• nudelifestyle

    Because our bloods are equally red

    Crumbs of interculture toward global naturlsm Yes, I am saying "bloods", in the plural.
    I am borrowing this word, which will certainly sound strange, Jrom the one who revealed it to me in the form of a nonerror. I am referring to the great book by Erri De Luca, Montedidio.
    And I am using this word to construct a line of reasoning about naturism, as a path for encountering Other, who under the skin and inside the veins shares with me the same color of blood. Antonio Tabucchi in his extraordinary Si sta facendo sempre più tardi, says something that grabs your heart and never leaves it again.
    He says that the spirit is in the blood, even in just one tiny drop of the blood inside us. Meetings On Sunday 27 June I was with friends/members of Anita (and not only Anita), on a lovely "freshwater excursion" at Golino, in the ncino Canton. A magnificent piace, peaceful people.
    Those of us who left from Milan decided on a meeting piace where we could gather to take of together and meet other friends near Varese. Some of them were with us the first time and some of them where approaching naturism for the first time in their lives. They had read about the initiative on our Web site and then contacted Ballardini or other people belonging to the UNI, and that is how they ended up there. Perhaps I was extremely sensitive to the composition oJ the group, but a couple oJ people struck me in particular.
    What is more, they will probably become new naturist friends of mine: Fernando, Indian by birth and Singhalese by origin, has been in Italy for over ten years. He is Catholic, not Hindu, and this was naturist "baptism H. Then there was Florin, a Romanian with the body of a swimmer and a shaven head. My first thought, which occurred immediately though born of a deep need, was: "How wonderful, a real intercultural naturist encounter". For me it was thefirst time.
    I mean it was the first time that an intercultural dimension occurred in a naturist group where I was a participant, and not one where I was a spectator. I make this distinction because in Croatia only once did I see a black naturist on Red Island; and a Jew black people in Lévant, but neither time did they belong to my group).
    I thought about the good road that we Italian naturist are slowly but surely traveling, even with the new procedures and new styles of dialogue and openness of a few member associations ofthe Fenait (unfortunately not ali of them, and there is stili much to be done). For a minute I thought of how this world nudity was.
    The presence of different skins but one blood should be one of the central motif of some new Naturist Manifesto. And hopefully it would stimulate those among us who stili today are inebriated by certain theories, which have also been seen on these pages, debating about the various cultures and the superiority of the Western culture regarding naturism. Naturism in the bloods and the equality of unequal bodies Rejlecting about myself, observing and experiencing myself within that group that knew more than one skin color, I experienced a further frontier of global naturism.
    If I may say so, I was touched. In Koversada last year a woman with only one breast and a bald head, except for a few unaesthetic microscopic tufis here and there, was teaching everyone how to be a global naturist.
    She taught this to males and Jemales alike, but especially to the Italian little women wrapped in their Rimini beach wraps and walking on their surely comfortable little high-heeled shoes on the Croatian rocks. Afier cancer and a mutilation, undoubtedly with its psychological effects on women; after chemo, her nude body, with its history written on it, shamelessly and guilelessly framed two marvelous blue eyes and a cheerful smile.
    She had a regal demeanor and was without high heels. A true teaching.
    And then, naturism of different skins, unequal bodies, but identical bloods is what emanated from my spirit, seeing my Indian friend nude for the first time and my Romanian friend who, as could be expected, had learned ali the Italian swear words. It reminded me of the woman with one less breast but one heart more, whom I saw the year before. And then remembering the ever present Italian midget, still there in Koversada, phocomelic down (or up?) the branches of global human variety.
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