Sunday, September 19, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
It’s impossible to define what you feel right now. Probably it’s an extension of such a torment that deteriorates each portion of everyone’s sanity when they just come out of a terrifying underground. Maybe not. It might be an intermittent period in which you just rest, blindly or not, after a very long trip to delirious places of your own.
Whatever else it seems to you exactly now, back in the day, not in the far distance, you used to feel so fucked, lack of housing, corrupted — feeling of unease which all of us carry on for whole life, or full scale.
It looks like a bother, a weight, a feeling of discomfort; all this impeded the ball to come undone, with time, and sew the cloth pieces, one by one, even if they were ragged and discomposedly. There’s no novelty or strangeness on it, especially on the corners, alleys, under roofs and setbacks, as far as the eye can see.
Dealing with all kind of encumbrance, throughout given to absurdities that impose you the overload, it’s very hard either to pick out or randomize any route to follow through. But in this frantic world, you’re not going for a walk — this kind of luxury is not up to you. The cashes register, stuffed of non-power, deny the countless facilities: here, as in Los Angeles or New York, or anywhere else, there are only streets, viaducts and avenues. That you go along measurably floating with the stream. The rest of this way you make on foot, under the crackling sun. Men and women misplaced. With an excess of vain attempts. Without destination. Some awkwardness, or only a shade leading you to nowhere.
At best, you break the spell. You lose the palate to savor what you trustingly looked for in your extreme youth. Furthermore, you miss the wonder connected with any kind of possible innovation. You expect a lot, many projects you just begin to mount up, or all sorts of ways seem strategically drawn up. And boundless. But you get closer to the wall. You bump into it every muggy bus trip, bound for downtown, with some ideas linked to opportunities you dreamily had planned when you still had lots of naive light-headedness. The best vacancies are all occupied by the street-smarts, or those masterful landlords who steal the bottoms of shoes from you. Swallowing you day by day, and also your dreams. Managing fine on their own, and entrusting in your care only the crumbs. Buying — how easily they can buy everything! They buy all the places notably made up either to comply with their own requests or to meet rising demands of themselves — those ostentatious ones.
The innocence, this one loses ground, or you just miss its outlook. And maybe herein — these “zigzag pages” — you will know of a story made by many shocks against the wall; you’ll have, then, a sketchy story about what caused that and let you move forward at the same time. A story in regard to Melinda, a third and first persona (who knows).
The fact is that, even if you obtain actual relief from doing whatever you’re able to do, even if you forget, for a moment, stories and dramas which are just about to blow up in your face with embarrassing consequences, making you be engorged by “life holes” really made to engorge people, you still have thousands of such reminiscences of your own personal failure; and at times some one stands out from the thousand and oppresses you. When it happens, you can definitely avoid talking, and bury yourself in holes once again.
Not by choice, losing innocence you also lose hope. And your fingerprint. All whims. The expectancy. The gentleness, which encourages you, it really becomes irrecoverable or inert. And the prolix, delighted and intense words are converted into rough, cave and arid syntaxes, contaminated by sidewalk frenzy, full of puffed people and all their abject sawy lessons. There’s a lack of money. Of subsidy. Of social conditions. There’s almost no one to keep somebody company. “Cul-de-sac”, are you blind, in a dead end? Even if there’s some parsimonious or truncated escaping, even when you settle down, you’re against deprivation, against this intolerable hollow of scarcity.
Hallucination? Are these words some kind of delirium? Quite the contrary, not so far away from now you were, in fact, being constantly delirious. “As soon as possible” — that was your watchword, and your speech was becoming myopic. Timely you did your utmost to complete all assignments. This was the ordinary journey making fun of you. “Eat, mechanic arm! Live on mismanagement, paper hand”! And all this narrow yet powerful cogitation — making you proceed without benevolence, with what frequent anxious glances at your own failure — just came up, squeezing what you definitely did not intend to put off until a later time. “Hey, world-ranking, you cannot drop me off here. Let me through!” — that’s what you had to repeat, instantly, not to believe, forever and a day, in that increasing lack of any direct human communication, along with the disturbing life that you were about to transform into a cave. Was it rude? Was it really rude that you had figured things out that way? Apparently. Not at all.