sud_uno music, another bar: no longer on the fixed frequency Controradio, but a mixture of music that ranges from white to black and fluorescent colors. I am in Lecce, Italy in this language that seems to have the nerve to want to reinvent a country bogged down, unable to change from being with down to earth.
The bars here are filled at ten, if you arrive at half past seven leading the way to do anything. But for me, that Bighelli the streets of downtown, is an opportunity to find shelter, to listen to, accepted, the voices rising slowly, until it fills the ears, mind, to cast away by force a bit ' loneliness.
This evening I could choose to go to the movies, not a movie any, rather than strategic advertised the festival of European cinema, and instead, I chose the bar because it seems to me to be into things.
are here in this new city in which to tell for me is to live.
The faces are all unexpected, untraceable network or in some history. I have no idea who the people I sit next: couples? students? frequent random or routine? Lecce or not?
possible fragments of speech are sometimes sucked into the music that now it was definitely jazz, suitable for a glass of red wine, more than my unfailing pastis.
Red wine and pastis in my opinion, belong to two distinct worlds: on the one hand there is the earth, pregnant, thick sun-kissed by the faded aluminum vats and served on glasses aesthetically alluring, strictly "pure", without water, the other is the pastis, anise nth ( some variations in side by side with a hint of liquorice), made opaque with ice and water.
"Right opacity as a sign of non-barbaric! in the words of Eduard Glissant.
"water down the essence, without losing it, that's what I like pastis. It 's a cocktail mixed race, but not too much. Not a mixture, like other cocktail, but a slow dilution of the original essence. Like me, as this land, perhaps.
I was very impressed to hear some days ago a kind of informal discussion in a restaurant in the center between the various musicians, by Don Pasta, gastro-dj Salento, expatriate, on "rape traditions to save them."
for me that I am responsible for choosing a career, but especially in the soul of contamination of the relationship between differences, equilibrium imperfect and always moving between identity and "other" was like being at home.
I was struck by the thought of the face's identity, the "Salento", often built from the outside to come to terms, however, remove it from the rigidity of the "pinch" where it was located, to open it, breathe it.
I find a good job, interesting, stimulating, but most essential, necessary.
a vital process that should belong to any being, group, association, company has selected and want to live in the world as it is today.
Being and change together in the same movement, the status of foreigners, who finds himself out in the codes, by languages.
As in my case, moreover, although some would argue that it is always the same land, the same country, Italy.
Someone who has not yet used to the idea that stories coexist in the same alley, country, roots, calls.
Tonight I found shelter in a local association, called TRANSIT, will be the name, but I feel at home.
Today is game, play Lecce and the streets are empty, some local ultrapiattoultimagenerazione fill the screen, but this is empty: just me and the "bar girls".
sirocco winds, steady atmosphere, the light is that of a street lamp, covered by scaffolding, but the effect does not subside soft, warm.
Behind and inside of me playing the music of this dialect, notes, shuffling, syncopated, slow, passionate.
It 's a beautiful solitude. One of the troubles subside. The most convoluted thoughts glide, clings to a rhythm wave that reaches me shyly from behind.
find the taste of the outside, the devotion to the atmosphere of old paving stones worn, live, the walls yellow and porous. Meeting
pleasure, almost frantically sought and chatter with strangers, which, in some cases, they become in a few minutes by fellow travelers, frequent the same thoughts.
As has happened to me tonight with Vito. I'd seen on other occasions here: hair and long beard, glasses and brown cloth bag to the shoulder. Challenges not only because I'm the only avventrice the room, but also because I'm curled up on the step to write. "There even someone who writes? ". The surprise behind this phrase has lifted language and successfully guided the conversation between calligraphy, art, survival and resistance.
Books read since I was in the south ...
economic hardship, but the proliferation of the inner world led me to pinpoint a decision on the books to read, a choice that has gone hand in hand with that of "being." Or turn the "just happened to be here for a number of reasons" in the determination, desire to be there, to listen, to find me, and then again disappointing surprise.
Thought Meridian Franco Cassano
Fanculopensiero Maksim Cristan
(published in the new country, the newspaper of Salento)
