again. Soon September will come and with it all the backpacks and school supplies ads. You feel nostalgic but also remember the Esame di Maturità. Never again. People forget that deodorants actually exist. The lake’s beach is so full of German people you’re starting to wonder if you’re still in your home country. You’re blue (da-bu-di da-bu-da) and there’s a murder on the dance floor. You made sure to park your car well under the shadow but five minutes later the sun is burning every part of it. You take a deep breath and try to get inside the car. You cannot breathe anymore. Drought Alarm! Remember to drink plenty of water and never leave the house during the hottest hours! Take extreme care of kids and senior citizens. You’re trying to complete your Settimana Enigmistica under your ombrellone, but the kids of your acquaintance from the beach keep screaming. They’ve probably been screaming for hours now. What time is it anyway? Have three hours passed since you had lunch? Who knows. Better wait a bit more before going to take a bath in the sea. Mom said you might feel sick and drown. 5 horizontal: the end of the world. Two letters.
And if you are on the beach… ‘ACQUAGYM!’ ‘BALLO DI GRUPPO’ ‘BAILA! BAILA EL RITMO VUELTA!’.
You are still in your small town and need food. Any. No supermarkets are open. Nothing is open. Everyone is away. You have to go to another town to hope to find something open. Will you manage? Or will you melt in the car during your journey?
Watching LOTR, while they climb Mordor, you chug down water you kept n the freezer the whole night, because the fridge doesn’t make it enough COLD, and look at them. They are sweating less than you. Mordor seems nice. They have wind at least.
Finally, you have a free day. Your regione doesn’t have the sea, because why the fuck being lucky when you can be a sore loser, so you go to the lake, HOPING to find some chill, some wind, some fresh air. You just find… Germans. All of Germany decided to come.
the elders observe your every move as you stumble along the cobble stone. You never know if they are benevolent or not. You just know they are watching.
the way to town is uphill. The way home is also uphill. You are left to wonder how is that possible.
The city elects the new Mayor. You didn’t vote for the new mayor. You’re pretty sure nobody you know voted for the new mayor. You have a haunting feeling nobody actually voted for the new Mayor. As you see questionable local enterprise bigshots grinning, anxiety creeps into you.
In any given place, as you walk, you’re walking on ancient ruins. Wherever you’ll dig, you’ll find ancient ruins. Ancient ruins resurface on their own. They are around you. They are beneath you. You can’t escape.
Beautiful churches lurking behind every corner. You enter one and are greeted by sublime ancient frescos depicting suffering, torture and martyrdom. The Priest tells you that suffering is the only pathway to Heaven. The townspeople nod and chant along him. You realize that the beliefs of these people influence the policies of the Country. You are scared.
The old towns are guarded by the dead gaze of the statues of our forefathers. Some of these statues are headless, or damaged by past wars. Everything around you is older than you can possibly imagine. You wonder if the headless statues are luckier, for their eyes haven’t survived to witness, powerlessly, the misery of human history.
Regardless of where you are, there are abandoned homes. Dusty and dark houses lurking on the dark alleys, too old to be destroyed, too damaged to be restored.
The streets are lit by candles. Like every year, it starts like hear a ominous chanting getting near. Shortly after, the horde floods your street, slowly dragging their feet, lead by a Priest droning into a microphone. Some are holding holy objects. You are filled with dread as you watch your family join the horde, smiling.
You are to turn in some paperwork. You discover that you need more paperwork and that you are supposed to deliver it to another office. The paperwork grows as you continue the process. The red tape overwhelms you. You drown in paperwork. It is all you see. A deadline looms over you. You feel no hope. Then, if the Bureaucrats will allow it, your paperwork will get through. Then, your request will sit in a dark room, ignored for a decade.
oh oh let me add one pls
You hear a bell ringing. Space doesn’t matter and neither does time. Wherever you are you can always hear the echo of a church bell ringing somewhere in the distance, counting down the hours of the day. There are many more bells than what you first thought. Time flows much faster than what you first thought.
you, about italian summer: aesthetic, beautiful people walking at dusk holding hands on the beach, reading a book by the shades of a tree, falling in love with the first italian person you meet, orange palette colours
me, an intellectual: sweating from every pore, too much heat, tree shades won’t save your weak soul, sunscreen cream PROTECTION 100, bugs, mosquitoes, MOSQUITOES EVERYWHERE, you look like you’re ill of chickenpox for all the mosquito bites, Divieto di Balneazione™, “COCCO BELLO COCCO”, people completely drunk and wasted on August 15th, when even the tiniest bit of wind rises people cheer and sing hallelujah all together
you: aw, I’m so jealous, I wish I could spend the summer in italy
me, emerging from my darkened living room at 2pm on a july afternoon like some kind of swamp demon, my hair a mess and my skin nearly bioluminescent from the mosquito repellent I just bathed in: you have no idea what you’re talking about
italian summer aesthetic: tv newscasters warning you about The Exodus. beware, they say. but you cry. you know you can’t escape it.
More aesthetic: StudioAperto saying is the hottest summer of the last 800 years( *war flashbacks from 2003). Towns looking like ghost cities in the Old Wild West from 12 to 5. Radio is still playing Sotto I Raggi del Sole by Brusco. Kids playing football on the beach IO VE LO BUCO QUESTO PALLONE MI INSABBIATE L’ ASCIUGAMANO
sun dried corn fields and scalding asphalt from the summer of 2003 are my default post-apocalyptic aesthetic
That guy on the beach who sells bracelets and summer equipment that you never buy but you’ve befriended him anyway
persephone's corner 