Rome. An astonishing Mega-Event and Spectacle dedicated to Dante Alighieri on Via Margutta—a Street linked to Fellini, Picasso, Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn. Billy Wilder Celebrated in SF and Naples.

By Federico Wardal

Rome. In early December of last year, *Il Messaggero*—a newspaper that frequently reaches one million readers a day—published a massive article about me (https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/eventi/wardal_amato_da_fellini_da_hollywood-9232025.html?refresh_ce), an article that would restore my full renown throughout Italy. Around Christmastime, a magical encounter took place between myself and Tina and Teresa Zurlo—the curators of one of Europe’s most important art galleries. 

It is located  at number 90 on the legendary Via Margutta, this street is inextricably linked to my mentor, Federico Fellini (who lived at number 110), as well as to Pablo Picasso; it is also famously known as the setting for the film *Roman Holiday*, starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, which was filmed at number 51. 

Via Margutta also played a starring role during the years of Fellini’s *La Dolce Vita* and the era of his paparazzi—foremost among them the globally famous and celebrated Rino Barillari, known as “The King.” 

During our meeting, the Zurlo sisters and I discussed Fellini, as well as a major exhibition dedicated to him by the renowned painter Mario Russo—an event graced by the exceptional presence of his daughter, the famous actress Adriana Russo, serving as its godmother. However, as I was unable to return to Rome due to filming commitments in Hollywood, I sent a video message offering my greetings and recalling my personal bond with Fellini. The video proved to be a great success, and the brilliant Zurlo sisters subsequently informed me that they wanted me to serve as the absolute star of a grand event dedicated to the “Supreme Poet ” Dante Alighieri—an event that would extend into a subsequent tribute to Pier Paolo Pasolini and Dario Bellezza.

Inspired, I bring forth—from “the strata of the rock of history”—a short theatrical piece titled: *Dante, Pasolini, Dario Bellezza, Wardal: Infernal… all of them*. It is a reverse journey for the poet Virgil, who guides Dante into the contemporary world of Pasolini, Dario Bellezza (a friend of mine), and myself. Enrico Bernard—a playwright and director of exceptional caliber—directs me; the popular flutist Andrea Ceccomori graces the performance with magical musical moments (much like in the film *Anita*); and Antonio Zaru has designed for me a floor-length tunic of “Inferno-red” sequins.

My entrance is planned to take place from a luxurious automobile—naturally, also “Inferno-red.” An event constructed from such elements—never before blended in this way—has already circled the globe before it has even taken place. The glamour enveloping the event serves as a garment through which—with increasing clarity—emerge political, social, and moral issues: questions regarding peace, and the rampant psychological toxicity pervading both personal relationships and fluid modern connections. It feels as though a “Golden Age of Hollywood” has returned—a legacy that belongs to me through my friendships with Alfred Hitchcock and Billy Wilder. Indeed, I am bringing Billy Wilder back into our present times, envisioning him as the potential protagonist of a mega-event spanning San Francisco and Pompeii—the latter being close to Ischia and Sorrento, where Wilder filmed *Avanti!* with Jack Lemmon.

From the Cannes Film Festival, stars are already booking their attendance for the Roman event scheduled for May 22nd; meanwhile, in Egypt, *The Times International*—edited by Ibrahim Shehata—has published a fascinating article on the subject: https://www.thetimesinternational.com/?p=169588. A flurry of activity is currently underway, forging connections between an American film festival—active across California, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and New York State—and the Vesuvius Film Festival in Pompeii, presided over by architect Giovanna D’Amodio. Meanwhile, the film *Anita*—based on a poem by the hero Garibaldi and a winner at both the SF New Concept IFF and the Vesuvius FF—is enjoying special screenings in Brazil at the Gramado IFF, as well as at Andrea Priori’s Cortintelvi IFF (located between Como and Milan); it has also garnered interest in France at the *Festival International du film d’histoire*.

By now, the role of “puppeteer” seems to be taking hold of me—a role I embrace in order to bring to life these cultural and artistic bridges that constitute my lifelong dream. The very latest news concerns the event scheduled for May 22nd in Rome: the occasion will be graced by exceptional patrons—the legendary impresario of Tina Turner, Domenico Modugno, and the longtime head of the Sanremo Festival, Adriano Aragozzini—alongside Francesco Garibaldi Hibbert, a direct descendant of the “Hero of Two Worlds” who is currently making waves in the film world with *Anita* (a film about his famous ancestress, Anita Garibaldi). The event’s distinguished hostess will be the great actress Adriana Russo. Also taking center stage will be prominent ladies such as the Hon. Angela Alioto and *Cavaliere* Silvia Gardin.

We anticipate a veritable flood of VIPs, aristocrats, academics, stars (whose names we will reveal only after the performance), and filmmakers—including, of course, the performance’s director, Enrico Bernard. They will be joined by directors Antonello Altamura (*Ancient Taste of Death: The Sinister Legend of Wardal*)—who has a “top-secret” surprise in store!—as well as Andrea Marfori (*SHEMSU-HOR*), Jason Zavaleta (*Start on Market*), Sherif El-Azma (*Al-Maza*), and Jennifer Glee (*Narcisse Fluid*). All will be there with me, accompanied by the stars of their respective films—my heartfelt thanks to them all! Also in attendance will be director Agostino Marfella, who, like me, shares a theatrical bond with the poet Dario Bellezza.

But hopefully, all of this will be replicated live in NYC, LA, SF, and the Bay Area—and certainly on both Italian (TV programs featuring Maria Luisa Lo Monte) and American television networks.

Good Days

Poem by Lan Xin

Internationally renowned writer, poet and translator, member of the Chinese Writers Association. The only female inheritor of UNESCO-listed Dongba Culture, International Disseminator of Dongba Culture and practitioner of Chinese culture’s global outreach. Winner of the Italian Francesco Giampietri International Literary Award, President of Lanxin Samei Academy and Dean of Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy.

What makes a day good

Some live in the perfection the world admires

Yet grow numb in ease

Forgetting how to feel

Some walk through simplicity and toil

Yet find joy in the mundane

And peace in contentment

A good day

is never defined by what you have

but lit by how your heart perceives

When gratitude dwells within

and you cherish all before you

when you love life deeply

with tenderness with contentment

with a heart that knows how to love

Then every single day

becomes a day that shines

The smells I have lost

The roads that used to be the day to day
now feel surreal,
like a dream that passed too quickly.

But I still feel under fingerprints
the old fabrics of the table and bed,
the ants waiting for bread crumbs,
and the smell of coffee in the morning.
I miss it, a little,
The soft touch of your face
and its warm comfort.

“But only a little” says my mind,
which barely remembers
the burning sun,
the cold esmerald floor
and white ceiling.

“Feel it again” says my heart desperately,
which only felt
the easy warmth,
the heat of a hug,

and a lost voice.

“I miss everything” says my nose,
to which everything
seems new
and distant:
the roads,
the coffee,
the fabrics,
and your scent.

Stephen Miller Dishes the Dirt on the Controversial New Trump Arch

On Friday, deputy White House chief of staff Stephen Miller met with reporters to give the low down on the proposed Donald J. Trump Independence Arch. Comparisons with the world famous Arc de Triomphe, in Paris, have led to designating the new arch as the Arc de Trump.

Miller drew parallels between the French arch and the Trump Monument. To begin with, the Arc de Triomphe was conceived in 1806, after the victory at Austerlitz by Emperor Napoleon at the peak of his fortunes.

Trump’s arch will mark a victory as well, said Miller. “It will celebrate The Dear Leader’s victory over the goddamned Democrat Party,” shouted Miller, interviewed at the construction site of the proposed monument, on a Washington roundabout across from the Lincoln Memorial.

Asked if the design had been finalized, Miller grew cagey and said that the “final dimensions could change at any moment.” Although the proposed Arc de Trump, at 250 feet, is almost 90 feet taller than the Arc de Triomphe, Miller called attention to the Gateway Arch, built in the mid-1960s.

Originally known as the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial and erected along the Mississippi River in St. Louis, Missouri, it was built to mark the expedition of Lewis & Clark in 1804.

“The St. Louis Arch,” snarled Miller, grinding his teeth, “is effin’ 630 feet tall and somehow it doesn’t seem right that the president’s arch should be smaller. I mean, who the hell were Lewis & Clark and Thomas Jefferson anyway?”

Miller said he has become quite an expert on arches over the past year that consideration has been given to the project. He explained that the Paris arch is a typical triumphal arch, which is a monumental, free-standing archway. It often spans a road. It’s origins date to ancient Roman architecture.

The Gateway Arch, in St. Louis, Miller explained, is built in the form of a weighted catenary arch. It is the world’s tallest arch, a fact which does not sit well with Miller. Miller has chosen a different template for the Arc de Trump.

“Our arch,” boasted Miller, “will be modeled after the Golden Arches in the McDonald’s restaurant logo. While McDonald’s dropped the physical arches from nearly all of its restaurants many years ago, the Golden Arches have remained in the logo, and as a commonly understood term for the company.”

President Trump has a well known fondness for McDonald’s sandwiches. Miller went into greater detail about the origins of McDonald’s arches. “The McDonald’s logo was established in the 1960s on advice from psychologist Louis Cheskin.

“Cheskin likened the arches to ‘mother McDonald’s breasts,’ invoking Freudian elements for consumers. President Trump is very much into female breasts,” declared Miller proudly.

And whereas the Arc de Triompe is composed of limestone, and  the St. Louis Arch is made from stainless steel, here again Trump opts to be different. “The Arc de Trump,” said Miller, “will be made of gold.”

He hastened to add that it would not be gold through and through, but rather, gold-plated. If the final version of the Arc de Trump is in fact equal in size to the Gateway Arch, then it will require some 3,840 pounds of pure gold.

And with gold running to $29,560 per pound, this means that gold-plating the arch will cost $1.13 billion and change. “It will all be paid for by GOP donors,” Miller hastened to add, “so it won’t cost the American citizens a penny.” Miller was asked if possible vandalism of the gold-plated monument was a concern.

“Got it covered,” snapped Miller, pausing to point and laugh at a stray dog that was run over by an ICE vehicle on Memorial Drive. Miller immediately came back to Earth, describing in detail the turrets which will be appended to the arch. “Sharpshooters will take care of any mischief makers,” he said soberly.

As the press event began to wind down, Miller noted that the Arc de Triomphe has a staircase extending to the top of the French monument. “There are 284 steps leading upwards,” said Miller, who went on to say that the Arc de Triomphe would have not stairs, but a golden escalator to the top. “First class all the way,” boasted the Reichsfuhrer, crushing an anthill under his jackboot.

I WANDERED – Tanja Vučićević, Serbia 

I set out with my heart, slowly toward the west.

I paused — I survived a heavy attack.

Where to go next: north or south?

I see no path! I am lost in an enchanted circle.

I am breaking, while my soul plows on like a field.

I ask myself: “Why does the roar of life torment me?”

I turn around and cast my gaze toward the east;

and I pray not to lose my way again.

The night is deaf! In the east I await my salvation;

I hear, I feel — the voice of God is calling me.

Small Girl Big Devil

As quiet as I was 

your silence devoured me

I was spit into bits 

fed to pigeons

given a lollipop for this cross 

and left on someone’s door

who didn’t like children

so I became a woman

overnight 

in a back alley 

and you looked at your work 

said thy will be done

and fell into deep slumber 

as I crawled away in shame 

Monsters are made 

not born 

there’s still a monster under my bed 

I hear it deep within the empty night 

when dreams play tricks 

and lovers stop 

loving 

The morning so futile 

where I attempt to redeem 

us 

under the blood sun that rises 

over the arch of our terrace 

that hasn’t been used in decades 

and never will 

Since the city has climaxed 

we are spent within her

Alive 

but dead with guilt 

and old with fear 

Yet 

we sit together

numbly silent 

as a tomb

In Poison We Began

Your breath a siphon

of everything me

those late nights 

we plodded through our deadlands 

as vacant as the wind 

your lips a poison 

never matched 

(and we choose our poisons delicately)

Some burst of cosmic gases

from an unnamed planet 

as it flew apart 

fused us 

there isn’t a fiber 

between our skin 

our poison combined 

threaten

all the surroundings 

When I slink out 

from our skin 

I witness us

white and wrinkled 

posed as humans 

we glow toxic blue

in the moonlight 

We fold back

into each other’s poison

scrimmage until the moon

dies 

because we can’t ever 

leave pure things alone 

Sweet Darlings

There was something off

in my mother 

I’m sure I realized this at a young age

We salt our own wounds

to go back and revisit in some nostalgic way 

never does any good 

There’s a heroic bend to events 

we escaped from 

or got out of unscathed 

but it is bent and strange 

hope can be quiet rage in youth…..in the meek 

There are outliers for reasons 

back then I skirted darkness 

it was so natural 

to turn into those monsters 

the same ones I was born to

and some of us morph 

to become a hybrid 

pulling some old dark legacy 

along with a new creeping addiction

I don’t have to call up the dead

to ensure I’m awake nights 

I’ve been awake for decades 

fearing some floating stigma 

that will get me 

at some future point 

If there’s something off in me

the root goes deep 

my road went dark aways ago

I cry forward 

Kitty

The wind ever so lightly rustles the trees

there’s an egg in the blue jay’s nest

Kitty lights a Newport

blows that mint smoke straight into

the fresh morning air

we sit

sludgy and bent

ogle the simple shit

as if life never existed before

the blue egg

before martyrdom

Christ

dinosaurs

it’s all new today

cuz we heeled she says

Kitty coughs

deep and chunky

phlegm flows

over her lips

she wipes her mouth with a tissue

her potbelly ever so round

tits sag down 

while gravity sucks at her nipples

I light a Marlboro

nothin left to fear

that ain’t already spooked us

the egg

divine and speckly

imperfect

yet so pure

can’t take my eyes off it

almost the color 

of a Tiffany giftbox

Kitty grunts

asks who Tiffany is

I just want the egg to open at its time

without a hungry predator lurking

I want that baby blue jay for my own

some dormant motherhood beam

creeks in my dead womb

as if to ask

what happened to the many eggs

I’ve scrambled at the predator’s foaming jowls

A singular cry from the momma blue jay

the mother’s moan 

dates back to Mary

some invisible clock

that stops a heart

when necessary

as written in the Torah 

and we’ll come to it

Hole (For M.M.)

Your Frankenstein chariot

pieced together

from many dead Harleys

The rides to the beach

salt air sprayed us

from both sides of the bridge

and it was a freedom so epic

it engulfed us

Glittered eyelids

black leather

lust like dogs

hunger eats like a hole

we ain’t filling in this life

The bike on the boardwalk

us

staring into a future

we were unable to feed

sucking at the pure moment 

of innocence and death

too naive to know the difference

Boardwalk now is cracked

ripped and busted up

from the many storms 

I walk it alone from time to time

hungry to get to the point

That tipping point

when you and I meet 

as ghosts

Abdel latif Moubarak
Egypt

“Layla the Nightingale” did not walk on the ground; she floated on red carpets that stretched from Cairo to the capitals of mist and beauty. On those nights, the Grand Opera House would tremble before she even stepped on stage. The scent of luxury incense mingled with her French perfume, a fragrance crafted exclusively for her.

When she raised her hand, thousands fell silent. When she sang, that silence became sacred. The headlines read: “Layla, the Woman Who Stole the Throat of Angels.” She never imagined that this applause, which sounded like winter thunder, could ever fade.
It began with a simple rasp, which doctors dismissed as exhaustion. But Layla knew something was breaking inside. The hoarseness wasn’t just in her voice; it was in her soul. A “young producer” arrived with loud, rhythmic beats, and the public’s taste began to shift.

She told her manager coldly, “The audience doesn’t betray, darling; they are just being temperamental.” But when she stood for her final grand concert, she saw empty seats in the back rows. Those seats looked like black holes waiting to swallow her history whole.
Events accelerated like falling dominoes. A failed marriage to a businessman stripped her of half her fortune before he vanished. Tax cases piled up like dust on her old crowns. She was forced to sell her villa in Zamalek, then her Mercedes—the car the city streets knew by heart.

She moved to a small apartment in a crowded neighborhood, keeping her silk dresses in battered leather suitcases. She still wore bright red lipstick when she opened the door for the electricity collectors, as if she were receiving a press delegation.
The turning point came at a second-rate nightclub where she was forced to sing to pay her rent. She stood under a flickering neon light. She tried to reach that high note that used to shake hearts, but what came out was a strangled, wounded cry—the sound of a dying bird.
A drunkard in the hall laughed and shouted, “Give it up, lady! Your time is over!” The microphone fell from her hand, and there was no one there to catch it.

Two years passed. The phone stopped ringing. The friends who used to crowd her dressing room were suddenly struck by a collective amnesia. Resources dried up, and she was evicted from her apartment.
She walked out with a single suitcase containing one dress encrusted with fake crystals and a few black-and-white photographs showing kings and presidents applauding a woman who looked like her, but whom she no longer recognized.

The street has no mercy for those accustomed to silk carpets. On her first night under the Qasr al-Nil Bridge, she watched the Nile—the river she once sang to as the “Source of Goodness.” Now, the Nile looked like a black beast lurking for the lonely.
She lay on a piece of cardboard and covered her face with an old shawl. She didn’t sleep; she listened to the footsteps of passersby, terrified someone might recognize her… and even more terrified that no one would.

As the months went by, Layla’s features changed. Gray invaded the hair that once shone like a summer night, and the hands that were once kissed in high society became cracked and rough. She became “the crazy woman” who sat by the metro station.
She would sing in a very low voice—indistinct humming. People would drop coins in her lap out of pity for a “beggar,” never realizing that the hand taking the spare change was the same one that had received the highest medals of art.
One day, a luxury car pulled up in front of her. A young singer stepped out—the current “Number One” star. He wore sunglasses to hide his face. He placed a large banknote in her hand without looking at her.

Layla looked at his face and remembered him as a child who was once in her musical troupe. She wanted to call his name, to say, “It’s me, Layla, my son,” but her tongue had grown used to silence, and the pride remaining in her ashes held her back.
On a bitterly cold winter night, Layla felt the curtain was about to fall. She couldn’t feel her limbs, but her throat suddenly regained its old purity. She stood in the middle of the empty street at midnight.

She began to sing her most beautiful song, “Farewell to My Dreams.” Her voice echoed through the alleys of Downtown, powerful and resonant, as if she were back at the Opera. Residents opened their windows in amazement: “Who is this angelic voice in the dead of night?” But Layla wasn’t singing for the living; she was singing for the sky.
In the morning, they found an old woman lying peacefully on the pavement. She was smiling, holding a faded old photograph of a woman glowing under the spotlights.

No one knew who she was. She was taken away in an ambulance as an “unidentified body.” That evening, a radio in a nearby café played her famous song: “I am the one who never dies… I remain in your hearts,” while her body was being laid to rest in a pauper’s grave—far from the lights, and very close to the truth.

—