Un Viaje A Través De Lo Nuevo Mexico (My Desperate Journey Through New Mexico)

I Sogni Di Un Pazzo - Crazy Man Dreams

[24 ottobre]

Non chiedetemi il perché, ma mi sono ritrovato seduto su un divano molto morbido, foderato con del tessuto verde petrolio; sullo sfondo, di fronte a me, c’era un caminetto. Non aveva sporgenze, nessun classico ripiano in marmo su cui poggiare portafoto dorati o ricordi di prima comunione, solo una specie di architrave di colore grigio scuro, fatto forse di pietra lavica; tutt’intorno ad esso, le pareti della stanza, credo una cucina-soggiorno, di un grigio più chiaro: non mi aveva detto niente nessuno, ma quella era la cucina-soggiorno di Francesca B.
Seduta alla mia destra, una persona; di fronte a me, su una poltrona foderata allo stesso modo del divano, un’altra: probabilmente due dei tre fratelli di Francesca.
Riuscivo a vedere il solo volto della persona seduta di fronte a me, un ragazzo magro coi capelli corti e di colore biondo scuro, abbandonato alle cure di quella poltrona comoda almeno quanto il divano, posizionata in modo da rivolgere le spalle al fuoco ardente nel caminetto a muro.
In quella stessa stanza, insieme a noi, la madre di Francesca e dei ragazzi: forse seduta al tavolo della cucina-soggiorno, sulla mia destra, ma in ogni caso non chiaramente visibile in volto. Nessuna parola da parte sua, nessuna parola da parte di nessun altro. Anzi, a dire il vero l’impressione che avevo era che la persona di fronte a me avesse appena finito di parlare: un discorso in tono amichevole ed ospitale, magari una breve presentazione dei caratteri dei componenti della famiglia (come spesso si usa fare con le persone che visitano una famiglia per la prima volta), ma di tutto ciò si poteva udire solo l’eco.
Poi, mentre mi dirigevo verso il bagno, avvertii la sensazione che gli ospiti pernottanti, anche se amici di buon livello di Francesca, non erano graditi: c’era un equilibrio, in quella famiglia, che si sarebbe potuto spezzare.
Appena entrai nel bagno, la vista delle pareti colorate di verde petrolio coincise con la fine della mia visita a casa di Francesca B.

Don’t ask me why, but I was sitting on a extremely comfortable sofa, whose covering was an oily green blanket; in the background, in front of me, there was a fireplace. It didn’t have any prominences nor any typical marble replain you can put holy communion memories or golden picture frames upon; above it there was a dark grey architrave, maybe made up with volcanic stones; the architrave was surrounded by four lighter grey walls. That room was both kitchen and living room. Nobody told me anything, but that room was Francesca B.’s room.
On my right side, a person was sitting; in front of me, another one was sitting on an oily green blanket covered armchair: most likely, they were two of the three Francesca’s brothers.
The only face I was able to look at belonged to the person sitting in front of me: he was a thin guy with dark blonde hair, and was relaxing on that sofa-like comfortable armchair, placed in order to turn its shoulders to the burning fire of the fireplace.
In the same room, together with us, there was Francesca’s mother: she was likely sitting near the table, on my right side; anyway, her face wasn’t easily recognizable. She didn’t say any word, nobody else did. On the contrary, I should say my impression was that the guy in front of me had already ended his speech: a friendly speech of a hospitable man, perhaps a brief presentation of the personalities of the family members (a common habit when someone new visits a family), but all I heard was its echo.
Then, while I was getting into the bathroom, I felt that a guest spending the night there, even if a good level friend to Francesca, couldn’t be pleasantly hosted: that family had kinda equilibrium, and they couldn’t risk to break it.
As soon as I got into the bathroom, I saw its oily green walls: it was my last second at Francesca’s.

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[25 ottobre]

Ho un amico olandese di 45 anni: si chiama Taeke. Conosco i suoi genitori, la sua ex moglie e quella attuale; conosco sua figlia, una bellissima ragazza di quasi 18 anni, e pure il suo vicino di casa. Ma non conosco le sue sorelle.
Venni a contatto con una di loro in un giorno non meglio precisato, in un posto non meglio precisato, un posto che forse risponde al nome di “casa mia”. Le circostanze non mi sono affatto chiare, come non è per niente chiaro il motivo per cui partii insieme a lei ed all’uomo che la accompagnava.
Ci volle un attimo, e mi ritrovai seduto su un prato verde ben curato, in cima ad un altipiano. I colori erano intensi e privi di sbavature: il caldo verde che mi avvolgeva, il bianco candido dei vestiti delle persone che erano con me su quell’altopiano, l’azzurro del cielo che mi ricopriva e la luce del pomeriggio, che si dava da fare per fare meraviglia di quei colori.
La sorella di Taeke era seduta alla mia destra, placidamente avviluppata nelle braccia di quello che sembrava il suo compagno: mi guardava, e sembrava felice che io fossi felice. Non sentivo alcuna stanchezza, ma avevo la sensazione che il viaggio era stato molto lungo: sapevo di trovarmi vicino a Seattle, nello stato di Washington.
La mia vista si affacciò giù per quell’altopiano: c’era un forte strapiombo sul mare, una lunghissima scarpata, ma potevo facilmente osservare le persone, alcuni giovani ragazzi, fare il bagno come se fossero stati a poche decine di metri da me piuttosto che a diverse centinaia.
Fui estasiato, ma niente in confronto a ciò che vidi non appena alzai lo sguardo al cielo: fu subito sera, e potevo scorgere un cielo colorato di un azzurro morente di fronte a me e di un giovane buio proprio sopra di me. Veleggiava, poco sopra l’orizzonte, quella sfumatura che separa l’addio del giorno che è passato dal benvenuto che si rivolge alla notte appena nata.
Appena mi resi conto che la luce del pomeriggio aveva abbandonato quello scenario, nel cielo sopra di me osservai galassie luminescenti e pianeti circondati da anelli di un colore arancio fulgido: erano là, fissi sopra di me, a rappresentare i connotati di un nuovo, diverso mondo.
Poi perdetti quella vista, e mi ritrovai seduto per terra, con la schiena appoggiata al muro, in una stanza tutta bianca. Insieme a me, là dentro, vi era la sorella di Taeke, sempre vestita di bianco, come me in quel momento, seduta ad un tavolo rettangolare che mi stava di fronte. Nessun oggetto sul tavolo o in giro per la stanza.
Fuori, la giovane notte era maturata. A separarci da lei, una porta ed una finestra di vetro ad essa adiacente. La bianca luce di quella stanza era protetta dallo smarrirsi in quella travolgente notte di buio: la difendevano delle bianche veneziane di materiale leggero e flessibile, completamente svolte; per la maniera in cui potevano essere riavvolte, cioè tirando una cordicella del loro stesso colore che si trovava su un lato, mi ricordarono una fisarmonica.
Due figure inusuali, dal colore verde-grigiastro, con due occhi scuri, simili a due gocce con la punta rivolta verso il centro del volto, fecero per avvicinarsi alla finestra. Avevo paura. Speravo che le veneziane fossero efficaci nell’impedire loro l’accesso, ma quelli non avevano alcuna intenzione di entrare.
Una di quelle figure, ovvero quella che stava sulla mia destra, alzò il suo braccio destro, più corto rispetto al mio, col deforme dito indice puntato prima verso l’alto, e poi inclinato. Avvertii che il suo desiderio era toccarmi, e vedevo la sua mano riuscire ad attraversare il vetro e quelle deboli veneziane, dirigendosi verso di me. Lui era fermo, ancora immerso nella notte maturata e travolgente, ma la sua mano destra, con quel dito proteso, si avvicinava a me. Ebbi paura di farmi toccare, e così protesi entrambe le mie mani a protezione del mio volto, girando lo sguardo verso un’altra direzione.
Un attimo dopo, sicuro di non aver avvertito alcun contatto, ascoltai una frase procedere senza affanni nella mia mente. Rimbombava con insistenza. Aveva tutta l’aria di nascondere un significato ben preciso, un enigma da risolvere: “chi è miky 5, è 5 miky”.
Io non sono mai stato in una stanza con delle veneziane bianche, e appena rivedrò Taeke, gli chiederò di presentarmi le sue sorelle.

I got a 45-year-old Dutch friend whose name’s Taeke. I know his parents, his former wife, his new one; I know his daughter, a beautiful blonde girl around 18, and his neighbor too. But I’ve never met his sisters.
I met one of them during an unknown day, in an unknown place, a place that could actually be my home. The facts about this meeting are unclear to me, and the reason I left with her and her companion remains unclear too.
It took just a nick of time, and I found myself sitting on a good looking green grass, upon a plateau. Colors were intense and had no blurs: a warm green was surrounding me while people around me wore snow-white suits, sky’s light blue was covering me, and the afternoon light… it was rendering those dyes the best it could.
Taeke’s sister was sitting on my right side, peacefully wrapped up in her supposed husband’s arms; she was looking at me, and she seemed happy due to my happiness. I didn’t feel any tired, but had the sensation that our journey had been very long: I knew I was in the outskirts of Seattle, Washington.
My sight was peeping out of the plateau: the sea was far below me, at the bottom of a slope, but I could easily look at the young people who swam as if they were a few meters far from me instead of hundreds.
Was extremely delighted with it, but it was nothing if compared to the things I saw as soon as I turned my eyes to heaven: suddenly the afternoon became evening, and I could both look at a dying light blue sky that was in front of me and at a young dark sky that was just above me. Exactly above the horizon, a shade of blue was soaring: it was dividing the adieu given to the just past day from the welcome that will be given to the young night.
As soon as I realized that the afternoon light had left that landscape, I looked, in the sky above me, at luminous galaxies and at bright orange-ringed planets: they were there, fixed right above me, representing the features of a new, different world.
Then I lost that view, and I found myself sat on the ground, back against a wall, in a completely white room. Inside there, along with me, I saw Taeke’s sister: she was dressed in white, just like me at that moment, and was sat near a rectangular table, right in front of me.
Outside, the young night wasn’t young anymore. There were a glass door and an adjoining glass window separating us from the night outside. The white light of that room was sheltered from being lost in that overwhelming night of darkness by some white Venetian curtains. They were made with a light and flexible material, and were completely drawn. When I thought about the way they could be undrawn, all I had in mind was an accordion.
A couple of unusual, grayish green colored shapes, with a pair of dark eyes that looked a lot like two horizontal drops of water (with their tip turned to the middle point of the nose), was approaching to the window. I was afraid. I hoped the Venetian curtains to be strong enough to prevent those shapes from coming in, but I felt they had any will to come in.
One of those shapes, that was the one on my right side, raised its right arm, shorter than mine: it firstly had a misshapen forefinger pointing upwards, and then leaning. I felt its will was to touch me, and I saw that its hand was passing through that glass and those weak curtains: that hand was coming towards me. That shape was still, yet immersed in the once-young overwhelming night of the outside, but its right hand, with that outstretched forefinger, was getting close to me. I was afraid to let it touch me, and so I outstretched both my hands to protect my face, with my sight fixing towards another direction.
A moment later, being sure I had no physical contact, I was brooding over a sentence. It was unceasingly resounding. I had the feeling it was hiding a definite meaning that had to be decrypted, just like an enigma that needs to be solved: “who’s miky 5, is 5 miky”. I’ve never been into a white Venetian curtains room, and next time I meet Taeke, I’ll ask him about his sisters.

It Can Be Christmas Again

A long time silent and cold guitar,
with its raw voice and clumsy sound,
was telling me that happiness isn’t that far,
if the words once lost are found.

Was telling me ‘bout pleasant days,
when heart’s a basket full of fruits;
when loneliness is coloured by rays,
of a sun whose name can’t guess it.

Given up playin’, started the prayin’;
in my hands a guitar with a turned off gain,
in my heart that hope always sayin’:
don’t cry, it can be Christmas again.

Image Of A Desperate October

I was walking through a pictured street,
whose soft light was light enough
to show me the ground.
Everything was yellowish,
and my sight was staring at the horizon,
and it was that horizon,
the one where both numbers and dreams
are lost in the dark.
Then, on the left,
I saw the smoothest, lips-shaped, pillows
a man could ever wish to strengthen his hopes upon.
She was reading kind of book,
and I was eager to be that pages,
and I was going up and down that street,
and I was imaging how sweet could have been
melting on that beauty.
And I’m there, still walking…
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[October 14, 2007]