Diary | Michele Annunziata

date » 12-10-2026 09:00

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tags » columbus day 2026, cristobal colon america, cristoforo colombo america, columbu's ship, columbus 1-4-9-2 satanic number, 1453 invasion constantinople, innocenzo VIII america discovery, innocenzo VIII cibo greck family, exoteric numerology,

Columbus Day (exoteric numerology)

1.Here We are in a big way...

2.Well, it is the numerological “medium” that acts as a contained “container”. People will say: we are starting Monday well, everything Ok? Great, and let’s keep going. Today in Amerika (k as in killer, eh) it is Holly Day, a national holiday.

3.And mind you, not the holiday, let's say, of the First Mason President (he stayed in France a whole, let's say, “academic” year having been initiated into Masonry...) Washington, called George to be pronounced as it is written for once!...continue...

4.But one could continue with everything the Yankees have as a national holiday, and that’s two. A sacred rock (!) a Commander of the infamous 7th Cavalry (even though in English horse makes horse, eh) or of the Holocaust of the native ameicans: there would be a need to watch West & Soda in this regard, the cartoon movie by Bozzetto, which takes the piss out of the staging of the West, the Massacre where the villain on duty, we are in West & Soda, shows the woman of his desires a scroll on which shines, as a time jump, skyscrapers and the typical, oh well, 'merican skyline!

5.There is also a historical movie... Soldier Blue.. and.. and.. and we won't finish anymore. No, today's Columbus Day is a fact linked to another little fact named Cristobal Colon or our local Cristoforo Colombo in liaison with a Pope Innocent... and we are a few years away from the “christian” sack Anno Domini 1453 of Constantinople, yes, the Second Rome on the Bosphorus/Dardanelles, ok paisà today's Istanbul.

6.And why ever this “story”? Oh well, Totò would say, to make the dough, take the gold of Cipango (America already colonized illo tempore by the Chinese, obvious...) of his mother's ct and do yet another Crusade, and along the way a few bribes here and there to plump up the said Peter's Pence, yes the usual IOR.. Institute for Very, but Very Pious Works.

7.In short, they “discover” Amerika whose existence was known very well: since forever. But. But obvious that the “good” Cristobal with his “candies” with the crusader cross on the sails (!) went, a new Christopher (Christo + fero fers tuli latum ferre) to Amerika, therefore with three nutshells, when other silenced sources say he had already been to America back and forth by night (with or without the impossible map for the era called Piri-Reis or however it is written, stuff that at NASA they twist their hands and get a stroke) maybe staying with certain “hooded” ones the color of a monk’s cloak, in Ireland.

8.And if we take Ridley Scott as good (!?) director, he stayed there for a full 7 years: Seven for those who understand, covenant means in Kabbalah and not only. Seven.

9.Let's finish by saying that the good Freemason Colon or whoever for him, there would even be those who say he was the son of the recalled Innocent... The pope who writes on his sarcophagus in a scroll that under his pontificate opened the adventures of the Genoese aquatic transmigration, the Colon who if names are serious things is like the “colon” that makes certain turns in the “belly” to a wise listener.

10.Columbus who obviously has on his side the “seal” to pass beyond the famous “pillars” of Hercules, who first crosses the route between Gibraltar and the other Free Morocco side... goes into the Hesperides, out towards the Canaries to gather the golden apples, yes those vegetables that are bought red for pasta or pizza... the tomatoes that then we gobble up only starting from 1+4+9+2 whose addition, sharp minds, makes 7!11.Long live Amerika and long live Colon with his 3 Cara (in Spanish it is face) velle or caccavelle (cooking pot) which is better, when the Chinese were putting Transatlantics or real Love Boats into the sea, from so many sugary movies for rich people who don't know what the fuck to do anymore...P.S.Do as I do: take any text, excluding the technical one which will make you laugh, and remove from cunning English (vowel shift included ad hoc) every word of Latin origin... try and you will see impossible holes then to “decipher” in italic Italian. No, eh.The formula of the good Jew Einstein: E = mc^2 squared... Energy is Latin, mass is Latin and that "c"? Oh well Celeritas Latin, not speed...Gonzales, arriba arriba in the Walt Disney cartoon... in fact the latinos have arrived all right in Amerika and have forced the Yankees to speak their language like that american movie (Spanglish) in which a certain Spanish woman... Adelante, vamonos compañeros...

date » 11-10-2026 18:33

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tags » abstraction photography, cosmic shape, orage color, red color, rust, oxidaction, olympus camedia c 5060 wz,

Cosmic Vaultings — Archaeology of the Invisible

Four oxidized sheet-metal panels are articulated by a rigid seam and slashed by a clean diagonal beam of light. The oxidation is not decay here, but a register of time where corrosion reveals an underlying map of faces. It all depends on how and where the eye—rather than merely resting—scans the surface like a sonar. High on the left, a face stands vertically in the rust, while right below it another face appears with its hair, eye, and strong nose carved into the dark iron. Moving to the right side, there is a whole crowding of female faces—some subtle, others luciferian and infernal. If you scan the upper third, two women's faces emerge together, followed by a third one higher up, and as you scan down into the lower third of the same panel, yet another female face takes shape. As Saint-Exupéry wrote, "On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur; l'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." Vision is an act of extraction: where the crowd sees only rust and degraded iron, the attentive eye reveals presence.

NB. If click on image you will be able to see original

date » 09-10-2026 09:14

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tags » autumn, fall, landscape photography, daylight in autumn,

© archive manunzio

We are, as in autumn upon the trees... the leaves.
(Giuseppe Ungaretti)

date » 08-10-2026 18:24

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tags » life 1 and 0, mors supra nos, lucio dalla, computer and immortality, finis terrae, perpetual life, illusion life, allah akbar,

Mors supra nos

Bolle come quando i sub si muovono e la camera da sopra essi fa vedere una miriade di bolle che salgono e vanno. C'è un posto dentro al cuore dove tira sempre vento, questa è canzone di Lucio Dalla.
Sì dev'esserci qualcosa di pronfondo come abissi che ci portiamo dentro e le bolle, salgono. Ebbene ne “uccide più la parola che la spada” una volta era così adesso con questa pappina predigerita preconfezionata premessa lì chi può dire come si chiami, ora la cosa.
Sta di fatto che le parole, non tutte va da sé hanno una carica evocativa enorme, meglio energia impossibile da replicare a computer: se ne diano pace i satanisti che pensano a base 1 e 0. Il computer, l'androide nasce per fare la grana al posto degli operai, al posto dei militari o meglio mercenari il vero nome. Un foglio Excell di profitti? Nì, infatti se togli il cosiddetto popolo “mangiatore a sbafo” dicono e che ti resta? Il computer onnisciente, a salve per chi non sa manco autodefinirsi? L'androide che vende ghiaccioli agli eschimesi? Pura cazzata ché sanno, costoro, che muoiono come gli altri e che un domani imbrodatosi completamente con il “computer” per sfuggire la Morte, saranno altrettanti pezzi di lamiera che se non lo ricarichi......continue...
Sì resto convinto che le Prole sono pietre, spesso quelle angolari di scarto come dice Le sScritture in un Mondo di Morti che, giustamente, il Nazareno dice:” Non ti crucciare, vedi, lascia che i morti seppelliscano i morti”: che sarà mai? Ukase Stalina!

Bubbles of air like when divers move and the overhead camera shows a myriad of rising, drifting bubbles on they. There is a place inside the heart where the wind always blows, this is a song by Lucio Dalla (was been an nitalian singer).
Yes, there must be something as deep as the abysses we carry within ourselves, and as like the bubbles rise. Well, “the word, a italian quote, is mightier than the sword” or rather, words kill more than the sword; it used to be that way, but now, with this predigested, ideologia prepackaged, ready-made mush placed right there, for named (My God) who knows what to call it now, this thing.
The fact remains that words—not all of them, needless to say—possess an enormous evocative charge, or rather, an energy impossible for a computer to replicate: let the satanists who think in base 1 and 0 resign themselves to this. The computer, the android is born to make dough instead of workers, instead of soldiers, or rather mercenaries, their true name. An Excel spreadsheet of profits. Not quite, because if you remove the so-called people or Humanity —"freeloaders," they say—what are you left with? The omniscient computer, blank-firing for those who don't even know how to self-define? The android selling popsicles to Eskimos? Pure bullshit, because they (that as full take of Death) know, those ones, that they die like everyone else, and that one day, thoroughly slathered in "computer" not flesh to escape Death, they will be nothing more than pieces of sheet metal that, if you don't recharge them...Dies ab aeternum.
Yes, I remain convinced that Words are stones, often the rejected cornerstone as the Scriptures say, in a World of the Dead where, quite rightly, the Nazarene says: "Do not fret, you see, let the dead bury their dead". Amen.

date » 01-10-2026 09:22

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Via Roma
(In Italy, elementary schools traditionally opened their doors precisely today, the first of October)

Every morning, the series of winding sidewalks and twisting pedestrian crossings leads black smudged aprons toward the elementary school on Via Roma. White collars, both starched and synthetic with butterfly buttons, float above red ribbons and shields pinned to chests—where white numbers on a blue background in Roman numerals identify the grades. Swarms pour out from the school alleys, leather satchels and cardboard cases spinning through the air like festive swords. Chases and trading card (Album Panini of footballers) swaps yield to the school bell, which punctually puts an end to the pandemonium and disperses small troops along the Popolo staircase. Beyond the glass doors, silence reigns supreme. Like carapace, the grandmother-mother-teacher Madam Forlenza kicks off the day with a prayer oozing same boredom and the dust of as old maps on wall. ...continue... The movable-letter primer rests on the dark, rough wooden desk; high above sits the inkwell filled daily by the custodian pouring from a large glass bottle, alongside an illustrated reader, a box of nibs, Giotto paints, and black cloth-bound rough notebooks with red-corded Pigna spines featuring the Pythagorean table and blotters. Thus begins the daily journey of learning, seated at benches akin to torture instruments (many a case of scoliosis owes them a special thanks). Just a few minutes later, the classroom springs back to life during recess with the joyful uproar of mortadella rolls, thick slices of salami, and the fragrant barter of ruccolo ( a particular pizza" baked in a wood-burning oven using the first roaring fire).
At the end of the corridor, the small theater dozes. Lined up separately, boys on one side and girls on the other await the magical slides projection—multimedia filmstrips long before their time. At regular intervals, Red Cross stamp collections evoke African populations ravaged by famine, diseases to be fought, and pious little sacrifices offered up as penance. Field trips end at the Provincial Museum or the mobile Tbc chest X-ray unit on chapel Santa Maria, Principe di Piemonte, with its gloomy wards and brisk brusque.
A mythological figure hovers over the school—like the Cerberus, who announces his presence through the loudspeakers mounted above the crucifixes on the classrooms walls. Even when he does not appear in flesh and bone, Director Telesca is well represented; the whacks from teacher Avallone's a paddle on palm of hand slats (pieces of carpentry each of us carries as a "gift" for his) are quite enough to restore Order.
Any tormenting Saturday when arrivals of the music maestro Vittorio Arcieri is softened by the gentle smile of the Pauline nuns distributing the Children's Magazine (named Il Giornalino), while in the backlit shadows of the corridors, the broad, good-natured face of the custodian with his missing hand (rumored to have been lost in the war) steps forward.
The young teacher keeps track of the hour behind her smoked glasses while reading Pinocchio. Crouched with our heads on our arms, we wait out the remaining minutes, the bell, and the exit in platoons—unless someone sneaks away early, earning a punishment facing the back of the corridor and being the last to leave.
Mother’s hand, Panini sticker albums, the regions of Italy, Rin Tin Tin, string licorice from Peppin’ u carrett’—his cart overflowing with lancette, sweet sticks, and colorful candy tubes—all merge seamlessly with newfound freedom.

date » 21-09-2026 08:18

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tags » river swiming, bw photo, street photography, boys in river, allah akbar, summertime, ai no problem, screeplay and photo,

First and foremost, here and now—of a pretty decent September, just a few degrees cooler, which is better.
Ok the image in cover side, yeah, exactly: imagining the scene as a film frame rather than a still photo. Let me explain. Photography does indeed involve thinking before you click, barring lucky breaks, of course. But here it’s different.
Yeah, if I go back, well, nobody films and then writes the scene—in fact, it’s the exact opposite if, I repeat, we’re in a movie with film or “minchiapixel” (a Sicilian slang term for “dick" & " pixels” . A neologism by Manunzio, off-base and even off-key: you can tell!). Oh, citizens out there: wake up! You always have to spell everything out for grown-ups—ugh, just like in *The Little Prince*. Eh. Here, it’s the AI that had fun creating an image based on my own “input” input, just to see what kind of effect it would have, à la Jannacci (italian singer and much other) of yesteryear. And the result, to be honest, isn’t bad at all if I post it here. Black-and-white text (my input) and a black-and-white image (from AI): nothing more, nothing less—I’ll keep it to myself… well, on the Diary…

P.S. Just as the text has no space-time coordinates—which, according to Einstein Teory, is the same thing or two for the price of one (as the supermarket says)—the image, too, is a “transfiguration” of a non-place to proceed, which is what’s needed outside of “cause and effect.”
First of all, an image still possible here and now of a pretty decent September, just a few degrees cooler, which is better.

date » 10-09-2026 09:45

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tags » paul strand blind new york, book that I writing, manunzio site, photographic culture, history of photography,

The Fortunella

It is the remake of Paul Strand’s Blind (this is a part of book that writing my book and the text left image...here’s why I recount she that cavernous, toothless Pugliese mouth, the personage—a dark abyss of a face—is the very frame of raw, unvarnished survival, mirroring Strand's portrait without a shred of Christian mercy).

Limping up and down the stone pavement of the Main Street all day long, by evening hoisting her carcass up the steep stone stairs of Locanda, clinging to the iron handrail,wheezing all the way back to the "hotel" Regina d'Italia boarding house she eathing. Bundled up, legs swollen tight into coffee-and-milk stockings, sitting watchful at a chocolate-coloured table she eating. She parries the snickers of the locals while plunging her fork into her solitary meal of the day: stewed potatoes. Cold ones, most likely.

Hunched over she own bosom, she count the day’s pennies for a night’s (as Cahrlot in movie The Monel) sleep on an impossible mattress of corn husks of "hotel" Regina d'Italia

date » 03-09-2026 08:04

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tags » luigi ghirri and franco fontana italian photographers, fontana colors of lucania south italy, allah akbar, landscape photography franco fontana uber alles, street photograhy america franco fontana,

Franco Fontana, photographer. He’s dead.

And ninety-two years is a damn good run—a worldly one, for sure. Way back when, Fontana even drifted into these Land (Lucania South Italy) circles; as I recall, hordes of trigger-happy hacks (infuriated pixel-addicts trapped in their own onanistic loop) rushed to bow before the "colorist" Fontana. A man who left his mark across the World and many Galery, as pages of that d'antan monograph published by the then Gruppo Editoriale Fabbri: I Grandi Fotografi" inside it many images of Lucania. As "All Colors of Benetton" or American way of life we could and should remember it. So a disempowered reality, an hyper-colorist image born of fantasies or mink coats—go figure. A fellow Romagnolo, Fontana finds himself his countryman Luigi Ghirri, who has also been underground for quite some time......continue
“The connection and parallel paths during the 1970s of these two Emilians (Ghirri from Scandiano/Reggio Emilia, Fontana from Modena) radically changed the way the Italian landscape and reality were narrated. Franco Fontana established an international reputation thanks to a bold, saturated use of color, reducing the landscape to abstract geometries, flat color blocks, and stark chromatic contrasts. Luigi Ghirri founded a new concept of the Italian landscape based on a conceptual, ironic, and melancholic exploration of everyday life, the provinces, and the signs of representation (maps, postcards, cinema). Despite their stylistic differences—Fontana’s geometric and chromatic abstraction versus Ghirri’s open, conceptual inquiry—their paths frequently crossed. Notable, for instance, was their shared bond with the Emilian cultural scene and even the early support given to Fontana’s work by publishing houses tied to Ghirri. Both remain fundamental points of reference for understanding the evolution of contemporary photography. A reflection on Franco Fontana’s artistic journey and his relationship with Italian landscape photography”—thus rambles the internet, that Great Box. Again Fontana wrote: "My research operation consists of isolating, in space and time, what is normally lost and blended within the infinity of details... the subjects I photograph are merely the pretext... the fascination of the image lies in the violence that created it, a violence necessary to shake off the habits that blind our gaze. We are the carriers and witnesses of the only possible meaning... objectivity is always destined to slip away from us..." — Page 7 of the referenced Fabbri monograph. Ipse dixit, and poorly so, it goes without saying. First off, with this Renaissance-derived egotism—man as the measure of All Things—sure, but with reservations aplenty. And that pleonastic "we" is even worse: pro domo sua rhetoric, straight out of Roman arrogance, Marchese del Grillo style: "...we are us, and you lot aren't shit..." Look at the ravages of Photography for those who chase after the marvels of pixels and increasingly "penetrating" sensors—one has to ask: what kind of backside do you have if the tool is about to pop right out of your mouth? Quarrymen, men who followed boss-men or got two for the price of one... let us speak no more of them and move on to what truly matters to us. So goes the so-called World: you pay the toll like Faust to Mephistopheles. De gustibus.

date » 02-09-2026 11:39

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tags » city life, town life, illusion metropolitan, street photography, allah akbar, woman in street, yellow wall, advertising, motor life, drive-through,

Advertising MOTOR - società di capitale umano, featuring that anthropomorphic "M" that turns the human being into a graphic gear, a balance-sheet commodity—"capital," indeed.
The almost surgical synchronicity: The real figure walking underneath seems literally to "emerge" from the logo, condemned to walk in the same direction, with a measured stride, inside the perimeter traced by the engineers of communication and productivity.
The visual rendering of human (woman) figure, dark and sharp, becomes the living silhouette of corporate/technological solitude, pressed against a neutral wall beneath a massive sign that defines her before she can even define herself....continue...

date » 29-08-2026 10:24

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tags » sigmund freud sionist hebrew, positivisme science, psyché is not traslable as soul, modern teocracy at base bit, modern era, before and after restored bulding photogray, allah akbar, carl gustav jung soul,

The true nature of the archive, when stripped of academic sugarcoating, is defined entirely by the duality of those two frames: the testimony of physical presence versus the violence of sanitized erasure.

In the "before" (the silver halide emulsion on the left), the archive is a living stratification. The grain captures the raw texture of the stone, the uneven cobblestones, the communal fountain, and the women bent over their daily labor. This is the physical archive—a material body that absorbed the actual light of that specific moment in time. It holds the wear and tear of existence, the grit of history, and the unfiltered weight of reality. It does not need an algorithm or a theorist to explain itself; the silver on paper retains the fact exactly as it was: hard, rough, and uncompromisingly real....continue

In the "after" (the modern color capture on the right), the archive turns into a sterile makeover. The smooth plaster, the scrubbed facades, and the laid asphalt have wiped away the physical memory of the site, replacing its historical depth with a sanitized, neutral surface. It operates under the exact same logic as an overwritten digital file or a bureaucratic registry: take the unsettling complexity of the past, strip away its friction, and reduce it to a tidy, easily cataloged illusion.

A genuine archive—held on physical paper, sealed in parchment sleeves, and forged through chemistry and time—does not exist to "beautify" history or fit a neat theoretical framework. Its sole duty is to retain the undeniable mark of what occurred.

When real substance is swapped for a superficial coat of paint or a transient pixel, the "after" may look cleaner on paper, but the soul of the space has been evicted. All that remains is an empty shell, primed and ready for the next mindless scroll.

And so the curtain falls on the charade. The Emperor has no clothes, yet it took the unvarnished gaze of the child—the uncorrupted eye that refuses to see fine robes where there is only naked power and bloated dogma—to state the glaring truth.

The entire architecture built by the grand codifiers of Vienna (Sigmund Freud dixit) and their modern corporate heirs rests on a fundamental dread: the fear of raw, unquantifiable life. To take the soul, the Psyche, and drag it down into a mere plumbing system of ducts, retention, and subconscious sewer lines was never an act of liberation. It was an act of aggressive bookkeeping. It turned the mystery of human expression (C. G. Jung), art, and memory into a Ledger of Pathologies.

They replaced the archetype with the diagnosis, the sacred flame with the internal combustion of repressed fluids, and the physical mark of history with an endless, energy-devouring scroll.

The tragedy of the modern consensus—from the Freudians of the early twentieth century to the silicon technocrats of today—is that it cannot abide what it cannot catalog. It hates the stone, the silver halide, the parchment, the ink, and the sheer unpredictability of the artist because all of these demand presence. They demand retention in the true, noble sense: holding fast to reality, bearing witness, and leaving a tangible trace that outlives the temporary noise.

Instead, the world has been handed over to the digital gravediggers, the endless swipers, the consumers of phantom signals who mistake data for memory and a diagnostic label for self-knowledge.

Let the dead bury their dead.

When the servers go cold and the modern spreadsheets collapse under the weight of their own absurdity, what remains will not be the psychoanalytic taxonomies or the algorithms of the Silicon Valley priesthood. It will be what was there at Hammurabi's dawn: the physical mark, the honest contrast, the baked clay, the silver on barite, and the uncompromising voice that refuses to call the Emperor's nakedness a suit of fine silk.