Powder and torn pages - Tale 
Seicento least equal to two hundred and fifty three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and fifty divided by thirty is a little less than twelve euro per day. Pulling the belt I can do.
This was the first thought that struck me when I set foot in the house. Of course I would have to pay attention to the controllers on the bus, but if I had stolen another forty-five euro monthly subscription I would have been something like three hundred and five, then two meals a day with ten euro.
The finding that work in one of the most popular cocktail bars in the city, underpaid enough but did not sufficiently secure and stable price. The returned my dignity as a man, be unique, one and indivisible, with eye to horizon.
I escaped from an even greater city, big enough to seem endless if not when everybody wants it to end, those first days of August when everybody is going to travel but it does not matter where we go away, the city where I ran thousands of times with the only smile that I wanted next. Shaking while driving the only hand that I never wanted to tighten. The woman who I could never, ever forget.
For how many nights I wished to think she was still alive, and tried to imagine the eyes and long eyelashes that blacks see the world through the innocence of an infant, forget all the past, forget me, for some absurd evil spell, or simply a sadistic game of fate. Any spell better than a cold gravestone in a cemetery, a tombstone on which we do not even have the courage to cry, sigh and throw insults at the sky, so for every day of my life. And I
out of that damn black gate, opening hours from eight to nineteen, every day including Sundays, no vacation in the realm of the dead.
What had died in her company was love, so that within me there would be room for more laughter and emotion, to wink and nights in the loincloth. Not without she went away forever, greeting me kindly and with that damn bastard shadow that accompanies the dying. And we see only in our memories, after the disappearance.
celebrated the funeral of my capacity to love a woman, the ceremony of farewell to the illusion, a final farewell to the great big city, but too small for my sadness.
And I found myself in a city much smaller, but effective empty hand to heal my wounds, at least those which are essential to talk with others, with the city center too expensive to be able to live, that city with those places so trendy old and new at the same time, live history merges with a deep look to a future full and inevitable.
That city where she was too far to exist, and I too busy to eat twice a day with less than twelve euro, the evening waxed to look like the last of those who work only to be at the center, the center a center of nightlife that does not have.
In the old house, sometimes more than forty-five minutes and two buses from my desk, by the shaker, the console that shoots deep house with the sole mission to obscure the meaning of free minds and in the evenings when you must, you must have fun.
I lived on the first floor, amid gardens and new houses, shooting in a house built by farmers even when it was thought that the city never could have had a periphery, much less a belt. An anomalous house, a small, low, with a ground floor used as a large storage of objects not mine. In stock. A trash can. This is what I thought before the day when I found the books.
Books, books about books about books about books, authors and dozens of miles of dust, evidence of a past life, past, browsed in the winter evenings. I was stunned by so much culture. I had decided not to study very soon, absorbed in the lives of those who just do not want to have a house, a house to stand still for hours to read.
now so, no doubt ask, I was to have a well-stocked library, filled with dust and torn pages, even if the yellow card would have never changed a comma of the contents of those boxes of magic. And then dinner
jump to read, immersed in the abstraction of the mites, building my language and my mind, to work evenings interpreted with disgust of the masters of the beat generation, washed down with a bloody will to live, and watering down my windy impasse with enthusiasm of those who suffered, in which the death has visited in the past to settle the bill with the feelings.
I saw her at every step, smiling and gracious living, but more and more by reading in the dark of disillusionment that can provide only Schopenhauer, or the shadow lying on the heart at which a participatory reading of Montale can not but lead, leading by the hand of the Ligurian sea.
I realized that my predecessor had mysterious revolutionary tastes, so I immersed, closed the account with the daily counter, in a conscious reading of Capital and the works of Marx commented, for a few hours after waking up with the poems of Garcia Lorca and Rafael Alberti, and spent hours to imagine running from hideout to hideout, spreading words of freedom and revolution. I could even feel a part of a movement, as well as the soul and the librarian of an uprising near future, over the ruins of a world already worn out.
And he, the tenant, who fled in a hurry from the house, the house where he cultivated his subversive roots, the house in which he progressively cut the threads that bound him to the authorities, to others and to God himself. Poetry, prose, plays, political essays, guides to tourist guides. Divided all in separate piles, alternating hand in my novels, poetry anthologies and essays, and feeling myself grow in courage. Courage to face life with boldness of Rimbaud, with the extravagance of Oscar Wilde, I own that I was always posing as the backbone of pain, of course, after the death of her.
The anguish of having open to love, and found at risk of death became a dream of a midsummer night.
As long as I did not do more, and with luck that a late spring afternoon I know I say give the elderly mother of the owner who had lived in that house in the past. Who was the conspirator, the last free man, the poet co-author of my life. And I had a name.
I had a name, an address and soon. He had then given to the bush, the master ...
anxiety to know, to have a guide. The know exactly who we are nothing but a test can lead beyond the knowable, in no man's land that is freedom. The stack of novels was certainly the most high, a tower of Babel of creativity and knowledge that bordered on the feet. I had divide into two, and soon the pile of half read books surpassed that of my future pages. The stack of travel guides, yes, she remained the most dusty.
One night it took me a couple of hours to replace an essay by the thought of St. Augustine. I find him an order. With tape recovered a life of its own, and I sucked drop by drop. Read
much you change. Catapult you in real life so prosaic, until everything becomes a story of the episode. The argument for an engaged couple at the pub, a fight between drug dealers in the eighteenth century of a square. A strange subject that speaks loudly on the bus alone. My story, the story of my loss became the highlight piece of a book of memoirs. The lights of the city were a fresco on a tour guide, or description of a sudden a prisoner in exile. All told, incidentally, focusing on details, black letters on a sheet immaculate. Emphasized, because the reality goes hand in hand with boredom. The extent of my heartbeat.
Up to the paragraph in which the story reveals its connotations, it was raining and I had just before the black gate of a house. I decided not to enter, but nothing prevented me from spying in the bushes. My teacher was there, as the scene of a show that has nothing to do with his life, in which the good father pushes one of his two children on the swing, then again, responds to cell phones, contracted and boldly takes a sheet from his black Mercedes. There was nothing of socialist literature, novels beats, and conscious of the impending revolution. Only dust, dust in my hands.
was a drama. Not having a teacher is a drama. No longer with me the master. Alone, alone again, in an old house. The last act of a tragedy. Before you actually understand that a teacher is nothing but the materialization of the ghost of one who has conquered our fears. And when we find ourselves faced with death, then you are giving up everything, and between start to end and there is no difference. And although the My mentor was a bank manager, in fact I represent freedom, not having anything and not expect anything, and who I spoke to satisfy the transport of that from which he could never ignore. I came to think that everyone adored her chains and I accidentally unleashed, acted as a bulwark of the island without involuntary authority.
I took with me yards and yards of books, pages and yellowish powder can detonate dormant brain slices from doping slow and relentless work of daily survival, and stopped to escape. Shaken cocktails under lights glossy, intense and freshly empty, until I shouted him with false lights, and it was a bite that squeezed the stomach and intestines tore a rift in the nerve center of my heart.
She was not dead, but his was a tragic act of choice: she had left me with a strange destiny, spitting behind her, in the only direction in which I could follow her, an icy river, consisting of un'impercorribile indifference, leaving me naked, in the heart and soul, exposed to the elements of the nightmarish world. To run away with another man. And I just, I could not help but think she died in the land that would have consumed slowly and without any break, over the centuries and millennia.
But that day a new sun was shining, as composed of chemical lights and loud music, with a living heart of pages and pages of stories, thoughts, deductions, stacked in my basement and in my temporal lobe. To me a real life, well-polished, transparent. As the eyes of her who were met mine, a few meters, when protected from the counter and left that this an unlikely future I light up and they managed to saziarmi.
