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Archive for luglio, 2009

Andrew Bryant – Galilee

Data di Uscita: 09/07/2009

Kudzu
di Lorenzo Righetto

« You’re such a big man, Andrew ». He was a big man, in fact, his flannel shirt looked like it was going to burst out each time he drew his breath. And he did that in a heavy fashion, laid on the kitchen table, sleeping like a child, with his arms stretched out. He was still holding the whisky bottle in his hand. In the meanwhile, I was slowly and carefully rolling a cigarette, like I always did, taking more pleasure in the process than in the actual smoking. Watching out of the window, I could see, far away, Lake Michigan roaring in fright under a menacing sky… I didn’t need to take nervous looks at the watch, each minute, to know that it was late. “He’s got wife and child, goddamn it!”. I turned, furious, to stare at that snoring mass. I blamed him, his ludicrous bohèmienne life, his towers of useless scrabbling, that were living proofs of his exhausted vein: “You were made for post office routine, dumbass!”. He could have stayed in his little town near Mississippi, teach in the local high school, play a few songs for his child, even participate to the fucking local blues festival with his petty band. No, he had to take the Midnight Cowboy’s part, hit the big city, flashing lights and easy money… “Look what it served you, big man: an alcohol addiction and ten thousand dollars of debit to the biggest mob boss in town!”. I couldn’t help but stare at him, my eyes narrow and my lips a thin, straight line. There was no time left. I went to the bathroom and filled a bucket: he only gave a great sigh, but no more. I gave him big slaps on his face, to no avail. Time for big actions: I opened the case, and took the needle. That dose could have woken up a hibernated grizzly: he sprung out from his chair, inhaling loudly, clutching his neck with a hand. He threw up in the sink, and stayed there, bent on his vomit, slowly rocking back and forth. In the end I had to drag him to the car, letting him stumble down the stairs. He had his nose broken, but he was trying to tell me something, through the mass of blood dripping into his mouth. I could only hear a gurgling whisper. I pressed, with roughness, a rag on his face, and he made a faint growl. He had the good sense of taking it with his hand, though. I pushed him in the car, and he stayed there like a punished child, his hands between his legs, his head bent on his chest. I had to lift his head, forcing him to keep his head up. He  meekly brought the rag back to his nose, now not more than a red swelling. “You do look ragged, son”. A pity he would die like this, an unconscious leftover of a human being. “Guess I’ll take you to a last ride”. Last sight of the big city, dude. I drove him downtown, thinking it would be nice for him to see the lake. When we got there, it had stopped raining, and a strange calm had settled. I opened his door, and he slowly stood. Leaning against the car, I watched him walk towards the quay, dragging his left leg. He threw himself down, as if he had forgotten how to sit properly, and stayed there, huddled up in fetal position. After some time I went over to him, to see how he was doing. To my surprise, he was singing softly, much like he was singing his child to sleep.
“The Chicago wind started blowing you out of my mind”.
He only sang that line, on and on and on, until the sky opened up like a torn blanket, and the dying sun set the lake ablaze. Then he stopped, his mouth open like it was the first time he saw that yellow disc. His face twisted into an obscene expression, and he started laughing like mad, as if he was laughing in the face of a god.
I put a bullet in his head, right there. I couldn’t bear the sight. I can only say he is at home, now, down there in the forest. Kudzu spirit yearned for his soul.

The Rural Alberta Advantage – Hometowns

Data di Uscita: 15/07/2009

Gli Specchi dell’Anima
di Filippo Righetto

“Mira a quello grosso cazzo! Quello grosso quello grosso!”.
Certe volte mi domando come abbia fatto il genere umano ad aver raggiunto un tale grado di demenza. Non parlo di concetti soggettivi, non sono così sciocco da pretendere di discernere tra il giusto e lo sbagliato. Però qui manca la consapevolezza, l’essere coscienti dei propri errori.
Il Progresso, checché se ne dica, si è arrestato, impantanato nella poltiglia limacciosa di una realtà priva di ambizioni. I pochi che si ricordano della grandiosità del Passato, e che cercano di esserne all’altezza, sono schiacciati e derisi da quella massa tumorale che è diventata la nostra apatica società. Un tempo, la forza di volontà di un singolo era capace di tenere insieme Imperi maestosi, dalle dimensioni sconfinate. Le rivoluzioni scientifiche erano capaci di stravolgere completamente il modo di vivere degli uomini nel giro di pochi mesi. Un bambino con una canna in mano, la lacrima pronta a sgorgare per la tensione, impegnato in uno dei tanti stupidi giochi che si possono trovare in un luna park, e il padre che lo incita urlando, completamente dimentico dell’assurdità della situazione. Questo vedono i miei occhi adesso. E provo rabbia. Abbandono quella scena infelice, alla ricerca di qualcosa che possa risollevarmi. Lo sfondo che mi si presenta è quello del classico parco giochi di provincia: una misera serie di baracconi sempre uguali da vent’anni, ammassati uno dietro l’altro a ridosso di una strada polverosa, nessuna via secondaria, qui la monotonia e la mediocrità son di rigore. Camminare immerso in queste decadenti costruzioni non mi aiuta, non mi dà risposte. Immerso nei miei pensieri, non mi accorgo della deviazione che prendo, quasi inconsciamente, e che mi porta d’innanzi ad uno strano spettacolo. Specchi. Molti, di media grandezza, mi circondano. Chiudo gli occhi, aspettando che il disturbo passi. Il mio corpo non si muove, eppure sento che mi sto avvicinando a loro. Quelle superfici apparentemente così fredde irradiano invece un tiepido calore, che porta con se degli aromi e dei rumori familiari. Mi decido ad aprire gli occhi. Il mio cervello impiega qualche secondo a comprendere quello che invece il mio cuore ha subito intuito. Hometown. Casa, casa, casa, sono a casa, questa è casa mia cazzo. Quanta pace dimenticata, quante speranze svanite, quante attese deluse…cado sulle ginocchia, mi è impossibile arrestare le lacrime, ma non me ne vergogno. Un riflesso attira la mia attenzione, mi muovo strisciando, mangiando la terra, cercandone il contatto, unendomi ad essa, dimentico delle spine che straziano la mia carne e del miscuglio polveroso nei miei polmoni che mi impedisce di respirare, accettando tutto con gioia. Avvicino l’oggetto ai miei occhi, e la copertina di “In The Aeroplane Over The Sea” mi sorride di rimando. Neutral Milk Hotel.
“Mira a quello grosso cazzo! Quello grosso quello grosso!”.
Ci sono solo io. E gli Specchi dell’Anima.