L'intellettuale da asporto

The first to fall were the plants not by the will of time or fate but of the so-called gardener who had stuck them in the ground. Planted there overlooking the pit of the courtyard they were ridiculous: a puff of green around the grey on four rows of thin earth four failed flowerbeds if you strained a little sparrow’s graves not even worms were comfortable sleeping there. Facing the asphalt downwind from the cars they appeared to be mocking god knows what: the nature, the art, the technique of balance. But they were real plants with sap and leaves that really fell off and renewed  the circle of their existence their patterns,   being those of trees, always concentric. The birds that sheltered there were real birds with feathers and a beak and even the summer grasshoppers blew their axillary raspberries that you heard   until they wreaked havoc on your heart   during your afternoon nap. The plants had roots that burst t...

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Scienza degli addii La luce dell’inverno che nell’androne cancella i nostri passi annebbia la moviola e non chiede elemosine di carezze e abbandoni. Cerchiamo riparo nella sua occhiata scambiamo frasi che rintoccano a vuoto: a domani a presto a mai. Se avesse il senso della realtà, pensi. Se avesse i denti un po’ meno larghi, penso. È facile nella foschia confondere l’aldilà con il nostro primo incontro, il ricordo si sbriciola senza un lamento. Ciò che a volte siamo stati, ciò che a volte abbiamo amato ci chiama indietro e si allontana senza fare rumore. Per questo rigiro nella tasca rotta della memoria le parole dimenticabili che dicevamo allora. Fiammiferi Mio padre fabbricava navi di fiammiferi navi con troppe vele e con troppi cannoni belle perché non erano metafora di niente. Stava seduto a terra con il broncio sospeso sul docile cantiere della sua arte sghemba massacrando fiammiferi che asciugava e incollava a uno scheletro d’aria....

There’s also the name you believe you inhabit as long as you don’t hear it come out of a mouth distorted by clear or muddled pronunciation it changes little: you don’t respond (aren’t they talking to your cousin who casually wears your grandfather’s name second-hand?). The illusory numbered name breath of a voice you don’t recognize tosses about   with you in your dreams voice of sand that asks you for a kiss you can’t respond. It isn’t the same name spoken three times by the person dying before you your father who calls you and speaks mysterious words you can’t even make out one: you don’t know if the untouched light of the desire to take you to Paris is slurring them the unknown caresses of the world a reproach the last one a little noisier happy like the body that learns not to be there. Once in a while you play them back to guess at the meaning of the speech but the name your father gave you a misguided gift a mark o...