Nonno Pippo

This is my grandfather. Nonno Pippo. I don't know much of him, he died when I was eight. They told me he was the only one, from my father's family, who really loved me; I am his heir, I carry his name - the last one in my family. I don't know what kind of person he was, what he liked, and what he did with his life. I can only remember some trips we did in his Mercedes convertible, the two of us, up to Zafferana, to eat some special stuff they made over there. How much am I carrying of his personality? How much of my "unique features" are due to his blood? What is his influence on my choices?

Yesterday for instance I chose to lie. Lying is a difficult business; it takes presence of spirit, a poker face, and consistency over time. We have to be very careful on what we choose to lie on, for there are only few opportunities for a good lie; and to lie is very tiring, because when we lie we feel guilty about it. Feeling guilty is good, it means that we care; it means we realized we should not have lied, or that we deplore the fact we have done it. Feeling guilty about lying is expiation, it is making sure that next time we will choose better on our lies. To reveal the truth, afterwords, confessing the lie is a sign of weaknesses, is to admit we cannot stand the guilty feeling anymore, and to discharge the pain. We feel relieved, but someone else is carrying the pain for us; for there is no "Truth", in first instance, and when we proclaim it against our lie the only message we sent out is:" I lied to you".

Wednesday

Wednesdays are good, and today is wednesday.

Oblivion

Lake

Italy lost against the Netherlands.
As reaction I sold my car.

And went walking,
on
and on.
The sun was setting
down.
end of the day
I crossed a river,
walked along a shore,
and the path ended
down
on a lake.

I looked at the waters,
dark
and calm,
extending to places I will never be in;
So I smelt the wind
and listened to the drake
imagined
how it would be there:

notes
falling from a piano
and a pull
from below
intensity
there's no space
for words there
and no need too
everything's real
so REAL
in the place I imagined

Lake turned green
eye of a fay
or maybe blue
I can't remember;
I stepped into the waters
despites all promises
step-by-step
up to when I could let go
up to when it wasn't safe anymore
and did not hurt

At night
back on the shore
I looked up
confused
short of breath
my legs freezing
trembling
for no matter how calm
the waters are
I will never
ever
reach that place.

The Ban

Going to see the river man
Going to tell him all I can
About the ban
On feeling free.

If he tells me all he knows
About the way his river flows
I dont suppose
Its meant for me.

Challenge

Sex is fun. And other things are fun too. For instance, it is great fun to compete. Set some rules, a goal, and there you go, you get a bunch of guys chasing a ball and running their longs out in their underpants. Play and win. And it is so good that people enjoy watching it.
So I think that's what's happened then. She told me: "I agree", but after two weeks she challenged me that she actually agreed to much more than I ever intended. There you go, competition - great fun.
So I say: "Ah"; and she says: "Ah Há"; and I say:"Eh Ah"; and she says:"Há, aah".
And people start gathering, and they take position, and scream for me, or for her. Some help me, some help her, and the rest just makes noise and enjoys the show. One even says to me: " I bet you'll write something on this". That's why I write this one, but I guess I am gonna lose the bet anyhow.

Dhafer Youssef * Yabay

Old loves always come back. Metheny has been a early love, and with his quartet has initiated me to a different kind of music. Mehldau is a more recent lover, borrowed from a friend of mine some years ago: with his trio he plays among others some Radiohead stuff in an astonishing way.

They made a CD together, a very good one, called Metheny Mehldau. That CD is so good, that they decided to make a new one, which is the one I am listening right now. Mehldau is a prince: he explore textures of sound, and is able to color whatever composition with unexpected flavours. Metheny is eclectic, and excels in whatever he does. The balance of the two, with the support of the rest of Mehldau's trio, is simply perfect. Don't read this blog. Go and listen to the music.

But today I have listened to something very different. Paolo Fresu was accompaning Dhafer Youssef. Mixing arab music, with its clear indian influence, with jazz. It smelled as the salt of the ionian see, blue and tearful.

Night Train to Lisbon

I read a book about a man reading a book. And the book he was reading was about a man who read a lot of books. Gregorius (the man reading the book) has lead the quiet and insignificant life that most of us will discover to have lived; his only eccentricity was his passion for classic books and translation ancient Greek and Hebrew. A strange episode brings him to read a book in Portuguese, a language he does not know. Therefore Gregorius is not just reading, as he needs first to undergo the effort of translation; Gregorius is basically giving to the book the attention that every writer would dream of. Prado, the man who has written the book, could not care less. Writing for Prado was just an observation tool, a mechanism and a ritual in order to give meaning to his own life. The relation between reader and writer is therefore sublime, as Prado is basically giving color to Gregorius' life, and Gregorius is apparently the only man on earth really knowing Prado. A good book, intense, well built. The characters are strong, and able to create links beyond space and time between them, by the process of writing and reading. However not an excellent book, I am afraid. To make his story plausible, Mercier (the author of the book), has to use well-known mechanisms (for instance all-live savings well invested to allow Gregorius to spend a large amount of time doing nothing, or the fact that every person was always willing to give Gregorius a good interview, or the omnipresence of chess-game); this failed attempt to plausibility is futile and unnecessary, and subtract energy to the book. However, the existential questions which are posed by this atheist preacher, the deep investigation of the human soul, let us forgive and forget those literary blunders and support us in our mid-life crisis.