L’attesa

L’attesa

Aspetti, aspetti, aspetti.

Non arriva, aspetti.

Provi a non aspettare, continua l’attesa.

Provi a non pensare, attesa.

Attendi, attendi.

La mancanza di risposta è dubbio, 

é una domanda

più di una,

tante domande,

troppe,

non c’è fine,

anzi, è una fine infinita.

Non c’è risposta,

il dubbio rimane

è qui, ti fa compagnia.

Il dubbio ti vuole, ti cerca.

Sei già suo, controvoglia.

Books

Book characters are like persons: persons who die when the book ends.
Stop reading the book, when the end comes closer, is like pretending that you're keeping alive something, something that can't be kept alive.
It could seem that we are the ones who decide to go on or not, to make the end coming and to let disappear the characters. But the book and its characters win.
We make characters more real than ourself. We give them the power.
As Szabó Magda wrote "(...) the dead always win. Only who is alive loses."
A book is dead. We make it alive when we read it, but it still wins because of its lack of real life.

Grandmothers

They are something precious.
They are something old.
They are precious because are one of the oldest "material thing" that someone can still "have".
That kind of preciousness that comes from oldness.

They are history, they are philosophy, they are the best story tellers.
They "invented" how to cook, they "know" how to cook, they "wrote" how to cook.

They were born during a war, they grew up during a war, they went to school during a war (or they didn't because of it), they got married during a war, they had children during a war, they grew up their children during a war.

After they just started to become old, old and precious.
After they just started to tell stories, stories after lunch.

You could listen the same story many and many times after lunch around that table since you were a child until you will be jealous about that childlike time.
You colud listen those memories during all your youthfulness and those will be your best memories of "home". Your best memories of the time when everything was going on in the right direction, so right that you didn't realize it (children never realize how much is perfect their life. When they start to realize it it's because they are not anymore children, they are not anymore perfect. It's when they become to be persons).
That time when every Sunday lunch you were sitting at that table, eating that wonderful food (something that is not really food, is something more, is something that belong to you), listening at that memories.
That time that will never come back.
That time so precious because of it.

Perfection

The perfection can be the most perfect thing and, at the same time, the most chaotic thing.
H2O is perfect because you know that is made up of two molecules of hydrogen and one of oxigen and you know that a molecule is made up of atoms and an atom is made up of neutrons, protons and electrons and these last three are particles with zero, plus or minus charge.
WE KNOW WATER BETTER THAN OUR NEIGHBOURS and this is the reason because is perfect, because we can understand it.

Let's speak about chaos that can show us the other kind of "perfection".
Let's speak about the main topic of music, books, poems, talks, movies, etc etc...
Let's speak about something "corny".
Let's speak about love.

Love is perfect because is absurd.
It is so much not understandable as much it is the kind of "big" question mark that the human being has about how was “born” the little first particle on the Earth.
We can’t know the “mother” of this little and mysterious thing like we can’t know the “mother” of love.
We can suppose several mothers who give birth to love.
Can be the little baby who used to play dice and who didn’t listen at his mother about his “job” (also known as Cupid).
Can be just the cold and sterile chimestry.
Can be the foolishness.
Can be that is just something that happen and you can’t understand it, you can’t do anything to solve or to stop it.
It just goes on alone (but very self confident, in spite of you).
And this chaos make it so perfect, so not understandable and so perfect.

Nolo

I didn't take account, before to leave, of "nolere" to come back.

About the last one

Not enough art.
Too much about me.

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

A stupid song, that's it.
I have just it of her, anything else.

Picture, picture and picture again. But is not enough.

To listen that song again again and again make me sad but is the only feeling that I still have of her (other than the Void) and I want to collect it also if it means tears of my heart, an heart that is like a rock into my bosom, an heavy and empty rock.
How can something useless hurt?

Why do I need so much memories?
Memories that I can't have.
Why do I need so much something that I know from the beginning that I will never able to have?