Tuesday, late sunset.
I venture, trying something to make me stop.
The heat today has made me sleeping, I have the feeling of waking up recently.
I follow the line of the dense main course: distance between apnea in goods, people, bars, and then something changes, an invisible line is changing the landscape: a square, the breath, a little 'vacuum.
We are at the end of the course, in the melancholy pomp that fades on the edge of a door that describe the city. Passing under the arch comes, in that 'not only is a bit' as when the party ends and begins the moment of nostalgia for some, love for others.
Nestled perfectly in this space the dull sound of a small road with his piano player and a subtle caress of air that accompanies it.
stucchevolezza The scene teases me, I get sick, I stop. Notes
songs are already known, but crippled, they accompany a short distance couples tired, couples holding hands, couples tourist.
quick steps, look down, pairs of solitude ... make me want something else. So drawing on the street what is not there: a Charlie Chaplin with his cane walking slowly, with measured steps, flanked by his wife shy lace gloves with a little 'worn-out, funny love.
He stops in front of the player, he wipes the tear which has ruled indecent touched her face and then, without saying a word, looks up and points a finger at the sky, laughing with the mouth of the moon.
dogs growl and screams of the bosses, I sconcentro, down from the illusion, they are tempted to ignore the reports of disharmony, the non-compliance of the atmosphere, but at the same time I see her turning around, savior of my case "the romance does not is dead, long live the romance. " She sits beside him, silent in the face of music. There is a monument to see a side to be photographed. She takes the player with a camera and gently shaking his shoulders like a mane in the wind.
soothe me and I forget the dogs and their owners in particular.
I'll be back to let me take possession of the music, it is she who leads the eye, he thought the land, seduces the hand that writes.
beo me of how the imagination can illuminate reality.
may seem an illusion, or no awareness of reality, but I am convinced that it is not: it is instead a kind of drug that makes me stubbornly devoted to the glass as half full, a drug difficult to stop because her power is so strong that hallucinogen generate real, tangible.
How now, this music is not beautiful, very original, not at all experimental che fa dondolare le spalle, sorridere la ragazza in bicicletta, torcere il collo al passante, mi fa offrire una sigaretta al mio vicino di gradino, che poi me la rioffre e io a mia volta la ri-dono ad un altro, incornicia per i miei occhi un quadro dal titolo “arco con statua appesa a spicchio di luna”.
Canzoni diverse possibili.
E allora, prima che la festa finisca, nel dubbio tra l’orizzonte nostalgico e quello amoroso, ricordo e ancora una volta onoro una frase di Calvino, tormentone che da anni mi porto appresso, come quelle scatoline di legno finte maya piene di minuscoli pupazzetti finto andini.
“L'inferno dei viventi non qualcosa che sarà; se ce n'è uno e’ quello che è already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together.
There are two ways to escape suffering. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become a party to the point of no longer see it.
The second and 'risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the middle of hell, not' hell and do
last and give them space. "
Modern lady from a lace gloves bit 'worn out for a walk with his Charlie Chaplin in the streets of the Invisible City.
Books read since I
south ... "Strong wind between Macedonia and Candle, exercises paesologia" Franco Arminio (To end);
"Invisible Cities" by Italo Calvino.
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