So this summer

So this summer is going to finish and I'm still not sure of what exctally happened. My remembering faculties are a little damaged this period, so I think it's better if I write every day, which it means I have to keep a diary of my summer records, and them put all togheter like a puzzle.
The rembering-mental-summer-puzzle.
Right now, I only have the pieces of the borders. You know, those pieces that have a flat side, the ones that makes the frame of the puzzle. The ones that you find firstly.
So my situation is: sittin in my hideout with just the desklamp on, my table covered of tabacco, history books, lighters, notebooks, and so on.
And, under the white-sharp-desklamp-light, the summer puzzle.
If you see me standin on the hideout entrance, there's me bowing on the puzzle, whispering: 'God', repeatedly.
Hagel said that philosophy arrived like the hoot owl, that brought an intepreting light after the fact happened. Now, I don't know about philosophy I'm not, you know, a philosopher, but I hope that is the same in everyday life, you understand what happened after it happened, not while it was happening.
Maybe Hegel, he would already has interepreted my summer.
So while I'm trying to combine my summer into a complete puzzle, Johnny Cash is singing We'll meet again, and I should be studying.

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
but I know we'll meet again some sunny day!
Keep smiling through, just like you always do,
'till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!
So, will you please say hello to the folks that I know?
Tell them I won't be long!
They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go,
I was singin' this song:
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
but I know we'll meet again some sunny day!
So, will you please say hello to the folks that I know?
Tell them I won't be long!
They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go . . .
I was singin' this song:
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
but I know we'll meet again some sunny day!
We'll meet again, we'll meet again . . .

Sorry for grammatical errors

Bob Dylan has written this

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

- Bob Dylan, Shelter from the storm

Sand, rhum and glasses

My hair smell like rhum. Matteo has covered my beard with beer. I don't see anything, everything is unfocused. In front of me, Milo, with his azure corean wind-whishing shirt, he moves his arms like you'd imagine sea waves. Ondulatory. So, he's drunk. He has given me a Peroni bottle full of gin, and he talks and talks calling his dick: my picchio.
I can't be steady, the sand under my naked feet folds up and moves, and I stagger.
Everything is unfocused because I swam with my glasses on.
Milo says: "Twelve times a day, we loved each other, when we met a year ago, in the Uk"
I stagger, and the Milo's face and arms move further, move nearer, they change perspective.
He says: "At the end, my picchio hurted" and he makes waves with his arms.
I like Milo because he makes a big difference between "have sex" and "make love". I stopped him two minutes ago saying: "We're mates". He asked me of what, and I said: of far loves. His face is, now in the dark, now in the light, now in the dark, depends on the lenght of the flames of the bonfire behind. Every two weeks, they see each other every two weeks.
Like this, filthy of rhum, beer and sea salt, with just my wet swimsuit on, I lay on the sand.
"But - he says, while I'm drinking some Peroni gin - but the intensity of those two days every two weeks, it's an intensity so strong, so intense that I would never feel like this with any other relathionship".
He lays too, but on his towel. All his allowance, he spends all his allowance to get to Milan.
"Then, after two days you have to leave - he says - and, Christ, you cry every time"
I didn't cry for the school, for the driver license's exame failure, for god, for the exams, for my folks. Usually I never cry, but, yes, it's true. Like a kid.
I say, it's cockeyed, this thing. I mean, sex, you can have sex with anybody, but if you want to make love, so cockeyed.
My mouth is dry, my face faces the clouds and the dark night, I'm not sure if it's clear, what I'm saying.
After twenty minutes I was plunging, I realized that I got in the water with my glasses on.
He says: "Yes indeed! - other waves - I mean, to have sex you would need, it would be enough any girl - he widen his arms towards the beach - but instead, to make love..."

Antihistamine

I think I still have to realize what happened. Meanwhile, I'm reading for the nineth time Invisible Monster, that isn't a story that goes And then And then. It goes Jump to. Like Jump to when I didn't have the my jawbone, for example.
Or Jump to the First of May.
The big concert. The "Concertone".
Jump to me that turn my back on the mega stage, on the mega screen and on the mega chaos. There are seven hundreds thousand people that jump, watch, sit down, seven hunderds thousand different faces. Jump to me that I'm looking for a person in particular.
Jump to 5 pm when I convince myself that I should have some injections of the protease that processes the delirium of the concerts. I do not move.
Jump to the sky that there was, a sequence of cumulonimbus and cirrocumulus heated and whitened by the sun behind, that now you see, now you dont, now you see it. Cumulonimbus and cirrocumulus, they are clouds
Jump to 7 pm, when Bella Ciao (a traditional partisan song, ndr) brings me to mosh pitt and chaos, because of the emotive involvement. Also physical, involvement.
Jump to me that I continue to look for this person in particular, I'm sure I've just seen her right there, then I turn and, no. Isn't her.
Jump to a guy with the little beard, lowered on his legs, spinning his arms, that rustles on me for about twenty second. Smelling rhum. Jump to Riccardo that didn't recognize that.
Jump to the police guys and to the pushers that become nervous. Jump to the before-concert, the plaza and the light that there was in the morning. Jump to the after-concert, the empty beer bottles the sleep, the nap in the underground at 1.30 am.
Jump to the 9 pm when the Afterhours arrived, the mosh pitt made by four people, me that I'm one of this four.
Jump to the afternoon when we meet Chiara, that we haven't seen for three years and that went studying in Bologna, meanwhile. She has lost her backpack, and she drags us in the crowd, we cross the hole plaza vertically, diagonally, horizontally, my feet hurt.
Jump back to the strange sky, get back the cirrocumulus. Jump to the fact that I felt like the sky, that wasn't sure to rain or to shine, now yes now no, don't know.


Photo by fanny

In medio stat nihil

Today I was talking dichotomical problem at the phone. I was saying that, about the tobacco problem, there are two school of thinking.

Example of School1
Me: My foot hurts
FollowerSchool1: Do you smoke?
Me: (laming towards the nearest chair, and putting out a shoe) Yes
FollowerSchool1: (looking at the blood on the sock) So that's why

Example of School2
Me: (stopping) I can't make it anymore
Guy: ... We runned just for two minutes
Me: It's like I have a nail here (he fingers his chests)
FollowerSchool2: It's normal, at your age...
Me: (sitting on the street) I fell I have to puke
Guy: I'm calling an ambulance
FollowerSchool2: It's the pollution, you know