Tuesday, February 01, 2011


"...Ma poi allimprovviso sento i tuoi gesti nei miei, ti riconosco nelle mie parole. Tutti colore che se ne vanno, ti lasciano sempre addosso un po di se? E questo il segreto della memoria? Se e cosi, allora, mi sento piu sicura perche so che non saro mai sola..."

I thought suddenly about Lorenzo, about all the faces that vanished one day and receded into something that I'm yet unable to describe, sometimes a line comes up, in a journal or in something that you believe comes out of the purest imagination but that then suddenly you realize, you had learnt somewhere, about the colours and the gestures, that no matter how hard you try, are never leaving you. There's something both helpless and innocent about this, and then when suddenly, you recognize it, the recognition doesn't come from the past but rather from somewhere even deeper down, the transformation of the smell that once intoxicated you, of the hand once earthbound fleeing toward the river, escaping from the ill sensation of the empty bank, of the blank page, of the fear of an old age. How many Lorenzos are there in the world? Perhaps a moment too early, an hour too late, impossible altogether and hence powerless, embedded in a nest of dead flowers, with a soft breeze leaking abovewards and causing it to rain contrariwise, onto the carpeted floors of the vacuum from which our lives hang down serendipitously but yet in the immensity of a certain silence, interrupted only by those pieces of dead matter that, just like in the physics of particles, only when put together, come alive and overpower you at the moment when you've just forgotten the source of the power itself, as if the memory itself would be to no more avail than a postcard hand-written with blank letters.

All the more, however, my anxiety increases and especially at night, my fear of death grows immensely; in each mosquito bite I begin to detect what could be the beginning of a lethal disease, feeling the mortal pulsation growing and ascending from my toes into the dryness of the lower lip and the tremor in the hand. Perhaps the feeling is not altogether real any more than the confirmation of life contained within, that melody of mighty waters slowly overturning the sky and turning it into a waterfall running the opposite direction of the ocean, at standstill, but yet in spite of the immensity, so fragile that it seems as if it is going to break anytime and dissolve into nothingness, and yet it doesn't; the surface of everything, the tissue and the texture, of life even, remains stretched and shaking, but yet it cannot be cut into pieces lest the whole world disappear with the vessels of truth in it and the ponds of lies around it. The eyes become acquiescent before the delicate lines of the light and unfold into later hours, such small hours! So small that nothing is left but yourself without them afterwards, bruised and frightened, but all the more undead. The limbs are still intact and they reach out for the warmth of the blood beneath bruises and scars, foreign to the sterile perfection of peace, of deceased time, preferring the transcription of a symphony over the free fall and loss found in the formlessness of the litany - the words are undistinguishable from the sounds of the worlds, madness ensues.