You
It is one of those times when there is no sunset, just a mist. You stare at the sea and the line of the horizon is gone. You are in front of an abstract canvas, too close, with just one colour: grey. There is height and there is width, but no depth. The mountains, gone. The harbour, gone. You think if you had a boat to sail, your fate would be that of Truman in The Truman Show: you'd hit the edge of the stage. Things get more theatrical when you turn around. Empty buildings. No wind. Purposeless traffic lights. There's something intriguing about two-dimensional landscapes. Japanese people used to stare at them in hanging scrolls, seated at floor level, just like us now.
You know I always want to hear what's happening in the stories you read. You say life is throwing storms at the protagonist, he can't catch a breath before the next wave swallows him. He thinks life is a chain of misfortunes, a punishment for his sins. I tell you what I think: 'One has to be really egocentric to feel that way.' 'And one is,' you say. 'And one is,' I say. You close the book and put it in your pocket. We stare.
Gaman is a Japanese word. It means 'enduring the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity'. That's what Wikipedia says. As if life were an all-weather storm you were invited to witness. As if it weren't about you at all, as if there were not much of a 'you' really. As if you were not just a witness but part of the weather as well. And you go with it, you accept it. Like the land accepts the rain or the plumb accepts gravity. Like the sand accepts the waves, with patience and dignity.
They say there is a will in humans. You say there is just humans. Not a will, just weather. There are no sins, just weather. Nothing to forgive, just weather. Mist, sun, wind, thunder, rain, heat. Our attempt to blame the storm is fruitless. Our attempt to tame the storm, laughable. Mist, sun, wind, thunder, rain, heat. Weather, weather, weather. Trust the weather. Witness the weather. There's nothing but weather. The weather exists, and is perfect and undeniable. We're the weather and the witnesses of it.
They say I am tempestuous, that I have an eye to describe the weather. But you're the one who knows how to be weather. You, you, you. Weather, weather, weather.
Better hungry than dead
The wife of the Spanish poet Miguel Hernández had only onions to eat while breastfeeding their son. Hernández wrote Lullaby of the Onion for them while imprisoned by the fascist regime. Mother and son survived. He was denied medical attention and was left to die in jail. I was a student of humanities in the public university when I learnt about that.
At the time, my country was supporting the US in its attack of a Middle Eastern country. This war, as all others, was avoidable. My father had himself gone through an avoidable war in his childhood. A rebellion funded by the privileged against a democratically elected and somewhat innovative government that was investing in getting my country out of illiteracy and poverty. The privileged weren't happy with that. They probably thought we were too primitive for such a plan and that everything would end up in anarchy and death. So they had to do something about it: they had to start a war in which 540,000 people would die, so that they could avoid the death that a hypothetical anarchy might bring about. Death prevents death, they might have thought. After three years, the rebels, with the help of other European fascist forces, won that war and a dictatorship that would last 36 years followed. No anarchy. They succeeded in keeping my country as illiterate and hungry as the 20th century allowed a Western European country to be. They also changed the country's flag, so only their supporters could identify with it and their victims would feel like foreigners in their own land. My father went through all that, but his dad was a stubborn goatherd who at the cost of his own hunger managed to feed his son enough so that he could study. And my father studied, a lot. Rumour has it that years later, while my father was teaching chemistry, the dictator walked into the classroom. He had to say hello to him and stand in a corner.
My father spent half of his life studying and teaching so he could eat, buy books on the black market and have a room in which to hide them safely. Only when in his fifties, the dictator dead and the fascist regime over, he had the time to have a daughter. So there I was, in my early twenties, seeing how the democratically elected government of my country was supporting an avoidable war. 'Dad, but why didn't you vote in the last election to avoid something like this happening? Dad, why don't you ever vote!?' My father had answers to all my questions. I could ask him about history, physics, Russian literature, algebra, agriculture, classical music, biology... he knew about it all. He never gave me a convincing answer for this question, though. It remained a mystery that he left for me to figure out.
Despite having toiled his way through the century of ideologies, my dad was politically a rarity, not so much a freethinker as an indecipherable one. For years I wondered if he was consciously making an effort not to fill me with resentment, not to shape my identity... too late, dad. Too many books on our shelves had already done it. You never hid them from me. So then, what could have happened to my father that he never used his right to vote after having damned the coup that wrecked his childhood, killed his teachers, starved his dad and forced him to stay silent in a corner to survive? The reasonable answer was fear. But the right answer was what I've come to realise only now. A feeling that comes after fear and that I'm experiencing these days. Let's call it disillusionment.
After the Iraq war, I always voted for those who now have the privilege of forming the democratically elected government of my country. Unlike my dad, I voted to ensure that never again would thousands of people die for the decisions of the privileged few. These days, the democratically elected government that I voted for acts late, ignores scientific evidence, allows and enables thousands of avoidable deaths. The democratically elected opposition, the one supposed to challenge the government, is pressuring it to act even later, even less, to let more die. This democratically elected and ideologically heterogeneous group of privileged people probably thinks saving lives will bring about hunger and anarchy, so they have to do something to stop saving lives, or in this case, they have to do precious little to let those deaths happen. Just enough to save face, just that. Letting people die would save people from hunger and hypothetical death... Death prevents death, they must be thinking. Probably they haven't thought that hungry people like my father's dad still have a chance that death does not give them. The chance to be stubborn enough to feed their sons at the cost of their own hunger, so one day someone like my father could read books and survive and have a daughter who, unlike him, will overcome disillusionment and will keep on voting for the lesser evil until one day no privileged group will leave us to die again.
'Fly, child, on the double moon of the breast: it, onion sad; you, fed and content. Do not falter.' I owe it to Hernández, to those books, to my father. I owe it to his father as well.
The list
It was Sunday, like today. I had just hugged my friend goodbye, taken a book from her, walked past the magnolia tree of my road. All the flowers upright, breaking the downward tendency of the branches, like the hands of an Indian folk dancer. The intense azure of the stained-glass-window shop in the background gave the street a prayer-card look. Laughter came from the pub on the corner, children were chalking the pavement. A couple stroked the neighbour's cat. My keys, my deep-blue door, the carpeted stairs. My cat stretching his legs through the banister, wanting to reach me. Me lying on the floor. The book my friend had given me with one word on its cover: Abiding. The wall clock knocked gently, almost a whisper, nothing. The stars falling slow on the rooftops. Me looking from the floor through the window. Abiding. I was going to search for the word in the dictionary when a message from far, far away popped up.
The sender was a friend, a bright guy. I believe his field of research not long ago was fluid mechanics. However, our correspondence had never been about fluids or solids, but more about the intangible. This time, though, his message was filled with numbers, percentages, liquids, objects, hours. It had the form of a list, too, an unlikely one. A list of instructions. Soap on the hand for 20-30 seconds... liquid hand soap and water is still preferable to alcohol... Drying the hands after washing... use as many hair pins as possible... If your distance is less than 1.5 meters... It's better to set the washing machine temperature to 60 degrees Celsius instead of 40 or 20... Ethanol (ethyl-alcohol) and Isopropyl-alcohol are two of the best alcohols... if their concentration is lower than 55% or more than 90%, they simply can't... Bread should be reheated before consumption... put them in an isolated location for a few days (at least 3 days, although this number is reported to be higher/lower). He said the list was based on articles he had been studying. I wrote back. On his reply the list continued. This time the instructions were shorter, more precise: Never ever shake hands or hug at the moment. Never ever eat or drink in cafes and restaurants. No fast food. If you go to a supermarket, buy necessary items for at least a week or two. Don't participate in voluntary activities. You can still go to different places in the city as long as you keep enough distance from others. Avoid touching the face until you're back home, undressed, washed you hands and cleaned your stuff. At the end, what I thought to be his last recommendation: Don't trust the government. That evening I would not have believed that I was to live by them all.
After receiving that list, not much has been the same. My blue door, the magnolia tree, the wall clock, all that everyday stuff only lives in the snow globe of my memory now... so perfect, so small, so remote. Today is Sunday as well, and again I have got a message from my friend. All friends write from distant lands these days. This is the only one who sent the list, though. We've never seen each other, but now I'm determined to travel to his country one day, sit at his table and try his food perhaps while discussing the intangible, like before. We shouldn't let go of any opportunity, he said. He also said that there was something else on the list, a bullet point of information he had intentionally removed. I guess eight months ago he might have thought it wasn't really an instruction anyway: We can and will win only when we're ready to attack. We're many months, if not years, away from it, and until then, the game isn't controlled by us. Win. Attack. Control. Our correspondence had never had such verbs. The floor of the place where I live now is cold; I can't lie on it. On the shelf, something from that Sunday evening is still in place. A book with just one word for a title: Abiding. I don't need the dictionary.
Letter from the coast
I woke up and sat with your words after three weeks of not being able to tune into much. I guess I've been feeling towards the world a bit like you described, as if its image was washed away.
Yesterday, like almost every day since I arrived, I went to the beach to see the sunset. It was windy again and big waves were breaking against the pebbles. In my childhood I'd see these pebbles disappear due to strong waves, leaving the village almost beachless. They were being pulled towards the belly of the ocean by violent currents I used to swim across as a child. I'm not scared of waves, it's just now I don't jump into them. I must have learnt how to watch from a distance.
The beach was almost empty but I could see someone taking pictures of the sea and the sun. He bent down, every time getting closer and closer to the breakwater. On his knees, the water almost splashing the camera, trying to arrest the mountains, to hold them just where they were, before they climbed the sky's reddening bindi. I did that when I used to take pictures, the contortions and all, back when my eyes were not mostly looking inward. Now everything out is looking too bright, as if overexposed. Washed, as you said.
I never told you that the people of this village lined up big rocks stretching from the pebbles into the sea. It happened many years ago. They broke the smooth line of the cape and I remember wondering in horror why everyone was so content about it. I was the kind of kid who liked - even if briefly - everything pretty and thought those mouldy boulders were stains on the landscape. Later I turned into the kind of person who would go to great lenghts to take pictures with the right shutter speed, never staying too long on a shore as imperfect as this one.
Maybe I have grown into the prodigal daughter now. The one who sits on the beach that she earlier abandoned and others stained... but saved. I must be here to learn the crushing lesson, because, my friend, you tell me what else I'm doing in this village.
Suddenly, while watching the photographer's pirouettes I found myself humming a song. It was this arabesque melody I hadn't heard in decades but that my memory decided to store, with lyrics and all. My voice as weak as my ear, yet the tune managing to come through like drops of glue out of a dry bottle. The song pinned the sun to the sky. The song pinned me to the pebbles. The song pinned the pebbles to the shell that keeps oceans and earth in their place. And as if by magic the beach and I were suddenly there, just for a few seconds, held, not to be washed away.
Are you talking to me?
It had been months since the last time I watched a movie. When you consider films events, you understand they require a certain state of mind. You would't want to go to the opera with an accute migraine, or attend a baby shower in the middle of an existential crisis, right? But after a long time avoiding violence and sorrow on the screen I weirdly found myself sitting in the dark in front of Taxi Driver. I could have watched some other film... never mind, I had to start somewhere.
It's hard to tell how I'd have read the main character had I seen the film one year ago. I wouldn't have paid so much attention to how carelessly he sat in coffee shops, that's for sure. Of course he would have still been... what he is, but perhaps one year ago I wouldn't have felt pity for Travis. Travis was - among many other terrible things - pretty isolated.
'Isolated' according to Merrian Webster's dictionary means 'ocurring alone'. Google says it also means 'having minimal contact or little in common with others'. But I like the first definition better. I like the idea of he being a lonesome event, in a way like a movie, like a DVD movie.
So Travis: Travis lives in a world he barely engages with. He has a job and rents a room in New York City, he probably knows the city very well, and as I said before he is free to enter coffee shops - even cinemas - without having to fear for his life. He's a good observer, writes to his parents from time to time and doesn't give a damn about politics. So far Travis doesn't sound so bad. The problem - among many other terrible things - is he doesn't really participate in any of that. He is there, but he is not, perhaps because he doesn't know how.
To be a part of something implies a lot more than what one might think. First you have to 'get it', you have to understand the system, the codes enough to operate within it. For example, I don't know how to drive, so if I had to join the motorway, I'd quickly call everyone's attention - among many other terrible things. Think about my cat now: if he had to go to the wild and be a part of a wolf's pack, he just wouldn't get the point of the pack. He'd still want food and love like everyone else, but he wouldn't understand why following the alpha male was preferable to following a fly. Travis wants food and love, and he kind of manages with the first, but the second... I'm afraid the second requires some belonging; he can't be happening alone.
There's this scene in the movie where apparently Travis looks at the mirror and rehearses some interactions. A bit like pulling faces before taking a picture to post online, but with words and just a mirror. I say "apparently" because I missed that scene. I can't tell what really happened, but it's gone. I watched my first film in months, a classic, and I can't even recollect its most notorious scene, De Niro's iconic line 'Are you talking to me?' Nothing, as if it never happend. There was definitely a reason for which - among many other terrible things - I hadn't seen movies in so long.
Mosquito bites
This movie title 'Reality bites' just popped up in my head. The 90's. A bunch of good-looking Hollywood actors in lumberjack shirts pretending they had problems, dancing in gas stations. I must have watched that movie in awe as a teenager with no need for gas stations. I didn't have a car or even a licence. I still haven't got either of those. Unlike the characters I had problems and pretended I didn't. Maybe I just didn't know those things were 'problems'. But like them, I wore a lumberjack shirt. I still wear it after I wash my hair in winter because somehow that fabric keeps the water away from my back.
I honestly have no clue what the movie was about, but it had a catchy soundtrack and I think Ethan Hawk or someone like him was hitting on Wynona Ryder. Perhaps it wanted to show how 'reality bites' you if you're young and perfect and you think you've got problems when you're actually having a blast while in love with the idea of looking a bit tormented. Anyway, I'm nowhere near the 90s anymore so I must have thought of that title due to these mosquito bites.
You see, I can't fully relax in this place. Noone else here seems to have a problem with mosquito bites but me. I don't know if it is because they don't bite them, or because they bite them, but the bites don't itch or perhaps they itch, but they don't care or they care but they don't want to think about it. The reality is that for whatever reason that escapes my understanding I'm alone with these mosquitos.
The first thing I did after being badly bitten was to complain, you have this sense of justice, you're minding your business, loving and respecting every insect on Earth and then 'ouch, but why?!' That cry wasn't heard, nor any balance restored so I had to fight. I set up mosquito repellent in every socket and spent a fortune on mosquito nets. I covered my bed with an impenetrable canopy. But they still managed to enter and bite me. I couldn't help but kill them. I broke my own rules and ethics and smashed the life out of them with fast hands and a guilty heart just to end up feeling tired, bitten and one of their kind. That's when I decided I'd let them bite me and pretend I was like everyone else here, that there was no itch. But it itched. So I believed the problem was me and stayed like that for a while, convinced I deserved each one of those bites.
One day that old sense of justice made me begin to question my beliefs and the researching started. I found out a lot about mosquitoes, where they came from and why they were actually biting me. I felt empathetic towards them and wanted to help, pointed them in the right direction, away from me. But they are mosquitoes at the end of the day and the truth is they've kept on biting me. Today it's really windy in this place. I've opened the windows and the mosquitoes seem to have disappeared. I know they are there, though. I know because I see the bites and I remember other windy days and how after the west wind left, they came and bit again. You see, I can't fully relax in this place. I'm alone with these mosquitos.
Museum conversation in the open air
"Did you know the color red is invisible under moonlight?" "No, I didn't.
Did you know once the taraxacum blooms, its head dries out for a couple of days, its stamens fall, the bracts bend backwards, and its parachute ball opens into a full sphere?" "Yes. No. I mean, yes, but I wouldn't have said it that way."
"Do you still feel the wounds when a second is a frame?" "Do you look at the price tags of microscopes?" "Hmmm."
"Here is a book I read the other day. Take it. It's yours." "Here is a song I listened to the other day." "Where is it?" "Where is what?" "The song. Give it to me!" "Ah, it's inside my head. You know, I can't sing it the way it sounds, I never learned how to sol-fa. I hope you don't mind; it's yours anyway."
"How high are the heights?" "How do you pronounce that?" "Con 'a', not with an 'e': 'h-a-i-t-s'"
"Look at that man, he knows how to ring a bell." "Oh, he must have had access to bells throughout his childhood."
"How tall were you when you were a child?" "About this much. I couldn't reach most of the bells." "Hmmm."
"What are you doing tonight?" "I'm watching voices sitting on a red armchair without arms. Oh lord...
What do you call that?" "Amputee?" "No, those velvet armchairs with no arms." "Uhh... Chairs?" "No! The ones at theaters... gah." "Seats?" "Leave it, never mind.
I'm sure it doesn't have a name. I should give it one, though. A name in English, I mean." "With what authority would you do that?" "With the sovereign one. What will you do tonight?"
"Not sure; tonight it may be my birthday." "Will you be one year older again?" "No, no. More like going back in time to my last birthday, I guess."
"A parachute. Look. Right there."
"It looks like a full sphere."
Oath of eternal love (apropos of 'Mother Joan of the Angels')
Hey, would you marry me? How about a lifetime? You and me? Hm? Actually, God, give me eternal life. I'd strain spaghetti for Billy with a racquet every night, I'd stay at home, at the crime scene, with the Long Island skyline behind the glass, I'd trust Abbas with no fear, I'd be a loyal wife... even if I take a cab driven by Jim at 3 am every once in a while, or even if I join Andrei to go beyond the stars. Oh, translucent roll, come here! Don't look to the other side. I'd stand with Federico to watch the frameworks burn, I'd lock myself in a lift with Louise, I'd take puffs with Jean-Pierre and hold my laugh for Jean-Luc. I'd windmill to fall into the river while James is keeping an eye... C'mon... don't tell me it doesn't sound fun. Trust me, I'll love you back. Put your signature here. Here your fingerprints. There we are! Now we need a witness, hmmm... no, we need no one; we are complete; you, shadows and lights, you and me. Our thing is going to last.
I'm still thinking of last night. You are such a gentleman... Really, you bring me back to black and white. I liked your savoir faire from the first word, from the first blink, from the first note. From scratch Jerzy knew what he did, so did Mother Joan. Tonight I'll try to take a night train with them, let's see how much Polish I can catch from my bunk. What a way of looking sideways, Lucyna, what a pair of eyes. Love will beat evil, but it will also make you cry. What is wrong and what feels nice? What is sin and what would be better not to fight? Let's think about that with our lashes, in the dark. There are always lots to discuss. Let's celebrate our honeymoon waiting for the bus with Chantal, we'll head East, Walter will wave his hand when passing by Berlin and we'll arrive just in time to play chess with Satyajit. Masaki will open his house to us. There is so much to see... God, give me eternal life, please... I'd hand scissors to Norma, she'll cut ropes to set the horses free. Charles will be with me also, giving a speech in the limelight. Ángel will leave the door open and Vivien will walk in, glimmering in wine, like a drunken goddess, that dress, those brows.... Let's dance with Alberto and Silvana till the next life... Oh, 16:9, I think I'm speaking too much. I think I've lost my head. I think I've got a crush.
Fly me to the drain
Pouring it down. Four floors above some tiny street of downtown Madrid. 1:50 p.m. A boat's cockpit, a few windowed square meters that the landlord stole from the terrace, that's the kitchen there (or what my roommates call a testing ground of the finest Italian cuisine, "listen to me, the best pumpkin ravioli recipe ever is yet to be conceived on this cook top by me." Outside a gypsy family is moving out; a hipster couple is moving in. The pillows of a couch are sopping on one side of the street. The van is blocking a mail truck. No hurries, it's raining, it's moving, some are gypsies, some are government workers, everyone brims with patience, everything is soaked in harmony. As I stab the artichoke's best piece, the bell rings; the new fridge has arrived. Artichokes must wait, it's time to whitewash this mess of empty balsamic vinegar bottles and mismatching tupperware lids. It's time to descale this den, to give this flat the girl's touch. Mum would feel proud. It's me versus this kitchen and only one can remain standing: cleanliness. Amen. 3, 2, 1, spray!
Sunshine punch. Attic floor of some state-subsidized building at the center of Madrid. 3:40 p.m. The more I scrub, the more dirt appears. Why on earth did I start to do this? The pasta dough is thawing, the arugula leaves are going off, my forearms are losing glycogen alarmingly. "The new fridge can't be plugged in until six hours have passed." Ok, four hours remaining. Enough time to see those mushrooms raising their kids... This stove... look at this! This is carbonized! I shouldn't be having these thoughts, I shouldn't forget what I dealt with when I was at... Cof, cof, cof! God, I don't want to live in a flat, I want to rent a soap bubble now and spend the rest of my life there. Mental note: Don't write about this. If there is someone reading you, he/she will stop, disgusted and probably think you're a squeamish being. I'm not. Mum wouldn't feel proud; mum would faint if she saw this. Ok, I can do it. I've fought worse burners than these. Take a deep breath. No, better don't. C'mon 3, 2, 1, scrape! Now!
Dusk. Flooded kitchen of some rat hole with miles of cement around. 7:45 p.m. Only an idiot could have decided to start this stupidity. It's just the floor. Wash the floor and everything will be done. Look at my artwork. Look at the cabinets, shinning accordingly to the new fridge. Look at the cook top... Pumpkin ravioli... Ebola vaccine can be conceived here now! Look at my fingertips, that’s how they'll look when I'm 96. Wow. I'm honoring the housewife's lineage to which I belong. What pride. What an evening my good lord. What a waste of energy. What a shine, what an emptiness... Poor mum, poor kitchen cleaners of this universe, I'm speaking to you all: stop the scrub, send it to hell, let the soot run, let the grease get pasted, let time fly you to the moon and not to the drain! Well, I'll make my roommates happy at least, I guess. "Ma, Carmen, cos'hai fatto? Where are the forks? Where is the salt?! Santa Madonna... questa ragazza è pazzo!"
Real sights
A city made of nougat lying at my feet. I had never seen that place before, but a feeling of having dreamt of it was melting its corners like fondue. I had already tasted it, of course. Perhaps it was a forgotten dream, perhaps that's what autumn does; it brings what one day was swept, it awakes what it had been asleep for years, like an old flavour suddenly recovered.
Ferris wheel was a difficult set of words, though I was almost sure I had read it some time ago; it was a similar language to the one spoken in that town; one hour less; eleven degrees more. I felt at home, like I feel here, in this room that has been mine for eight days now; familiar, as a nutshell the size of my bones.
The view started with a white liquorice bar splitting into two lines, scraping the truffle rails. That city looked busy, but not busy-beheaded, not busy-desponded, not busy-speaking-alone... but busy like full performance toys on December 25th. The cathedral stood, like an upside down single scoop of ice cream, a really big one. Then the clock house, the tin soldiers fortress, the chimney sweep path, the gingerbread towers. Everything had been waiting for my glance, for my mouth, neatly in place, like I surely dreamt once. Chocolate squares were used indistinctively as thermal insulation and floor tiles. I was impressed, by the efficiency and savour.
The bridges had whipped cream drops constantly running over them, hurrying up, carrying folded umbrellas, using them as hand whisks; and under them the blackcurrant potion sped even more, probably to pour itself into the tea cup of a caterpillar smoking a hookah. Yes, a caterpillar like that had to be the artificer, I'm almost sure.
A city made of nougat lying at my feet, and a fresh bulgy orange warming it up behind the smoke, the sky was actually clean, the temperature sort of awake-cold, delicious, dream-warm, unsweetened fruit compote. Now I think I may have not tasted it before, just in dreams, dreams I had forgotten, real sights now.
Rosa's revelations attack again
"It doesn't matter what your job's all about, you'll end up alienated." "Oh, c'mon." "You can turn your head, you can live with your back to reality Carmen, but trust me, this is for sure: the system leaves no escape, this show is meant to make us hate our roles ultimately." "Rosa, are you trying to bring me down or something? What have I done to you on this bright autumn day? Look at the clouds, aren't they cute and chubby? Quit that crappy job once and for all and stop the existential yapping!" "I can't. There are no clouds in here. Just scorching pale blue sky. I've not saved a single cent. I have to get a euro-mattress before moving on from this slavery." "You won't save anything if in your scarce six free hours per day you behave like a flea in a dog race." "What do you want me to do? At least wasting money gives me inner peace." "Rat, you have me worried, really." "There is no midpoint mouse, once I leave this job I'm going to enroll directly in that sanctuary." "The heck..!?" "Yeah, it's now or never, like Dean Martin said. I told you, I need a radical change, I've got to..." "Wait, wait, wait. Dean Martin didn't...""Oh, listen to me Carmen! All the revelations I've had for the past five months on night shifts point towards the same direction." "Sure. You could use some sleep." "I can't overlook the truth anymore, the facts are being displayed in Arial bold right in front of my eyes. As soon as I save enough, I'll move to the hills and stay silent for a good while, maybe years, who knows." "I.. I mean" "I don't expect anything other than your unconditional support and faith in me, as usual. Lil' mouse, this is it. I'm done. I don't belong to this world anymore. I shall leave. Soon. To reunite myself with the mother source and become one with it. I've spoken. Period. Stop. The end." "Rosa, you are nuts." " Gotta get back to work. Will call you later. Send me the song you told me about. I need to keep my ears away from this wasps' nest." "Hang on rat, everything will be." "I love you mouse." "Love you more. Bye."
Prayer for those who don't need it
Blessed are those who saw the unscathed light, who woke up today and didn't raise the blinds because they had been up all night.
Who left the place where the pain was, those who headed to it once, twice, too many times. Blessed are those who stood on that land, kneeled knees and got up alive.
Those who are born, those who'll die from now on. Blessed are those who thought about quitting words, climbing heights, dreaming of rivers that swallowed them. Who stirred the drug and the water today. Blessed are those who decided to stay, bound the wound but not the face.
Blessed who embraced the end, who gave it up at the last step, those are blessed as well. Who regret but don't regret, who knew but didn't know but did it anyways, who knocked on hell's door calling it heaven instead. Blessed are those who look around and find new ways.
Blessed are those who hold what they can't name, who were bitten by night bugs and show their marks when sun comes. Who recognize the supremacy of what will fade one day, who don't hide what is to show. Blessed are those who remained lying still on beds, facing the unknown, studying eyes, decoding messages, translating drawings of birds.
Blessed are those who saw the unscathed that lit today, who blew ashes, who lighted somewhere.
I can't write today
I can't write today. I'm in a rush. In a couple of hours I'm leaving for another town. My sister is getting married. I'll give a speech at the ceremony. I've already read it to three people. The three of them cried. I think that means it's okay. I'm wearing a pink turban with green feathers. The dress looks like Freddy Krueger's cheeks right now. It will be all right. Nobody will notice it. Nobody but mum. She's driving me crazy.
I can't write today. My sister won't let me. She's calling me... every three and a half minutes. I have to get into a random car and ask for directions and collect one shoe from the repair shop. I have to set the camera angles. I have to carry the hard disk. There is a general rehearsal tonight. The hard disk, I'll end up forgetting it. Put it on the table. Put it next to the door. Put it on top of my head right now and walk like an African housewife, keeping balance, swinging the hips, laying it back. Not sure if that phrasal verb works in there or not. Anyway, I can't write today. I'm too excited to focus, to concentrate. I'm running and playing songs every three and a half minutes. Changing the track now. Going through a 90's phase. I know, I know. Neighbours are going to complain. Hater's gonna hate. Rain is going to fall tomorrow, at the wedding. It will be okay. It will look epic somehow.
What else, what else, ah! don't forget the bag. My speech will be kept in there, with my wallet and other stuff. I don't need to bring the wallet to my sister's wedding! I'll take it out right now. Wait. I need a wallet to get there by car. Wallet back into bag. What will I do with my nails, by the way? Pah, tomorrow I'll figure it out. Nobody will look at my hands. They won't be noticed. Oh. Wait. My eldest sister will put her eyes on them from first glance. I don't care. I like natural style, skin color charm, pink plain. Jeez, look at the time. I definitely can't write today. And it is a shame. I kind of like this typing thing I have going on. Okay. The phone again. I'd better pick it up. I'd better iron the dress. Hahahaha. Look at those wrinkles. God. Mum will get mad. I can't be helped. Next track. Leaving now. I can't write today. I'm in a rush.
Café terrace
Table 4:
"Check this out. I made it myself last night. I think it is not bad." "Let me read: COMPUTER ENGINEER, MAINTENANCE, REPAIRING, CUSTOMIZE, BUILD PER PARTS, RECOVERING FROM BLACKOUTS. FREE INTERNET SETUP. CONTACT ONLY THROUGH WHATSAPP. FREE YOUR SMARTPHONE. ALL IN CHINESE DEVICES." "What do you think?" "I wouldn't call." "Why?" "It sounds like a fraud." "That's exactly what people want." "People want quality and confidence." "Ok, you tell me how I should offer illegal services for 3 euros per hour while sounding trustworthy." "Establish a multinational company." "This life is crap. I need a decent job." "Hahahaha hahhaha ahaha ah ah hahaha ay." "What are you guys going to have?" "I want a glass of clear" "I want an empty glass. Thanks." "Sure." "Hey, I don't want to share my beer again." "Just till next week, I swear. Look at that, look at that, look at that. Now, those are legs." "Really, I mean... How can we be friends?"
Table 7:
"Oh my, oh my, oh my, I want to be those shorts." "So do I." "Well, what are they saying? Are they coming over or not?" "Seems like they are, but later. This girl and her friends are a pain in the neck when it comes to setting a time." "Yesterday I saw Jose." "Whoa, really?" "Had not seen him since his wedding." "Poor kid, he's already under domestic arrest." "What a loser." "Yeah, well, with Dani it's practically the same." "And with Rober as well... You need to be an idiot to get tamed like that." "Clin." "What has she typed now?" "They are downtown." "What!? No, not again." "Get your wallet ready my friend." "I hate women, really, they all should burn in hell." "Better we move now, it will take a while to find a parking lot." " This time you pay." "Me? Who's car is this, boy?"
Table 1:
"This is your third mobile this year." "I need it, OK?" "Then don't say you cannot afford to fix your mouth." "Fine. You know what? I like my teeth the way they are. Have you got any problem with that?" "Your call." "I feel like French fries. Do they serve French fries? Go ask." "I'm not getting up to search for that waiter again. You want fries, you get him to see your hand raised. All the best." "I can't even take HD videos with this junk." "You really should fill those gaps." "Forget about my teeth." "I'm talking about something else." "Forget about that as well." "Yeah... I'd better forg... Excuse me! Excuse me! Another glass over here, whenever you can." "You didn't ask for my fries." "I'll go to the bar and order them. Is that ok? Do you need something else?" "Yes, a new mobile." "You make me want to kill myself." "You make me want the same." "Mammma boo-hooo." "Leave the phone for God's sake. Can't you see she wants breast?" "Get me the bloody fries NOW."
Godspeed
