A BOX FULL OF MEMORIES

Non credo di aver mai scritto in prima persona, se non tra le pagine misteriose dei miei ‘diari segreti’ seriali.  Ognuno di loro, tristemente abbandonato dopo le prima 20 pagine.  E’ come se li avessi rinnegati una volta posataci la penna sopra.. Non saprei spiegare bene il perché, ma i miei stessi pensieri, per quanto li consideri degni di attenzione e cura, in bianco e nero, indelebili su delle pagine vuote, mi mortificano.  Perdono di luce e intensità, sembrano delle piccole marionette lasciate a prendere polvere nello sgabuzzino di un bambino superficiale. 

Ho pensato questo per troppo tempo, scappando da me stessa in certi aspetti.  Perché si sa, nelle parole le tracce delle proprie fragilità sono fluorescenti agli occhi dei maliziosi. E quanto fa paura mostrarsi fragili.  Accettare di essere fragili. 

Il tempo di nascondersi nella propria intimità, cercare conforto tra le braccia degli amici è ufficialmente terminato.  Ho bisogno di gridare al mondo, di creare ponti reali con le persone. 

Se mai dovessi descrivere la nostra storia d’amore, lo farei parlando dei pasti con te.  Così come i falafel si sposano benissimo con la tahina - ed il cilantro si scioglie in tutte le salse, io mi descriverei come gli ingredienti crudi, vergini e da modellare. Mentre tu saresti il “sale”, pronto ad aggiustare il sapore fino al perfetto equilibrio. Sei necessario ed indispensabile affinché qualcuno possa giudicare il piatto come: OTTIMO !  In questo modo vai a creare intorno a te il tuo mondo di piatti, ognuno con i suoi odori, la sua storia e cultura. Insieme possono convivere e rassomigliarsi, ma mai del tutto contaminarsi o sostituirsi. 

Se dovessi parlare della cucina, tu saresti il coltello, mentre io sarei il tagliere sotto di te ad accogliere verdure cubiste e briciole ribelli. 

Chef entusiasta, con gli occhi brillanti e la mano tesa, hai portato alla mia bocca sapori orientali e speziati, o la rotondità del gusto di casa, così come freddi ma squisiti assaggi della rete urbana. 

La quiete del tuo soggiorno.  Il caos della città.  Entrambi con i loro colori, odori, sapori che riconducono inevitabilmente a te. 

Poi hai preso la mia mano, non più per farti aiutare ma per insegnarmi ad usare il sale.  Paura seguita da innocenti sbagli, fino alla maestria.  Hai goduto dei miei successi e del mio cibo con un sorriso ed un tocco attento, fino a quando non hai deciso che il curry ti piaceva di più.  Fanculo stronzo. 

“Postfazione” Un piccolo scritto di Settembre ispirato da una frase di H. M., che citava (non proprio con queste parole, ma il senso è quello):  “Trasforma le delusioni d’amore in Letteratura”.  Quasi come fosse stato il consiglio tenero di un amico, a seguito di una delle più importanti storie d’amore della mia breve esistenza, ho deciso di dare corpo al sentimento e alle emozioni, che vedono nel tempo sospeso dei pasti, e nella condivisione di essi, la sublimazione dell’amore.  In quel giorno di qualche mese fa, quando mi sono messa a tavolino con carta e penna, credevo di essere forte e distaccata abbastanza da poter ripercorrere i momenti con il solo piacere del ricordo.  Ma il motivo della delusione, le sensazioni di tradimento e abbandono mi hanno inevitabilmente travolto con la stessa feroce intensità.  Questo è il risultato strozzato.  Ringrazio voi, miei cari lettori invisibili, per la generosità di un silenzio sommesso e carico della tenerezza che vado ancora cercando. 

Il tuo 'io' è insopportabile. Magnetico. Così insopportabile da farmi fare a pugni con le ombre, urlare al vento la mia frustrazione, abbracciare il vuoto (che forse sei). Il tuo 'io' annega i miei sogni, fa sfiorire la bellezza e la luce che si presenta ai miei occhi. Lo odio così tanto questo 'io' -  celebrato dalle mille parole di anime ancora vergini al tuo veleno. 

Today is one of those days where the light coming from outside is strangely too strong for sleepy eyes and the coffee tastes like shit. The chitty-chatty of my flatmates is so lively that I can barely think of something. They can be sometimes so lavish and sore at the same time, driving me crazy like a bull.  Example? "Have you seen Kat downstairs? She is G-R-A-N-D. I would have never thought of combining the colour of the nails and the lips." I mean, they can get excited for bullshit like this and they probably expect from me the same reaction. So I just smiled to this grand declaration and, for Chrissake, they are now back to their room and I can finally enjoy the black tasteless coffee in front of me. I'm getting so depressed in this moment though. You know, stuff like this can really put you down and it seems like nothing really interesting can come up to your mind again. Like never again in your damn life. Oh gosh, sometimes I can be so fatalist. I really mean it. Like, I have this huge problem when I meet someone. I have that horrible pretentious attitude that people can't get through their life without my presence after they've met me. Isn't it so fatalist and dramatic? I'm the queen of drama, or simply a dickhead. But after all I think people really love me, or at least most of the time. And I definitely love them too! For example, there is this guy I met one week ago. He literaly loves me with all his heart. I was in my favourite bar, dressed up fancy and careless at the same time. I was in the mode: look at me but don't get close. What a dickhead I am. I could feel those hungry eyes on me. I was enjoying it like a crazy chick. You know, everything was going prefectly fine. I reached the ideal tipsy state and I was not anymore listening to the typical philosophical conversations of my lovely flatmates. I was on the point of starting flirting with the bartender just for the fun of doing it when a guy sat next to me saying nothing. I new he was mustering the courage to talk to me, but I've preceded him: " I know whatcha tryin'a do, boy." Such a stupid thing to say, I've realized it while I was saying it. But he seemed so released by that, that the only thing he could do was smiling. A really bright and mischievous smile, though. The bastard, he knew perfeclty what a smile of that kind would have caused on me. I'm pretty sure about that even now. Anyway, I stared at him with this really terrific and still glance for an everlasting couple of minutes. I could not put my thoughts in a logical order. First because of that smile I told you about. I mean, I really know myself. Guys, especially when they are so innocent and nasty at the same time, drives me crazy. I can't help it. My chest was bursting into hells' flames. Drama queen, again.   Second, I could not concentrate because of the noise of this bunch of drunk people screaming as wild monkeys. In that moment I could distinctly feel what my mum would have thought about pubs I use to hang out. My lovely mum used to say many things about young folks like me. But, of course, when she had to talk about me she was even too honest. I still remember the day when I stared at a cake on the kitchen's table for hours. I mean.. it was a really nice one, with a nice smell too and I was not particulary hungry. So I've just stayed there, sitting on the chair, staring at the cake thinking about anything and nothing when suddenly her voice broke the prefect silence: "You are a waste of time." That particular time hurted me a lot. Somehow since that moment my mum thought that the wall of politeness between us fell and she kept repeating that statement 'til the very last second of my departure. I got so used to listen to it that I've started thinking that "waste of time" was no long a deplorable thing to say to someone. I mean, if I were a waste of time, I was a really wonderful one. But anyway, could you believe that after those couple of minutes I was literaly eating that guy with passionate kisses? It was definitely a firestorm for both of us. A thunder that explodes in the middle of the night and other of these poetic and common images. He loved me and sure he still loves me. I remember what he kept repeating during the night: "Oh Reb, I wanna see ya again. Oh gal! you drive me crazy". And the way he said it was so convincing that I was having the same feeling. I mean.. I really wanted to see him again. So we tried to figure out how, where, when we could have seen again. You know, in a  different place with a different atmosphere in order to know each other better, as if we had the feeling that there was an hypothetical "better" to know. I have to admit though that sometimes I was getting a little bit of that typical depression that catches me easly, but he was still saying the magical revitalizing words "wanna see ya, gal. I mean it, I wanna see ya". To make things easier to him, because girls we all know that boys sometimes can be really slow at doing stuff, I gave him my number and I was getting  ready to head back home when suddenly he decided to say some more words: "Ya know, I've gotta do some stuff in this period, don't wanna waste lots of time. But we'll see soon, gal."