Number 14

I rushed back home on the willpower of a couple of tired legs. The steaming lights of the club were hitching my yellow eyes.
Did you know?
I rushed back home because people were distracting me, Nigel Farage does not have the colour of your eyes.
Did you know that?
I rushed back home in a cold empty night, ignoring the monsters on my bed, collapsing on the sofa, crumpling under the blanket, leaving the light on so that I can project you sitting on the armrest.
I rushed back home because you were presumptuously filling all my actions with your imaginary presence, I was moving stiff picturing you next to me, and so I precipitated in my calm orange vanilla room in order for you to have the space you need, the space you have, inside me.

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Number 13

Until a few months ago, I used to be a little bit chubbier. Just more curvy I guess, as my mother used to give me that kind of look when I was not hungry enough to have lunch like “I should be worrying about you because feeding you is what I have done through a liquidly swollen womb since even before imagining you existed, but now I think you’ll manage it until the next meal without that lasagne with mince and besciamella”.

In the last months I lost weight, maybe 6 kilos, and cannot really detect the exact reason between the variables of that period, maybe stress because of my just ended relationship and consequent moving – thus, a lot of weight lifting and walking through the city laden like a pack mule – or because of my specific attention to money, which were steadily disappearing from my bank account without proper replacement, or because I probably just realized I was eating too much – and so why not, I could have felt better without some of that little burden under my epidermis, and give myself a closer model-like appearance that every girl grew up in front of MTV channel secretly aims to.

So I was going back to the world slightly different and the world – especially the male one – looked back at me with slightly different eyes, and hands too. Especially in my home town, which is definitely more inclined to body contact – the warmer the place the more people touch each other, how funny is that – male friends and acquaintances allowed themselves to ponder on the angles of my waist when hugging me, when a kiss on the cheeks would have been enough to greet, they swept the pinched surface of my shoulders when giving me advices I did not ask for, they grabbed the easy circumference of my biceps when explaining me something I got already.

People started lingering on my body with the easiness of someone ordering a cheeseburger at McDonald’s, expecting me not to have a word on it, expecting their physical ponders to be absolutely OK, as if the shorter the travel on my now reduced body the smaller the fine to pay for violating it.

But still what those people didn’t get is that I never asked for those touches, for that colonization. Me, as every other woman, as every other human and being in whatever size and shape, we rarely want our spaces to be violated without authorization. My corners, soft flesh, thin layers, even if they have reduced their occupying areas over me, they are still the gates to my intimacy, to that part of me I want to keep away from the public, them, you, and leaning, brushing, palpating them means disregarding the ownership I have over it, my intimate self – which to be honest sometimes still really misses that besciamella and mince lasagna.

Number 12

We are the jumping generation.

We jump on and off from tabs, windows, one click connecting us to the next video, to the next page, to the facebook page, scrolling down to check how much more does it take to finish the article, does he really think that I am going to read it all? Visiting our new favourite blog that has one-week expiration How could I be stuck on that website? This one is so good but look this one on the ad looks better we jump from conversation to conversation sorry I forgot to text you back and ironically we forget to text back again, we look away in restaurants, we look at the screens, we have the power over those tiny machines by holding them firmly, by shutting them on, and off, and on the same with your partner and no surprise you are single now and controlling the conversation I want to talk about the closest Chinese restaurant to me, Google, we jump in the job market, we have the aspiration of diplomats or interior designers but hey this restaurant is not that bad, they pay me weekly and the jutting ass of the waitress, we read this line before getting to the fourth, we crave for new, like if we had something old to dismiss, but then what old, we haven’t gripped enough in the present.

Number 10

Everything was set.
The rivers were flooding, the birds had acquired the ability to fly and sing, and the flowers their colors. The dawn woke up and the sunset slumbered, the moon had crumbled its stars into the night.
Everything seemed set, it seemed…
“Look at those bags under my eyes!” moaned Nature at the mirror, caressing her face. “They can’t see me like this!”
Nature was worried about her aspect like a teenager on her first date. And the world, all the world, was waiting for her outside.
“They can’t see me in these conditions! After all these beauties I created, can they imagine there is such an ugly and tired woman at the head of it?”
But the room was empty, and his groans could not find answers.
She convened Poetry.
“Poetry, please, help me. Humans want to know me, but I am not ready yet…”
Poetry did not hesitate.
“Don’t worry Nature, I will take care of entertaining them for a while.”
“How will you do it?” Asked Nature.
“I will insinuate myself in your creations, and I will satisfy their imagination with sweet and delicate, or brutal and upset thoughts, because that’s how things are beautiful Nature, as you are”.
And Poetry was secretly in love with Nature…
And he succeeded in his task to the extent that for years, centuries, millenniums, the humans filled books and paintings of the most creative images, of morning chariots and monsters of the underworld, all of this to imagine how Nature could look like.
And they were so beautiful, unique, and precious representations that Nature did not ever feel the need to march and reveal herself.

http://www.atxoni.com/#!mitologia-immaginata/c7xf

Number 3 – Communication

Communication.

She draws red lines on a whiteboard
then turns to the people behind her,
echoing with her eyes half-closed.

Communication.

She likes to mesmerize the opposite sex
with a flock of violet words,
with a legion of mouth shut smiles.

Communication.

She says she won’t finish her plate,
she will make you sniggering
at her nibbled tomato sauce spaghetti.

Communication.

He has a wall of webs in front of him,
he will love to pause for a minute,
shifting a blank chair,
bleaching his reddening thoughts.

Number 2 – When You Were Young

You’re special.
You’re so special.
Don’t make anybody else telling you what or who you have to be.
Because there’s no one else like you.

Promises which get lost in the palms of the one who reads them. She looks familiar.

Summer, 1999.

The necklace tight on my neck, some beneficial stone hanging on it. A shirt made of an oil’s fabric.
You take a pair of scissors and you snip the borders.

Because you are getting bored.

On a seesaw, while the line of the horizon comes up and down from your nose, you dream about your future. About your friends. About traveling around the world. About the beautiful woman body you will have, about your actress, pianist, singer career.

But when you need it, you can’t ever find a tissue to blow your nose.

Winter 2014.

Rooms packed with things, mail never read, people to meet, work to be done. You slacken it off and you call it entropy.

School play, you sing the Pink Floyd behind a grey sheet. You follow your schoolmates and you rip it, but you hate the din that it makes and you don’t understand the meaning of the song.
A thin guy will explain it to you many years later.

You’ve filled your life of expectations that you consumed before living them. But now you are on a queue to cash them in. To get the entire specialness, beauty, inimitableness that you were promised. But it is a long and bastard queue, the people push, lug, pull your coat and pierce your eyes with their fingers.

Because they know that there won’t be for everyone.

Number 1 – Swinging eyes

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I am in Appiano train station, around half past two. I take out the plastic containers which have my food in it: generally a salad. I take a sit on the house track, where just a few people wait for the trains, maybe a bunch of young boys whom I pretend to not notice while they look at me as a weirdo. The bench is frozen and it freeze my bum, so I stretch my coat under it or I cross my legs in a way to lay my buttocks on the feet; but it hurts after a while.
It is dim inside the station and the artificial light makes me feel like a Nighthawk. The feeling is so strong that I can’t help get a cigarette between my index and middle finger, despite the ban hanged.

And punctually, a man arrives. An old man. So slowly that it seems to slip the house track, on which it appears catching me always by surprise. He is bent over and he has a warming smile. Then he stops. He raises his shoulder just as much to direct his gaze on the billboard train. He keeps on smiling. His eyes on the train hours, he gropes in the green jacket pocket for his wrist watch. Once he has it in his hands, his eyes – which have never moved from the billboard – swing back and forth from the train hours to the white quadrant, at least 20 times. Calmly, his body perfectly still while his eyes keep on waving. And his mouth keeps on beaming.
Checking the hour of his train even if he knows perfectly at what time he has come there, and what time will the train come. He still believes that anything could happen: the train could miss its route, the watch could break, or he could wake up one hour later without noticing it. He still believes in serendipity, and he waits it smiling.

I am almost sure that he does it every day, even when I am not around there oiling my lips with the salad dressing. It looks like a habit. But he could say the same about me maybe; maybe he goes there only those three days when I am there. But I don’t think that he had ever questioned about people around him, or ever noticed them: for him, there is him only, his smile, his still pose, the billboard, the watch, and the train to come.