I’m convinced it's my destiny to talk about destiny. That comes from my grandmother. However, it’s not that I’m really convinced and, of course, not everything I am comes from grandma.
Afternoons behind the living room window, looking out, looking in. Mother is at work, she would say, and will be back soon. Conviction is destiny, and vice-versa, the impossibility to be oneself. When I say it’s a matter of destiny, I mean, what else can I say?
If a moth flies inside my home, it's because a spirit is trying to communicate with me. I’d feel guilty not to believe the contrary. Guilt is also a sort of destiny.
If the message is about love I want to quickly capture the moth in a poem.
I could mention superstition, how my head is heavy with uncertainties, how seconds move like a thunderstorm, the way love chains instead of frees, how daydreams can lead to the enlightenment of the soul. Soul, a land without boundaries or road signs--all colours, no colours-- any definition, in the end, will provoke a second of blindness. I retreat to hills of unnatural greens, hold a flower in my hand. Why does my soul feel so bad?, a song by Moby asks.
I see all of humanity roaming under crescent moons, where trees have become flowers, flowers poems and the poems have no titles.
martedì 4 gennaio 2011
The legend of a lake
I am alone, in the shade of a tree's naked branches. In winter the sun comes and goes like the echoes of voices. I want to understand. I want to say something before the wind blows through my hair and transforms me into a whirl, a moment.
The gods left me here alone, their shadows are roaming about the ancient hills and I must say something before I melt. I take refuge in my love. Do not be cruel, evil god, your eyes torment me. I am Agilla, the nymph who loves Trasimeno.
Our life is water now, our tears streamlets in the canebrakes, and death the embrace of the sun on Lake Trasimeno.
The gods left me here alone, their shadows are roaming about the ancient hills and I must say something before I melt. I take refuge in my love. Do not be cruel, evil god, your eyes torment me. I am Agilla, the nymph who loves Trasimeno.
Our life is water now, our tears streamlets in the canebrakes, and death the embrace of the sun on Lake Trasimeno.
The dawn of our hopes
I am sitting on the bridge of your wonderful Florence painting, thinking, when in the dawn of our hopes—talking, listening to the questions we knew, to the answers never told, how I enjoyed your company. My hair is still long and messy, my eyes are still wandering. I still like to listen to Taylor, the Boss, to the sounds of silence on the roof, on the bridge over troubled water.
I've been so absorbed, unwillingly at times, in finding my place in society. Are we too selfish to appreciate, or is it society's fault? Could we have lived a different life? From this one? Why couldn't I love the way I wanted to?
It's been a while, but I am still me. When finally you read my name, we will stop the time, we will walk across the bridge and paint the sky again.
I've been so absorbed, unwillingly at times, in finding my place in society. Are we too selfish to appreciate, or is it society's fault? Could we have lived a different life? From this one? Why couldn't I love the way I wanted to?
It's been a while, but I am still me. When finally you read my name, we will stop the time, we will walk across the bridge and paint the sky again.
Stones
They are for building walls on sand, wet from a wave, an interminable wish that begins under the sun. Imagine a fish with a fear of water, how it would seek shelter in-between the shiny ones, a brief but intense life.
A morning jogger notices a black-spotted stone, smooth and circular, with a slightly rugged corner, stares at it. Decorations, curiosity and leaps over the walls, and when it's time to go home, the most ancient one, dusk-coloured, stands out as if it were a precious fossil. In water nothing is lost.
Someone comments on its reflection.
A morning jogger notices a black-spotted stone, smooth and circular, with a slightly rugged corner, stares at it. Decorations, curiosity and leaps over the walls, and when it's time to go home, the most ancient one, dusk-coloured, stands out as if it were a precious fossil. In water nothing is lost.
Someone comments on its reflection.
Family gathering
Nostalgia is a slant of sunlight on the wall that stirs up unseen landscapes in silences where everyone is inclined to sing a song from their past. A glance, another: now’s the moment to sing of loss and sun on a bouquet of red and green paper tulips. They can’t replace summer, but will wither just like daises in late August rain.
The minstrel blows a flute. He’s heading toward the Renaissance, but can't make up his mind where to stop. A group follow, some clap, some tango. A woman holding up her long dress dances old-fashioned steps. A girl dressed in Gothic style, knee-high boots, a shining pendant, picks a tulip, puts it in her hair.
Laughter in the kitchen, crackling fire, lively conversation, one more sky, one more—nostalgia has a life of its own—a chorus of whispers, the high-pitched sounds of a flute, the bells of grazing cows.
The minstrel blows a flute. He’s heading toward the Renaissance, but can't make up his mind where to stop. A group follow, some clap, some tango. A woman holding up her long dress dances old-fashioned steps. A girl dressed in Gothic style, knee-high boots, a shining pendant, picks a tulip, puts it in her hair.
Laughter in the kitchen, crackling fire, lively conversation, one more sky, one more—nostalgia has a life of its own—a chorus of whispers, the high-pitched sounds of a flute, the bells of grazing cows.
Welcome Home
Living here day by day, you think it's the center of the world.
You believe nothing will ever change. Then you leave: a year, two years. When you come back, everything's changed. The thread's broken. What you came to find isn't there.
From the film 'Nuovo Cinema Paradiso'
Everyone knew he was arriving on that hot, suffocating summer day. The news got around fast in an old little town where most of the inhabitants were either friends, acquaintances, or family. Food, good wine, more food were being prepared to greet the man who after so many years yearned to see where he, his parents and his grandparents were born.
The small elegant cafe in a picturesque alley was decorated for the occasion. Spumante bottles were ready to be popped in honour of what sprang up from memories.
We are so happy to have you here, a drink, we welcome your stay, we knew you when you were a boy, I was there when you were born, a drink, I kept your mother company after you left, I read her some letters you sent home, we are proud of who you are, of who you will become, a drink.
Cheering, clapping hands, in that small cafe in a picturesque alley, a man after so many years was about to partake at the banquet table.
You believe nothing will ever change. Then you leave: a year, two years. When you come back, everything's changed. The thread's broken. What you came to find isn't there.
From the film 'Nuovo Cinema Paradiso'
Everyone knew he was arriving on that hot, suffocating summer day. The news got around fast in an old little town where most of the inhabitants were either friends, acquaintances, or family. Food, good wine, more food were being prepared to greet the man who after so many years yearned to see where he, his parents and his grandparents were born.
The small elegant cafe in a picturesque alley was decorated for the occasion. Spumante bottles were ready to be popped in honour of what sprang up from memories.
We are so happy to have you here, a drink, we welcome your stay, we knew you when you were a boy, I was there when you were born, a drink, I kept your mother company after you left, I read her some letters you sent home, we are proud of who you are, of who you will become, a drink.
Cheering, clapping hands, in that small cafe in a picturesque alley, a man after so many years was about to partake at the banquet table.
lunedì 3 gennaio 2011
It's a sort of legend
One day of the week, usually Wednesday, an elf follows all humans around the streets. He begs for answers, but asks no questions. Once the interview begins, he falls on his knees, stares at the passer-by and says: is that it, is there anything more?
So a woman decides to provide all the answers he needs. She shouts out 'thank you', raises her arms and pretends to be flying off to the place where they would meet the following day. Goodbye. Don't be late. Where, though? Where is this place?
The trees shine like dew on overgrown grass blades after light rain - in particular, the one with a platform. The clouds in the background wear crowns made of stars. There's a puppy sleeping in a basket. Since the elf is a bit confused at this point, he climbs up the tree to rest.
He is quiet more than confused, as if he were already holding all answers in his arms, embracing his eternity. I was the passer-by, actually, but never had the courage to show up and say what was really on my mind. On the same day each week I'd stroll by, dressed up in different selves of all ages.
Once I was a man, another day a gypsy. And thank you, I'd say, thank you, moon, thank you stars. If you you give me a star, show me your halo, I'll write you a poem. Thank you, tree, and thank you morning and evening, too. I finally showed up as an elf. I had never seen such a red sunset.
So a woman decides to provide all the answers he needs. She shouts out 'thank you', raises her arms and pretends to be flying off to the place where they would meet the following day. Goodbye. Don't be late. Where, though? Where is this place?
The trees shine like dew on overgrown grass blades after light rain - in particular, the one with a platform. The clouds in the background wear crowns made of stars. There's a puppy sleeping in a basket. Since the elf is a bit confused at this point, he climbs up the tree to rest.
He is quiet more than confused, as if he were already holding all answers in his arms, embracing his eternity. I was the passer-by, actually, but never had the courage to show up and say what was really on my mind. On the same day each week I'd stroll by, dressed up in different selves of all ages.
Once I was a man, another day a gypsy. And thank you, I'd say, thank you, moon, thank you stars. If you you give me a star, show me your halo, I'll write you a poem. Thank you, tree, and thank you morning and evening, too. I finally showed up as an elf. I had never seen such a red sunset.
Round things
The whole world is falling apart and here I am admiring the peak of a mount. It's March and the peak's still white. That is my motto: falling apart, falling apart. Is it possible to catch it? Like a mulberry bush dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush; yes, it's a universal refrain. And I find myself humming it, without knowing why. Living your forties isn't so tragic, after all. There are worse things. For example, well everyone knows the worse things. Sometimes it snows when it should be springtime.
Anita came into the world in a small African country which had never appeared on the maps. I met her during a safari trip across the continent. Okay. I lied. I had managed to scrape together enough money for a plane ticket to the last undiscovered land under African skies. As of now, it still has no name, but many people know it exists. Life there is carried out in the same way as in any other part of the world. And for inexplicable reasons the inhabitants are familiar with the mulberry bush refrain.
Anita came into the world in a small African country which had never appeared on the maps. I met her during a safari trip across the continent. Okay. I lied. I had managed to scrape together enough money for a plane ticket to the last undiscovered land under African skies. As of now, it still has no name, but many people know it exists. Life there is carried out in the same way as in any other part of the world. And for inexplicable reasons the inhabitants are familiar with the mulberry bush refrain.
Once upon a time
One summer when I was working as an assistant in a clothes shop, I had a very special encounter. Working long hours begging people to buy things wasn't really my kind of thing. Boredom and mostly a bit of depression have always been my excuse for acting up or at least for finding something new and exciting to fill up the time.
A little girl, six or seven, was standing at the top of the stairs above me. I started smiling and making funny faces at her and she'd laugh and laugh. When her mom came to get her, she very stubbornly refused to leave: she kept yelling: please, please, let me stay, I have found a friend, I have found a friend.
I have never forgotten this little girl screaming with such a tender, strong voice.
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