g_linda

brett shapiro - l'intruso

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 18:45:42 GMT

Brett Shapiro - L'intruso
con corrispondenza scelta di Giovanni Forti

Milano, Feltrinelli, 1993.

La storia vera di un amore che deve tentare di convivere con l'avanzare dell'AIDS, fra New York e Roma, fra una caparbia speranza ed il tentativo di accettare.

'L'intruso' è un libo vecchio. Racconta una storia dei primi anni '90, che, per questi tempi, conta già come 'vecchio'; racconta una vicenda che, come tutte le vicende consimili, alla gente fa piacere etichettare come 'vecchia'.

Con un linguaggio asciutto e pacato, che non concede a patetismi nè a superlativi, e non rifugge l'occasionale, necessaria rudezza - il giornalisra americano Shapiro descrive il lento, inevitabile avanzare della malattia del suo compagno, ed il faticoso armeggiare delle persone che intorno a questa devono seguitare ad improvvisare una vita.

"Tu non sei un virus: tu hai un virus," dice Shapiro a Giovanni Forti, al principio della loro relazione, quando 'AIDS' è una parola lontana da cui si può sperare, senza pronunciarla ad alta voce, di sfuggire; ma la malattia procede, e Shapiro descrive con limpidezza la progressiva erosione che porta Giovanni a mutarsi sempre più in quel virus che giunge infine a farla da padrone.

A me Shapiro - con il suo modo pacato di descrivere, con il suo raccontare la morte con la semplicità che forse solo chi è stato profondamente partecipe di simili circostanze può comprendere - richiama alla mente Primo Levi. E, come nel caso di Levi, quella di Shapiro è una storia da cui si è tentati di distogliere sguardo e mente, convincendosi che, nell'odierno mondo tecnologizzato e protetto, simili tragedie non possano più accadere.

Così, però, non è: simili storie di strenua, luminosa umanità non cessano mai di essere il fulcro della società in evoluzione, nè di offrire un conforto, pur di fronte all'impietosa realtà, che deriva dall'incredibile forza che costituisce cuore dell'essere uomini.

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 18:50:33 GMT

Ian McKellen & Patrick Stewart: Waiting for Godot

So, to top up a week of great excitement wednesday may the 27th I went to the Royal Haymarket Theatre to see Waiting for Godot, with Ian McKellen (a.k.a. Gandalf & Magneto) and Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Professor Xavier).

It was amazing! McKellen, playing Estragon, was incredible in his half-madness, and his comedy bits were undoubtedly the funniest. The man is amazing. Stewart was an excellent counterpoint, playing Vladimir, being the reasonable one and then finding himself struggling with his own identity. The banter between the two was constant and simply beautiful, suspended between familiarity and estrangement, recognition and forgetfulness, in the suggestive desolated stage.

Honourable mention to Simon Callow, playing an amazingly expressive Pozzo, and to Ronald Pickup as an incredibly believable crazed Lucky.

Pictures from the play's website: Waiting for Godot - Royal Haymarket Theatre.

Comment

A barefoot McKellen captures the public, smoothly swinging between his dementia, his slyness, sarcasm and tender, helpless moments. He and Stewart are funny one moment, bickering and improvising silly dances, singing, annoying each oter - adorable the next, Vladimir lulling Estragon to sleep and covering him with his jacket.

Hilarity and madness break loose with the arrival of Lucky, dragging his master Pozzo along; these characters are wonderfully insane, breaking the ghostly quiet of the scenery with a slightly disturbant, Alice-in-Wonderland sort of colourful, madness.

Yet the drama is always present, and emerges with simplicity at times, when the moon rises and they consider what day would be apt for hanging themselves, when the child comes again and again does not remember of Vladimir's existence.

They leave us wondering, as the play ends, if we are spending our lives in a likely fashion: if we too lose years hanging around in a wasteland, talking of nothing; if we too drag our lives along, never quite certain of what it is we're waiting for, and why, and how to recognise it.

We are left wondering if we all are trapped, unmoving, waiting for Godot to come.

Quotes

Vladimir: 'Do you know the story of the two feet?'
Estragon: 'No.'
Vladimir: 'Shall I tell it to you?'
Estragon: 'No.'

Estragon: 'What are we doing here?'
Vladimir: 'We're waiting.'
Estragon:'For what?'
Vladimir: 'We're waiting, for Godot.'
Estragon: 'Aaaaaaaaaaargh!'

Estragon: (at random times) 'I'm going.'

Estragon: We are in no danger of ever thinking again.

Vladimir: 'This is getting... insignificant.'

Vladimir: 'You will tell Mr. Godot... you will tell Mr. Godot that you saw me. You saw me! And you will not come back tomorrow night and say that you don't remember me!'

Vladimir: 'We'll hang ourselves tomorrow night.'
Estragon: '...'
Vladimir: 'If Godot doesn't come.'
Estragon: 'And what if he comes?'
Vladimir: 'Then, we'll be saved.'

Estragon: 'Can't we go away?'
Vladimir: 'No, we can't.'
Estragon: 'Why not?'
Vladimir: 'Because we're waiting, for Godot.'

Per le pics - scroll verso l'alto!

Dunque, per coronare una settimana di grandi emozioni (prima il panel di Merlin, l'utltimo saggio da consegnare domani, e il ritorno in Italia per l'estate domenica) ieri sera sono andata al Royal Haymarket Theatre a vedere 'Aspettando Godot', con Ian McKellen e Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Professor Xavier).

E' stato fantastico! Per puro culo ho beccato l'ultimo posto libero in galleria, prima fila, sedile centrale. Una vista fantastica. Mi sono anche messa tutta in tiro in abito di raso nero e borsetta a mano perchè, che diamine, Ian lo merita! E, santo cielo, che attore. Sono stati tutti fantastici ma lui, in particolare, e Simon Callow, nel ruolo di Pozzo, sono stati meravigliosi. Perfino i monologhi più azzardati, o le scene che avrebbero potuto così facilmente essere una palla, loro le hanno gestite con una vita, un'energia sottile e costante che... diamine. Bravissimi.

Ed ora, la traduzione della mia recensione :D

Recensione

McKellen, nel ruolo di Estragon, è incredibile nella sua quasi-follia, ed i suoi momenti comici sono indubbiamente i più efficaci. Stewart è un eccellente controparte, nel ruolo del più ragionevole Vladimir che si trova a dover fare i conti con la propria identità. L'interazione fra i due è costante e bellissima, sospesa fra confidenza ed estraneità, riconoscimento e dimenticanza, nella suggestiva, desolata scenografia.

Un McKellen dai piedi scalzi cattura il pubblico, passando abilmente dalla demenza alla furbizia, dal sarcasmo a disarmanti momenti di tenerezza. Insieme a Stewart, sono divertenti un momento, punzecchiandosi ed improvvisando sciocchi balletti, cantando, irritandosi l'un l'altro - ed adorabili il seguente, come quando Vladimir ninna Estragon finchè non si addormenta, coprendolo poi con la propria giacca.

Ilartà e follia si scatenano con l'arrivo di Lucky, che trascina il suo padrone, Pozzo; questi personaggi sono meravigliosamente folli, spezzando la spettrale calma della scena con una pazzia colorata sebbene vagamente disturbante, sotto la medesima ombra vittoriana di Alice nel paese delle meraviglie.

Eppure, il dramma è sempre presente, ed emerge alle volte con estrema semplicità, quando la luna appare e i due protagonisti si domandano quale sarebbe un giorno adatto ad impiccarsi; quando il misterioso bambino fa nuovamente la sua comparsa, e di nuovo non ricorda dell'esistenza di Vladimir.

Siamo dunque lasciati nel a domandarci, al termine dello spettacolo, se anche noi stiamo spendendo le nostre vite in modo simile; se anche noi perdiamo anni a intrattenerci in una terra desolata, parlando di nulla; se anche noi trasciniamo avanti le nostre vite, senza mai essere ben certi di che cosa stiamo aspettando, del perchè, di come lo riconosceremo.

Siamo lasciati a domandarci se noi tutti siamo fermi, paralizzati, aspettando che Godot arrivi.

Citazioni

Vladimir: 'Conosci la storia dei due piedi?'
Estragon: 'No.'
Vladimir: 'Te la racconto?'
Estragon: 'No.'

Estragon: 'Cosa ci facciamo qui?'
Vladimir: 'Stiamo aspettando.'
Estragon: 'Che cosa?'
Vladimir: 'Stiamo aspettando Godot.'
Estragon: 'Aaaaaaaaaaargh!'

Estragon: (at random times) 'Me ne vado.'

Estragon: 'Non corriamo alcun rischio di pensare mai più.'

Vladimir: 'Questo sta diventando... insignificante.'

Vladimir: 'Tu dirai a Godot... tu dirai a Godot che mi hai visto. Mi hai visto! E non tornerai domani sera per dire che non ti ricordi di me!'

Vladimir: 'Ci impiccheremo domani notte.'
Estragon: '...'
Vladimir: 'Se Godot non arriva.'
Estragon: 'E se invece arrivasse?'
Vladimir: 'Allora, saremo salvati.'

Estragon: 'Non possiamo andarcene?'
Vladimir: 'No, non possiamo.'
Estragon: 'Perchè no?'
Vladimir: 'Perchè stiamo aspettando, aspettando Godot.'

{ short story } of Readers and Yaks

Fri, 22 May 2009 01:15:06 GMT

Written for the Creative Writing portfolio, for the theme - why do we write stories?
It turned out to be a story I'd been needing to tell for quite some time; the story of how my father sparkled my passion for writing, and how lost I was after he died, and how I slowly started writing again, just very recently. I have tried to explain what it is that got me going again, and it's been a pleasant discovery for me as well.
Also, it's nowhere sad as it may promise to be; it's the story of how things are built up again, which is always a good time. :)

of Readers and Yaks

Every writer has their own favourite storyteller. In most cases, I think, it’s the person that teaches them to love stories; the person who first awakens their need to write, that otherwise may have remained dormant, unnoticed.
In my case, this person – this initiator – was my dad. As for the reason I write nowadays – you’ll have to bear with me for a bit.

The first stories I remember – the ones I remember more vividly anyway – are pretty strange. They involve secret castles buried in the Tibetan mountains, delving down hundreds of floors, housing anything from swimming pools to built-in Chinese landscapes and deserts and motorcycle racing tracks.
That was the setting where mine and my father’s adventures would take place, or at least begin; I remember sitting on the floor in the living room, listening to him describe the endless palace, answering Yes every time I would ask Do you think there is this and this, too?
Daddy and I would take off in his little aqua green car and aimlessly roam the surrounding hills, enjoying the breeze and the landscape, discussing our adventures, without a care for anything but spending some time together. The palace belonged to the old wise Professor, an old eccentric genius who harboured a secret passion for books and yak ice cream milkshakes. The place was run and maintained by a friendly population of yaks and pangolins, who especially loved keeping order in the vast library, where ancient lost tomes in every language could be found, from ancient Aramaic to Piedmont’s dialect.
After spending the morning driving around in no hurry, we would go back to Daddy’s place and cook up some spaghetti in tomato sauce, sitting on his mismatched green plastic chairs to continue the latest feat. Mystic Daughter would be in the throes of some epic, demented deed, possibly escorted by her favourite cartoon hero of the moment, and suddenly Biker Daddy would appear in the distance riding his black Lambretta moped (with a bright pink Motherfucker embossed on the side) and save the day; everyone would go back to the castle and celebrate, getting absolutely wasted on fermented yak milk.
We’d pass the hours describing the events in detail, laughing like crazy at the stupid lines and foolish characters. Then I’d say bye and run home, and write down all I could remember: how we’d tracked down the Buddha in the Far West and challenged him to a beer drinking duel to force him to reveal the hidden meaning of existence; and how we’d saved the world from the treacherous Red Daemon who would have killed every life form on the planet except for the rare cactus known as Strombocactus. Then I’d keep on writing my own stories, pouring out page after page on the old desktop, and the following weekend I’d show up at Daddy's place to read everything aloud and discuss it, for hours.

When Daddy died, I found I could no longer write. Or, more accurately – I could only write about him, or to him. I would keep going over what had happened, my shock, my frustration, that gut-wrenching feeling of having been wronged, cheated. I could not concentrate on anything else. Whenever I tried to withdraw in the endless space inside my head – that wide, borderless round sea where I swam freely, looking for stories – suddenly there was a huge, black rock protruding out of the water, sharp and ugly and to which I was chained. No matter how far I tried to swim, what direction I chose – I was bound to it, orbiting around it over and over, the chain wrapping itself around the rock, dragging me closer. Daddy and the motorbike crash cast a gloomy, haunting light over my thoughts; every time I tried to set them free to roam in search of fantasies, stories, they ended up stuck in the mud.
Eventually, I stopped writing altogether, unless to unload some of the weight and grief by writing to him or to myself. I found it hard, tiring, to sail across my mind’s sea: therefore I chose to ignore it, and remain ashore.

It is true that time helps; though it never truly heals, it allows you to focus on other things as well, like ignoring a dark shadow in the corner of your vision. Still, I would only write if I forced myself to, which I did because I felt I needed it, somehow, to remind me of who I was – who I'd been. But the freshness, the sparkle, was gone; reality had smashed the world Daddy and I had built up, where fantasy was as important as fact and just as true, and I felt I could not hold it up on my own. I would force something out and then choke on the need to read it to him, to feed on his attention, his comments: no one else would give it the consideration he would. Eventually, I started to imagine stories and keep them to myself, not bothering to write them down.
Only recently I have realised that every time I wrote something, while Daddy was alive – even if he was never supposed to read it – I did it for him. I guess every writer has his or her own ideal reader, the person whose voice they hear as they write, which guides their choices and whose critiques are always just what they need. In my case, this person was Daddy; even nowadays, I find it hard to care for the readers, to find someone I crave to show my stories to. It will always be Daddy.
So, I was stuck: and the one thing that had always been my thing – my chosen way to understand the world and cope and interact with it – was still too painful to approach.

I did not see my brother for years. He was not even three when Daddy died, and lived with his mother – which was different from mine – and his very annoying grandparents. I’d only ever met him a few times since he was born, and to me he was simply a painful reminder – not to mention the fact that his mother drove me positively furious with her attitudes. I sort of pretended they didn’t exist most of the time, and it worked quite well: I would meet them by chance every now and then and even managed a couple of planned picnics. But I guess it was as hard for his mother as it was for me, so we didn’t push it, and carried on on our separate ways.
As time went by, however, he inevitably grew older and I – maybe less predictably, but very gladly – made my way to a quieter place, where I was stronger and could spare some energy to try and deal with a few unresolved issues. Around the time he turned seven – which is not even one whole year ago – we started meeting more or less regularly and, though it was not easy, it was not too hard to bear anymore. I did actually start enjoying my brother’s company, helped by the fact that he is a unusually friendly, clever kid.
His brightness did, however, pose some difficulties from time to time. He would ask me about Daddy, or tell me what he remembered of him – that he was tall, he wore glasses, and was always gentle – and demand information. He’d tell me how he was planning to snatch a helicopter and fly looking for him, since everyone was saying that Daddy was in the sky, and ask me how he could recognise him, and what Daddy would be like. I would try to smile as I felt yaks trample over my heart and realised that I didn’t have a bloody clue what to say.
He was the best Daddy in the world? Grossly unsatisfying. I had so much fun growing up with him you have no idea, and it sucks big time that you will never know him? Not very helpful. I could not describe my life with Daddy, and I couldn’t be him for the sake of my brother: I did not have the strength.
I hadn’t been planning it when one day, walking towards the park, I found myself beginning: “So. Have I ever told you about my good old friend, the Professor?”

I am sure you are all bright and clever enough so as not to need me to explain in detail what happened next. I’m still working on it, and the hike is slow and nowhere near over, but my writing, somehow, has a sparkle – a reader – again.

{ poetry } untitled[exile]

Sun, 17 May 2009 21:23:07 GMT

Assignement for week 8 of the writing workshop. The theme was the feeling of alienation and exile, and we had to try and express it in as few words as possible. I narrowed it down from over two pages to a bunch of lines which, for someone overly-talkative like me, is quite an achievement!
I've had my good practice at expressing my contrasting feeling towards my little town. Doing so in English has proven to be an interesting challenge, and I am quite happy with the results.

My room is light-colored wood, and a curtain
over a big window filled with fresh dark

The wet hills, the lights among the trees,
the smell of the town, so familiar

But this place is talking to me in a language
that speaks to my bones, yet I
don't seem to understand anymore

I should leave, should go on,
it is time, just move on

I keep floating in circles, tail wagging,
the town suddenly has jaws

And I look at my books and can't tell
just where lies the way out of here.

{ poesia } senza titolo [pellicano]

Sat, 09 May 2009 10:50:25 GMT

So che non è buon costume lasciare le poesie senza titolo - immaginate se ce ne fossero una dozzina e magari fossero pubblicate, come farebbe la gente a discuterne :D?
Alcuni miei insegnanti inoltre sostengono che il 'senza titolo' è la scappatoia facile, una mossa vigliacca o, nei casi peggiori, un modo da due soldi per fare i misteriosi.
Ma questa poesia è così breve e concisa che ogni altra parola in più, aggiunta oltretutto anni dopo che è stata scritta, mi sembra stonare. Diciamo che ci penserò se mai la proporrò a qualche concorso.

perchè sono il tuo passato
sgradito, ogni volta lo stesso
che torna la notte a bussare
ai tuoi vetri

come un pellicano
in tiepida attesa.

{ short story } july sugar smile

Tue, 05 May 2009 23:32:14 GMT

My assignment for week 3 of Writing Workshop at uni. Our tutor had us sniff a vial, without telling us what it contained, and write the first thing that came to our minds. (Turned out later that it was grapefruit essence.)
It's the first piece that I wrote for the course, and I was unbearably uncomfortable with the language at first. I've gotten much better during these 9 weeks, and it comes to me much easier now. It's pleasant to re-read this piece and see exactly how quickly I've got better. I might rewrite it before the end of the term.

July Sugar Smile

The girl had stopped running after she had entered the plantation, and her breathing was light and quick as she stepped quietly on the grass.

Her white cheesecloth dress was flowing faintly in the fresh air, brushing against her bruised knee (a rusty-brown, bug-shaped crust she wasn't supposed to pick at). A pale, orangey apricot juice stain sat right beside a star-shaped, white button.

She raised her chin, looking at the bright pointy leaves of the carefully lined trees, as they rustled and wavered sleepily. Their green shadow wrapped around her, a cool shelter against the limpid afternoon sunshine which spread its warmth through the fresh, harsh july-blue sky.

She picked up a fallen, wrinkled lemon – shrunken and dry and soil-stained – and swiftly threw it, stifling a giggle, as a boy appeared in between the pale trunks somewhere to the left. He was her friend, and he had again arrived late.

The lemon thumped softly against the striped-blue tanktop covering his chest, and he snatched it in one quick motion and came jogging towards her, covering his surprise with a slight dignified frown.

She put her hands to her mouth, hiding her smile (but not the way it spread to her eyes), and waited for him. He handed her back the lemon, but she did not take it, and asked instead, "Can we see what it's got inside?"

And he looked at her and his brow knitted as he said, "But you know what's inside a lemon, don't you? You have eaten so many."

She snorted and crossed her arms, her silver bracelet glinting gleefully as it dangled from her slim wrist. "But they were sliced already, you silly. Mum could have taken what was inside when she cut them and hidden it before I saw. And besides," she added, waving her little index finger at him, as if she was explaining something very obvious to a child who just wouldn't listen (and in her opinion that was exactly the case), "This lemon is different. It's all tiny and hard like an egg, so it's got to have something inside. Maybe a baby-lemon."

That idea had come out while she was talking, and seemed very good and likely. She was rather proud of herself for having thought of it first.

She looked at him stubborn-eyed, as if daring him to try and object. So he shrugged and smiled a little smile and sat on the damp, grass-sprinkled ground, retrieving his most beloved swiss knife from the pocket of his shorts.

She watched him as he carefully unfolded the blade and started cutting through the thick, dried-up lemon-yellow peel. His arms were darker than hers: he had quick, nimble fingers and very black hair and strong, big teeth. He could run faster than she could, and was allowed to swim on his own while she wasn't (but she could climb higher on the thinning, fruitful branches of the trees). He would sit with her squatting by his side, disclosing small lemon-secrets for her to see.

"So, how did you find out that trees do lay eggs?" He asked, his eyes never leaving the tiny bundle in his hands.

She crossed her arms around her bent knees, and puffed away a strand of brown hair from the corner of her mouth. "If you find an egg under a hen you will know where it comes from, won't you? So if I find a lemon-egg under a lemon tree it's got to be the same hasn't it?" She paused for a moment, mulling it over. "I am not sure that all trees do that, though."

The cutting stopped, and the still blade captured streaks of light in the thin layer of lemon juice that covering it.

"But how can you know, that it wasn't, for example, a hen that laid it. A wrinkly, lemony yellow hen that passed by."

She wrinkled her nose with contempt. "Because there is no such thing as a yellow hen." She slapped him softly on his non-knife holding wrist. "You silly."

He just chuckled and resumed his slicing, slowly dissecting the fruit. He hunched his shoulders as he peered between the two halves, then his eyes widened and he said, "Oh my, my! Looks like you were right after all!"

She bent forward excitedly, and grabbed his arm trying to look as well, but he wouldn't let her. "Ah, I'm not sure I can show you! What if you tell everyone, and they all come and look for the eggs?"

"I would not!" She cried, offended at the idea. "It was me who found out and so it's my secret even more than yours! But it's okay if you know," she reassured him, then pulled on his arm some more. "Now you show me!"

He raised his eyes with a thoughtful expression on his face, then covered the lemon with his hand, his fingers fussing a bit over it, and turned to face her. "Alright. Here, look at this, then."

She took his hand and moved it away, unveiling the scrunched up fruit, and she squealed in delight - nestled in the pale, dessiccated flesh, there stood a bright white sugar candy, tiny and perfectly rounded.

"I knew it!" She exulted, and clapped her hands. "Didn't I tell you? Now, what do you think we should do? Should we find a secret place to hide it? So that nobody ever finds out?"

He pretended to think about it, then seriously handed her the half-lemon. "I really think you should eat it. It was you who found the egg, and I am sure this is, like - a prize."

He nodded when she looked doubtfully at him. Then she beamed and picked up the tiny white sphere with great care (between index finger and thumb), and placed it in her mouth. She sucked on it for a while, tasting the lemon-tinted sugar that melted on her tongue, and feeling very satisfied with herself. Next she was up and bouncing, and cried with excited urgency, "We have to go find the other eggs! Hurry, you!" And was rushing off in the grove, her sandaled feet making squishy noises on the moist soil.

He stood up, keeping an eye on her as he meticulously put back the knife, and felt the crumpled paper bag in his pocket to make sure it was not empty yet. Then he smiled a secret, lemony-bright july smile, and went striding after her.

{ poetry } the hour round

Mon, 04 May 2009 00:22:42 GMT

This is the revision of a short drabble I scribbled down some time ago. I polished it a bit and broke it down into lines so it could be submitted, again, to the LondonMet's Writing competition.

My problem with sharing my poetry is that, most of the times, I get comments like 'I didn't really get what you were trying to say' or 'I didn't really get what it means'. It's very simple: it doesn't mean anything. I'm not trying to say anything else. It's just it: just what you read, what I describe, what you see as you read it. It's just about images.

the Hour Round.

I have seen the Turtle, this time.

She has crossed my path and her big, hidden belly was pulsing
taut under layers of keratin, diamond-shaped bone.
She floated along the dusty walkway, lifting crumbled mud in the air –
a thinning fog, easy to breathe,
                                                almost easy to forget.

Her non-existent lips were dry,
                                               crackled –

she stirred a corner of her beak-mouth in what could have seemed a smirk
an all-knowing nudge for me to get out of her way.

Beware of the wisdom, brave people, let the Turtle float –
let her wander and stroll and slowly revolve
                                                                        under the skin of every apple and grapefruit,
and when she's finally hungry, then you shall feed her chocolate

Caramel filled Cadbury bars, the chocolate crust breaking softly under improbable turtleteeth,
treacle pooling on her tongue – molasses, streaming along the borders of time,
rounding its edges in sugary brown, melted syrup

And I thought I could hear her sing, and at times –
I believe I can recall her freckled, dusty lullaby,
and I lay still, tangled in plum-coloured bed-sheets
                                                                        – turtles floating calmly in my head,

in a caramel fishbowl of bowed down space
that was never entirely mine to begin with.

{ short story } Down at the Crossroad

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 12:52:51 GMT

Entry for the LondonMet Writing Competition. The word limit was 2'000, therefore I had to rush the ending a bit too much for my liking. Currently working on the extended version of this story ♥.
This is my personal take on the famous Crossroad Blues Legend: what happens when fun and unpredictable mess about with tradition..?

"So, my man - how would you like a deal? You sound enough of a bluesman to me. Let's talk business."
I just gaped and stared with incredulous eyes at the man and his huge smile, as my brain got stuck on the looping thought - bloody hell, I'm chatting with the Devil.

Down at the Crossroad

"So, my man - how would you like a deal? You sound enough of a bluesman to me. Let's talk business."

I just gaped and stared with incredulous eyes at the man and his huge smile, as my brain got stuck on the looping thought - bloody hell, I'm chatting with the Devil.

[ Follow the road to the river - oh man, try and get lost on the way
croaking your truth to the moonlight - or drown in the mud, it's the same ]

It began with the blues.
I was working my morning shift at the supermarket, humming a Muddy Waters’s tune while grumpily bagging items for old ladies wearing curlers and hair nets. I was pondering how pointless and depressing my day promised to be – I was sick and tired of my tiny Piedmont town, and spent my nights listening to old records on my creaking gramophone, and dreaming old dreams. I dreamed about endless Mississippi cotton plantations, smoky dark taverns, old black men burnt by the sun who would sit and hoarsely sing their own blues while strumming a Dobro. And then – after years in a limbo, knowing but never realizing – then it suddenly hit me, as I stood there brandishing a pumpkin. The way out had been in front of me all along: I’d always had the answer, and yet I had been too blind to realise. I would ask for help through the old ways of blues – and I knew where to start...

So, the following Saturday night I took out around quarter past eleven, and walked down a muddy road through the small crops surrounding the town, until I found a nice tiny crossroad, shadowed by an olive tree. The legend of blues came from America, and I was not sure it would work here as well – everything felt too much Italian – but it was the closest I could get, and I could just hope it would do alright.

I sat on a bunch of rotting wooden boards, and waited. Midnight came and went – hell, I ended up waiting until three in the morning, just to make sure. Then I gave up and scuffled back home, grumbling my disappointment and kicking stones around. The day after I was falling asleep at the till and, between scanning pieces of parmesan and packets of tampons, I laid out a careful plan for future action. I was not going to admit defeat just yet.

I sat waiting at the crossroad on any night that sounded promising - I tried the 4th of July, thinking the American vibe would do good, summer solstice – then Christmas, Chanukah, Epiphany, Mardi Gras. My hopes were flying on Halloween night, but all I did was get awfully drunk and scare to death a couple of kids dressed up as demons and witches. I had to break into a mad run through the crops to escape a bunch of parents coming to check on the strange drunken man greeting their children with talks about the revered dark master – it was an utter, massive failure, and I spent the following day pining in my bed and nursing a spectacular hangover, trying to understand what it was that I kept getting wrong.

[ Oh mama, can't sleep anymore - Oh mama, can't find no relief
I hear the midnight train howling by - and I just have to run and join in ]

It was right after the end of September that the vagabond came along. He was scrawny and his eyes were deeply set in his face – he wore a battered military coat with tiny German flags on the sleeves, and the smell was barely bearable. That first night, when he limped towards me leaning on his old crutch - I thought, this is it. He has come! - And I jumped up to greet him with enthusiasm, shaking his hand and congratulating on his clever disguise.

"This is – awesome, way to introduce a true Mississippi feeling to this boring Italian scenery. God, I didn't think – oh, sorry! I didn't mean to say that – oh, I can't believe this is actually you, so hobo, so southern! What style!"

And he just stared at me with one cocked eyebrow and gave a rusty laugh, then he said - "Jeez, and I thought I had issues, boy. Did you hit our head or somethin'? You on drugs?"

I did not back off easily, though - I was determined to make him reveal his deceit. But after me rambling on about the intellectual pleasure of finally meeting the lord of all bluesmen and such, he did take a step back and eyed me with care, trying to evaluate whether it was the case to try and flee.

He seemed to decide that I was not a threat and eventually began sitting with me during my nightly waits, erratically at first, then with growing fondness when he realized that I'd bring along bread and Barbera wine for him too. He would sit and eat in silence, listening to me ramble on and giving that raucous laugh of his when he thought I was being silly. He was curious, though – he listened with attention and mild amusement as I described the legend of blues.

"So you see - it is said that, if you want to learn how to really master the blues - how to really express it - you should go to a crossroad, at night, and sit down. Then just wait." I explained, around mouthfuls of sausage. "And at midnight, the Devil will come. The Devil likes bluesmen, you see, ‘cause they're cursed and craving and on the verge of despair, and such people he likes. So he will lay claim on your soul and, in exchange, you'll become the greatest bluesman of all times. Or, well, of some time at least."

"And that's why you're here? You waiting for the Devil to come?" he asked, and snickered when I nodded. "You're a nutter, kid. So why hasn't he come yet?"

"I just haven't got the day right. It's all a matter of timing," I said. “But it works. It’s happened before – just think about Robert Johnson.”

"So he only comes on some days? Why would he? He should jump at the first soul that hovers by."

"I don't know," I had to admit, and I shrugged. "I'll just wait. I'm sure he will come."

[I'm the man who has walked on the roasting rail tracks - without any shoes
been travellin' so long and so far, I'm the man - who will spend his life on the road ]

By that time, I had decided that I should just go and sit under the tree every night – I was bound to get the day right. It was a desperate measure, but it was a desperate time, too – I would prove my point right and I’d gain my way out of that stinking town. I would hold on through the cold, the damp nights and the disappointment, because – that was blues, after all.

Then one night – finally someone came along. He was tall and broad, with a shaved head and tanned skin, and he was wearing an expensive pinstripe grey suit. I recognised him immediately: Gosh, I was living a cliché, and I could not have been happier.

“It is you! I’m so glad to meet you at last – I knew it was some sort of trial, to see if I was worthy, wasn’t it? Well, here I am! And I’m ready to – to...”

I shut up as the man looked started marching towards me with an angry expression on his face. “I’m fucking done with you bastards!” he shouted. “Your friends back there just nicked my fucking car and I’m stuck in this shithole of a town, and I’m gonna teach you a good lesson now!”

I was hit by the smell the alcohol that seemed to radiate from his clothes – God, the man was absolutely wasted. I tried to back off, raising my hands. “Hey – sorry, man, I got the wrong person – I’ll just go, alright? No hard feelings – ”

But I was quickly cut off when he roared and then bloody jumped me. I tried a speedy retreat and failed big time, and the guy’s fist smashed hard against my nose. I staggered backwards – “What the fuck!” I yelped, cupping my bleeding face, before he hit me in the knee and sent me tumbling to the ground.

He kicked me, grunting and cursing the fucking car, the fucking town, the fucking human race. Eventually he lost interest and wobbled away, angrily shouting at the frogs in the river – and I was left there in the mud. I rolled on my back with a groan and stared at the midnight sky, holding a hand over my nose, and thought that being a bluesman sometimes really sucked.

I was still moping when the face of my vagabond friend popped up, looking at me from above with a smirk.

“So,” he said. “Pretty battered up, aren’t we. Still convinced that this blues lunacy will work, sonny boy?”

I just groaned and tried to nod, wincing at the pain in my head. “’Course,” I croaked, my voice sounding all funny. “I just gotta be patient. It’s all blues, man – ‘tis all blues.”

He stared at me for one long moment, then smiled and offered me his hand. “Fair enough – you’ve persuaded me. You got enough blues in your blood – let’s talk business.”

[ Any fool will do, my old friend – the bluesman walks alone
down at the crossroad he goes – anywhere but home ]

I did not believe him at all. That was until he took out of his pocket a mile long roll of paper and started reading about the thoughts about the underwear of my nurse I used to have when I was nine, and how gross it had been when I’d dipped my grandma’s false teeth in the toilet to get revenge for her making me eat spinach. I hurriedly stopped him and stood for a minute or so just gaping at him, no doubt looking very stupid. As a matter of fact, my only coherent thought was – holy shit.

“Come on,” he said, his tone clipped and business-like. “I lost enough time already. Hand me your instrument and let me play a tune, then you’ll be the greatest bluesman of all times and so on, so forth.”

With unsteady hands, I pulled out a small case and passed it to him. He opened it – a thunder rolled in the distance as the man picked up the pen which lay neatly in the box, and stared at it in disgust. “And just what the fuck am I supposed to do with this thing? Are you kidding me?”

“That is my instrument,” said, trying to make myself smaller. “I’m not a musician – I’m a writer.”

“This is a bluesmen’s contract. I got nothing for you!” He roared.

“Then why didn’t you tell me straight away?!” I raised my voice and pointed an accusing finger at him, because I’m just that stupid sometimes. “You’re the Devil and in five sodding months you never noticed I wasn’t carrying a guitar around?”

“I assumed you were playing the harmonica!” he wailed. He flopped down with an exasperated sigh, and tapped the pen on his knee. “I dunno, boy. I don’t think we can come to an agreement. This is against tradition.”

"Oh, fuck's sake - you're supposed to be one greedy bastard, why won't you just snatch my soul and be happy with it?" I snapped.

“It’s not that simple,” he retorted, pissed off. “We’re talking ‘bout blues, you dimwit!”

He sat on the wooden planks for the next half an hour, sulking and muttering darkly about bloody humans and hell how things really had changed from the good old times. Then he got up – leaving a burnt imprint of his backside on the wood.

“All right,” he said, twirling my pen between his fingers at impossible speed. “I guess there’s no harm in trying. You may be a moron, but you’re still bluesman enough.” He threw me the pen and I grabbed it, yelping as it scalded my hand, leaving a darkened imprint on the palm. I felt suspiciously like a branded cow.

“You just go and try write me a blues. And I don’t mean no lame lyrics, no easy whining about how much your life sucks – don’t give me that shit or I swear I’ll have you eaten by rabid monkeys.” He looked at me with intent – I cringed, and he seemed satisfied. “I’ll be here two Fridays from now,” he added. “Mind you do not disappoint me.”

He did not disappear in a whirlpool of lightning and thunder, nor did he break the earth open to disappear in a flaming cave. He picked up the salami sandwich I’d brought and walked away, munching happily and singing a Nat King Cole tune.

I stared at my pen, thinking that my hand hurt like hell and this was probably going to turn out as a horrible mess. Then I picked up my stuff and hurried home, and started to write.

[ ‘Tis the blues of the man who knows nothing – his life long overdue
yet he keeps on roaming the world – humming his old crossroad blues. ]