Aridità

È un momento secco. Il blog si prosciuga, pochi post levano il loro magro profilo all'orizzonte. Stessa cosa per quaderni e blocchi vari, dove è l'arsura d'inchiostro a regnar sovrana. Distese di pagine bianche come sabbia al sole. Ma di preoccuparsi non c'è motivo: così - mi è parso di realizzare con gli anni - funziona il moto creativo. Quantomeno il mio. Niente quattro stagioni, di cicli lunari manco parlarne: il mio cervello si muove su alternanze tropicali, aridità e monsoni.
Credo ci sia una qualche sorta di RAM, qualcosa che dev'essere di tanto in tanto ricaricato di dati per poter riprendere a processare. E allora arrivano periodi in cui passo più tempo a leggere, muovermi, guardare. Ad assimilare input, elettronicamente parlando. E a produrre zero. E' un'alternanza diseguale, non me ne sono del tutto chiare tempistiche e motivi ma la meccanica, quella sì: assorbimento e sintesi, sistole e diastole, compressione ed espansione. Il cervello è terra fertile, ma necessita comunque delle sue irrigazioni.

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Writing in Italian for a while. Sometimes it's important to keep in mind where you are.

Un incipit appassionato

Ci si bacia per strada, marciapiedi e panchine, per terra ombre di labbra incollate dalle luci dei lampioni. Storie che non pensano a domani: sguardi rimasti avvinghiati sotto insegne di pub; odore di gas di scarico e troppe paglie. Dita aggressive, feromoni e istinto, non c'è spazio per il cervello qui, la testa arriverà domani, neppur richiesta, a valutar numeri salvati sotto nomi poco noti, a chiedersi magari se e come, a razionalizzare un notturno, primordiale agire, con ancora lingua impastata, equilibrio instabile e una scesa di nebbia rada a separar pupille e pianeta.

The concept of fuffa

"Fuffa" is a very Italian term that, losing part of its meaning, may be translated into "crap". It indicates something whose content seems to be meaningful at a first look, though it reveals to be completely senseless after a deeper analysis.
E.g.: the bulk of mainstream contents are fuffa; lots of medias spread fuffa and of fuffa is full the mouth of people talking about nearly anything they don't know a fuck about, i.e. almost everybody for most of their time.

I'm very interested in this topic because when you write - and especially when you write a blog - the possibility of publishing fuffa is incredibly high: you desire to keep your website updated and at the same time there's no proper authority able to sanction you if you write bullshits.

The basic fuffa-technique's trick consists in chaining fancy sentences by making use of a slightly-more-than-average property of language, making glimpse at the same time some intelligence and depth. But the main problem related to fuffa is that often not even the writer himself is able to realize what kind of meaningless crap is pretending to promote as a high expression of the human brain. And also his readers (if there are) are not very good in discerning. This gives birth to a net where unaware fuffa-creators spread crystal-pure fuffa to a deluded public who starts producing fuffa on its own, auto-deceived, convinced to own a great mind and a not common sensibility as well.

This effect, that I'll call "mechanism of fuffa propagation" was once constrained by geographical, linguistic and cultural boundaries. But nowadays the high-scale connectivity and rapidity in exchanging information - together with a higher access to the contents and a lower amount of attention dedicated to the comprehension of them - brings straight away to a global state of fuffa predominance, where lots of people spend everyday a huge amount of time just swallowing and producing useless and not very interesting information. A proof of this is, for instance, the fact that you got to the end of this post.
The digital divide is our last hope.

The right door

Happiness is a little thing, quite easy to get. No need to struggle all the time for it. Yeah, big life changes don't usually come by themselves, but the pure happiness, the one that raise your mood for a bunch of minutes and makes your steps lighter, it comes however - unexpected - in lots of ways.
It's the happiness of small things.
Music often makes this effect on me: listening and playing. Some song are able to turn a switch inside my head. I believe it's something related to the voice, to its melody and tone. And also the rhythm has a part in that.
But she already knows it.
What she can't imagine is how much I'd love to listen to her voice singing. Maybe I'll try to be in her dreams once in a while, in case it could be useful. I just have to find the right door to get in.
I'll knock first, of course.

Ah, and by the way

Just a summer day

The alarm rings.
I cross the road and start to work.
Within half an hour something unexpected messes up the daily plan, forcing me to be in a hurry for the whole morning. This fucks up straight away my patience, serenity and love for the human race. I'm so misanthropic in summertime. Life sucks.
Break.

Riding my green bike without holding the handlebars makes me feel cool. The blood rushes down from the heart to the legs while some notes bounce between the ears: the old rough punkrock, an electro beat or the sporadic swing voice.
I think that I've got too many things to work on and too short free time. But it's actually a matter of constancy, motivation or energy, I just don't know which one is the guiltiest. In the meanwhile I justify myself with the excuse of time. I complain to myself about it and make some good purposes I won't ever completely fulfill though I know I ought to. I should exploit every moment of my life, I should think more, do more, 'cause the thing that scares me the most is the eventuality to end up living a trivial life. And it's such an easy fate. I need to be on the lookout. But it's quite a tough job.

Quick stop at the beach, where old friend play cards and chat about matters I mostly don't give a fuck about. No surprise if I don't join them so often. My social relationships are so fragmented lately, indeed.
Ride back through the pinewood.

At work again.
I still cannot accept the fact that hospitality is the main working environment of my life, though the bulk of the money I earned so far came from the activities of shaking cocktails and carrying plates. I guess that's a kind of self-defence mechanism: it's already pretty tough to try to reach a different existential condition that the brain needs to keep some impassable boundaries. I can't afford to admit to myself that I am just little more than a waiter, or that would mean giving definitively up. That would be really frustrating. So I try all the time to work out something else. It's a kind of a hobby. But having brilliant ideas is a bizarre activity: they either will be forgotten or will just prove not to be that brilliant, on second thought. The few ones that will pass this stage will be written on papers that will probably be lost. I suppose it's a type of natural selection.
Break again.

Riding in the night, heading toward a couple of beers. Arms crossed and music spreading inside the head, pedalling and lamenting about the too short free time.
Tomorrow I'll manage my day better, I promise.

A short reply to a silly comment that pretends to be a post

Of course she's one of that kind, though she pretends not to know that (I don't dare to think she really doesn't know). "And why?" she asks. But the proof is right here: why would I write these posts otherwise?

A very meaningful but short dialogue whose title is almost longer than the text

- So, if it's not a matter of appearance, what's your kind of girl like? -
- The one you can't avoid to be a gentleman with -