Saturday 30th May 2009

His mother’s brother, Graziano Petrosillo, master mariner, paid the fees for his theological seminary. Despite his technical education, he was a real poet.

The prophet had not spoilt the church economically, like some others, who live for the church because they live economically on it.

The angels rose his life with their beauty. For him they dressed things with surreal and dreaming colours. That morning (27th May 2009) he woke up almost blinded by the yellow-gold, mixed with blue, of their tunics, which he felt in his dreams.

The last months of the carthusian will be decisive for the human kind and the church. They will erupt with prodigies bilocative flights conversions.

God will visit the world with His shining and healing power. And men will get warm with the flame of the Prophecy and Passion. The Angel of the prophet will be very fast, flying over, hasty, meteoric. The Beauty belongs to the world only for a nanosecond.

The carthusian only tends to Him, the glowing One. Nothing or nobody can put off the Meeting, longed since the Tenderness talked to his little orphan heart and the Eucharistic Logos hit him with Prophecy and Passion.

How difficult it is to live on the Earth when you “see” and “perceive” the music of the spheres, plainly speaking, when one is reached by the Flow and the Sphere, by the Speaking Silence, by the Admirable made vile, still remaining Admirable, by the perturbed and perturbing Light, by the Heart injured by its Love. How difficult it is to live in impatience, painfully patience. Eating drinking defecating thinking praying suffering hoping. Knowing at the same time that the Silence talks to you in the sounds and noises of life and history. Lightly touching the Beauty through faces and shapes, chasing after the Living Heart through thousands of frailties. Singing the Name that goes through all the names, adoring the Non-Being that Is in every cosmic stripe, in every human land in every desert in every crowd. The 3 times Saint, the Unintelligible that can only be understood by the adoring heart and the intellect on the heart. The God of the angels, the god of heavens, the God-Baby, the God of the infinite cosmic balls, the uncontrollable and overflowing God, nobody can meet Him and be unhurt. You become like Jacob on the river Iabbok. The angelic trembling of that night overflows until your life divinely raped.

The humble craftsman Ratti Niccolò built the wonderful monument of his love and pain for his dead wife. Made of white-black marble, surmounted by a black cross, tall and slim, like a blossoming girl. Watched over by an angel, white, and praying with crossed arms on the heart. The left arm, worn-out, pointing at a white small column. On the left, above, the heart of the monument: a circular niche with a lamp-torch of the Faith inside.

Shocking couple of the tomb signifiers: the cross and the angel. One day Jesus will tell the novice jesuit: I associate you to My Passion and the Passion of the Angels.

The tomb niche anticipates the arboreal niche of the vision of the Archangel on the 17th March 2009. Michael announces the sapiential writings of the prophet, who, after that, shine from the central niche of the cosmic tree. It looks like the lamp-torch of the tomb of the prophet. Dark like the Archangel.

His mother died on the 4th September 1948, chocked up by her mortal baby in her womb, victim of the doctors’ ignorance and slovenliness. The Captain-poet (affectionately called the Captain), her brother, wrote on her remembrance card some lines from Edgar Lee Masters

DUST of my dust,
And dust with my dust,
O, child who died as you entered the world,
Dead with my death!

Child! Child!
Death is better than Life!

The child-prophet saw his mother in a pool of blood. Never and never would the Logos-Mother let blood stigmata.

Often a tiny figure of a little nun comes out from his dreams, who in the cold nights in Milan offered hot coffee from her thermos to chilled prostitutes.

The prophet was born and brought up in a living atmosphere. He was much loved. He still remember, despite the passing of time, the exciting privilege of sleeping in the big bed with his parents, wrapped into their warmth and pleasure (distant).

In his parents no shadow of sex phobia. He grew up healthy and vital. Until he was 8, until his mother died.

This article is available in Italian too