Blue lobster: Not a theatrical poetic novel about Naples

An atypical and surreal non-book, a journey into a fascinating and dichotomous Naples that only a Neapolitan can be able to describe. Naples manages to tell Naples in its various facets and unresolved and millenary contrasts.
Nature offers spectacles as extraordinary as they are curious; a blue-colored lobster was recently caught, a rarity that derives from a genetic disorder, which affects one in two million crustaceans. "Blue Lobster" is one of those titles that make you dream; it is guessed, successful to the point that, as a bet, you would like to write "Corallo Blu", just to distinguish the apotropaic element par excellence, well requested for red horns and croissants in Naples, an "other" chromatic meaning coming from the archipelago of Malaysia. Visionary painter, digital artist, screenwriter, Rolando Attanasio carries out his experimental activity through painting, theater and writing. In this "It's not a novel" more than "training" falls the bliss of being Neapolitan to the core. There is no nihilistic declination in these singular pages and the fusion of literature, theatrical text and poetry make this book a flowing magma, in which there are yes impurities, but many, many truths, delicious convictions, calibrated anthropological rarities, " secrets” Neapolitans written to be read. The author explains the soul and the varied stories of him are nothing more than segments of life; a life lived intensely and regulated by events that have centrifuged it enough to make it particular at times unique. Inside, but really inside, hidden, but not so much, there is the poetry that supports everything; in the stream of consciousness that invades the paper there is an urgency to tell Naples to tell itself, to say I am here. Rolando Attanasio as a multidisciplinary artist is interested in angular the "grip" on life and "angling" on Naples he knows well that he will be able to universally mirror himself. Naples is there; there is the irredeemable one and the one stubborn to live, the "deadly wounded" one and the one pulverized by the ashes of cheating, the one of extreme and refined magnitudes and that of mortal slides.
Naples is a city that polishes life, washes it for you; one bathes in horror, one is saved in the fire of unforgettable passions. But, if he wants, he will irrigate the furrow of your heart. The blue mirrored by the sea runs through us and only the sky, "alter ego" in blue, can metaphorically quench our thirst. Two thousand years old and superb, as much as a pimp, it extends over the city in an arc, in a failed embrace.
Maurice Vitiello
Night of April 14, 2012