26th May 2020
(this is the third time I stupidly refresh the page and delete all I had written: sorry, the original is never to be found, as repeating myself would decrease the sense of poignancy my words were trying to convey)
I do (did) performing for a living.
I miss performing today. I am missing the nights spent with strangers, a veritable mirror of all my fears, egotism, generosity and futility; I miss the truthfulness of the encounter between one and many, the explosion of expectations, the dynamite that humans bring out of each other.
It all seems to be withering now. Above and beyond this state of separation: it was all a work in progress, from left to right. A demeaning of life itself to make it more mamageable, quiantifiable, identifiable. Pandemic or no pandemic, only debate can save us from our monsters; there are incredible, formidable shadows looming over us, all of them human-made, not of this or that group: all of us are implied.
I am sad, sad for I feel deprived of my gifts to the world. Sad for not being able to indulge in my pointlessness, my delirium, my unpredictability; sad not to see people dance with me; sad not to see the drunken old men at the bar, the kids offended for reason unknown, even to them, the girls smoking their anger away. But the truth is, I had quit seeing these people a long time ago. And maybe I was going to the wrong places and maybe I was sitting in a position that was not mine.
I do not know where I stand and despite the anxiety, I feel blessed, glowing of a light nobody can really see.
For this unknowing might be the pacifying balm over the wounds of the last few derailing decades.
27th May 2020
Thoughts for the day.
Keeping a journal is recommended in these times; true, the social media monster is gorging down unparalleled amounts of people's thoughts and there is enough going on there, so why keeping a diary separate from there?
1. Writing a diary has no immediate effect. Many writers claim that the act of writing is an act of staying sane. There is no intrinsic value in writing other than illuminating life itself. And if your life is in the dark right now, what better way to shed light through the intimate act writing? Typing statuses on social media will not help you: soon after the emotional high of likes and hearts and hugs, you'll go back being the miserable bastard you have always been. And your human need for attention becomes a series of neural reactions, in the long run ruining your capacity to feel.
2. Your words on social media are not yours anymore. Are you a post-relativist and you don't care? You should care about your words, there are repressive political movements being built on words (such as 'empowerment').
3. The medium is the message. Social media is a mere addictive machine in which thoughts, words and ideas lose identity, precisely because everybody is identified (or self-identified). Social media is like the news: its aim is to depersonalise and disempower. Write for yourself, hide it away from others. Your soul will grow stronger.
4. Social media is for the most part a monopoly that influenced elections worldwide and it is recently being proved to influence beliefs about the EU response to the pandemic and the unity of the member states; this is a good CV for the secret services.
5. You say, "sharing is caring". Yes, of course it is. It is important for people to share stories from around the world. But is the equation Internet = social media true to you? The Internet has shrunk to a series of hyperlinks connecting back to motherboard: money is being made over the bet you will not change your habits. There is no delocalization and decolonialism going on on social media; there is no creativity and emotional connection; no political change, no reflective exchange. We are losing the interest to explore inner and outer spaces. If everybody uses the same medium, forget about social change (for good and for bad).
6. If you do not care about all of the political stuff that seems to ooze out of this tirade (it really isn't), see it as a detox, a way to cleanse, which is another big trendy business now, albeit apparently less rapacious.
Writing for no other purpose than writing. It took us millennia to learn, let's not give it away so quickly. We need each other's minds now more than ever.
I write this for myself, of course.
28th May 2020
In the past few weeks, I have resumed my temp job as a cleaner. It is nice to be in somebody else's indoors. It is way more relieving than staying home, where my flatmate and I don't talk due to some quarreling which dates back to before the pandemic. universal solidarity did not kick in in our household; the state of emergency seems to have exacerbated whatever distances already were between us.
I am not an indoorish person even though I like to be by myself, and the pandemic gave me a chance to confront myself with the life of me indoors. Result: I feel like a broken flower pondering about his past life as a seed. I have always connected the indoors to a Northern idea; the technological advancement of building a heated internal environment, an artificial zone where to proceed further with humanity despite the changing of the weather. By this token, the indoors lives outdoor, where cars and buses and buildings and coffeeshops really do not give us the real experience of being outdoors. So I probably never liked the outdoor either, if this is the outdoors we are missing. I am not missing that messy outdoors that is resurfacing with amplified violence. It is easy to see now: the indoors has been progressively moved outdoors; lights are everywhere, makig sure we never sleep for fear of joining a mystical land. The indoors is our culture of solitude and removedness.
So I spent the morning cleaning somebody else's apartment, a family apartment filled with balloons in the living room, and large windows from where one can see the poplars dancing in the spring wind. And without a warning, as I was filling up the bucket for mopping, I shed bitter tears in the bathroom's sink.
29th May 2020
A couple of years back, I was in a meditation retreat in which I had to respect the so called 'noble silence' for 9 days straight. One the last day, the silence was lifted. At the beginning, I was scared to speak as if to break a sacred spell. Then suddenly, words begun to flow and I became possessed by the euphoria of communicating a whole bunch of trivialties, while in fact I wanted to express what I went through in those days of deep meditiation and silence; the hardships and discoveries, the realisations that some things had died in me, and others were pushing to come out of me; the fear of admitting defeats, and the joy to accept surrender; the simpleness of the most enduring emotions in my heart, and the view of my inevitable limitations. All this I wanted to convey, communicate, share, and I am sure everybody did. But a cloud looming over our heads was making us tired and unable to fully articulate our humanity, our deep humanity we had been confronted with, a humanity we have not lost! A humanity that wants to be understood. But instead, other details, other shared memories of the silence together occurred. Talking was exhausting.
Thing is, we did not even know ourselves what we wanted to communicate. We had learned a great deal about ourselves, but we hadn't metabolised it, we hadn't yet incarnated that thinking.
And so, when I went into the city yesterday, deliberately without my phone, strolling in the pollen-ridden park, I saw a friend. A friend and his brother, a friend I was sure I had, a friend who looked way older than I remembered. He called me and so I went, and we talked. We talked and talked. And the feeling was similar to the one I had after my meditation: there was a discovery we had made, but could we communicate it? Did we want to? Did we know what it was? Wasn't mundane talking, even if it was about politics and the future, much easier to use to conceal what our eyes and our wrinkles could not deny? The issue was that maybe we did not want to discuss that overwhelming change that befell in our lives. The jobs, the climate, the young people, the recovery funds, the social unrest, and more, were the scapegoats of a deeper unsettledness, a more arcane doubt, the uncomfortable sensation of having lead a truncated life, a diminished humanity, or maybe not: perhaps we have hit the wall of communication, enveloped in the solitude of existing. Nothing new under the sun, really. As I walked home, I realised the person I had been talking to was not who I thought he was. And that fact relieved me. I liked the guy I was not aware I was talking too much more.
1st June 2020
I hate the #Inside. The inside has always been my enemy, with its limitedness and its plain colors, the TV and the laptop, the dinner at 8 and the disagreements over who is making more noise. Communal living you can say, the price we pay for social advancement. The inside, the great inside, indoors, so constituted in an effort of defying nature; the protective coat over all things private, all things removed from the outdoors, mentally, conceptually, spatially separated. Makes enough sense. So I went outside yesterday, exhausted as I was from the atrocities of the indoors, with its news and echo chamber, the impending disaster and the one we just put behind our shoulders. I went out deprived of my identity, my phone, the personal device for good and bad dreams, objective as anyone's addiction (I sometimes fear I consume my phone as an effort to be on par with the world around me -- how much of it is my addiction and how much of it is the collective illusion?) So I fly through a city well in health, Berlin, racing through the LDS-plated cars with my bicycle (yes, bike lanes have widened, nature has reclaimed its space) in this oasis of youth, strollers, and non-ironic organic stores. My allergy to pollen does not hit me as hard today. I stop by a park where all of the workout enthusiasts gather to foster their muscles and blast unnecessary music. I find comfort in what I normally label as pointless waste of human flesh (oh, the power of the revolution we are living in!). The breeze is tender and even here, children jump and twirl and climb and run around the monotonous repetitions and pale protein shakes; what once was play has become self-enforced body control. But I digress, because the emotions here were definitely positive (no shame this time!). Not because suddenly society is now better. Probably because I personally feel better; and we go where we need to go once we decide to do so; but surely the ity around me is not as fearful, despite the continuous protests against 5G, Bill Gates, stte control and the like, and oh how we lost those battles a long time ago. And so cycle cycle cycle I found a community space next to my apartment, never been there before in my life, but just 30 seconds walk from my place, where an Argentinian artist was painting a 5-storey murales. And so I stayed and met people face to face, talked with complete strangers who all were wondering what needs to change in our society. Were they talking about it before this whole mess happened? Probably. The German owner is so high he drops the pots and pans and carrot dahl paints the whole floor of his makeshift bar; a man from Milan seems to be able to talk only through insults to god; a Japanese girl is trying to convert herself to veganism, meanwhile the painting acquires shape, trees, a native american body, while a woman with three children walks in asking if this is some political statement, well it is a huge graffiti in the center of the city, do you see anything in it? All well and good, this does not seem so different from life itself. Maybe rediscovering life as a large gathering of badly posed questions is the key. Short-lived? Contextual? Hay-fire? I don't know. The longer the answers won't come, the longer the uncertainty, the more we will think. I am just glad not to feel the same fear any more.
2nd June 2020
I categorically do not believe in conspiracy theories, because that would give a grand vision to merely inextinguishable capitalistic interests. I believe, however, that the suffering the poorer part of the population (the majority, after all) could have been largely avoided. Things have not suddenly changed; we are in line with the development towards which our societies are headed; exploitation is not over; lies and deceit have worked so far, so why stop?
A lot of people see this period as the end of capitalism. But capitalism lives within us; so we must be ready to die if we want it gone. A part of us has to be abandoned forever. But I do not see that coming at any point. The clearest example is the use of social media, in these days filled with anti-racist statements from white people (for if you do not state your anti-racism openly, you are automatically racist). Far from disagreeing from the content of such statements, I however would like to remind ourselves that the medium is the message. We cannot keep on pretending that social media is a tool to produce social change. It is a tool for marketing, disguised as a platform for sharing information and finding intimacy. Why do I associate this with capitalism? The rapacious need to consume information whilst signalling one’s own concern is exactly the same logic of exploiting natural resources and raising concern for the environment. The hypocritical dualism of sin and guilt, long known to us in religion is now proposed in capitalism, consumerism and the faux intimacy of social media. Only old tired horseshit spreading faster, soon on 5G.
If you today have discovered inequality, racism, colonialism and the infinite vexations of imperialism, thanks to which today you can delude yourself of being enlightened and progressive, great, but next time can you keep it to yourself and let it sink in? Our emotions have become disassociated from our minds. Take care of yourselves.
We must see this now. We must see that this is not about conspiracies or fake news. This is about having misplaced our emotions and about not accepting how important it is not to give a fuck. Because not caring will actually save us from all of these attention-seeking caricatures, from 'friends' to world leaders. They are fucking with us and they have more power than us. The tangible reality of how things feel right now is what truly exists, in your body. And it does feel like shit, because it is shitty. Take it in. It is shit. Look at that shit, then kill the supremacy of ego, kill the capitalist within. Welcome the bad vibes: they will cleanse you from your bullshit. Only then we can make room for something new. All the good things we have on our way, (environmental, social and gender equality, creative exploration, scientific revolutions) cannot be done if we do not choose to die first. A spectacular, collective death.
3rd June 2020
I was suggested to type what I actually see, perceive and touch in this journal. I do not seem to be able to do it. All I write about is what I think. Never what I feel. See, I am doing it again.
I feel sad. I have been feeling sad for a while, and there is nothing much to it. Sadness is bourgeois, my father used to say.
A way to assert his working class background? Possibly.
Am I holding my tears in? Yes I am. Do I want to be understood? Yes. Is it ok to display my weakness here? I guess.
The day is very hot in Berlin and I have allergy to pollen. I have to think about my radio show but I do not seem to have the energy. The radio collective has political ideas I do not converge with and it makes me concerned.
I worry so much about them for no reason. I worry because I want to relate, to engage in something external. Instead this stomach hurts and I cannot let myself go to crying. As if I am in a thunderstorm without the capacity to see the door inside is right in front of me.
5th June 2020
There are days when it feels as though things are about to start again. When the clouds go away and I feel free to play. To imagine scenarios of abundance, agreement, union, cooperation. They are solid possibilities! And the culture of cynicism I have gotten used to seems like a bad dream. And this whole period has been like a bad dream. Here in germany the discourse seems more coordinated. Amongst Western countries, it has the longest-lasting leadership and most solid economy. It is a great luck in this common misfortune.
The bad dreams I have had are born out of the torture of the fatal mix of clarvoyance and doubt. More than ever, behind locked doors, we have been exposed to heavy propaganda machines (what we call fake news) and the monopoly of social media. I had the chance to penetrate these worlds, try to understand it, and then remember, as i resolved many years ago as a young man, to leave them altogether. It is the unfortunate condition of the democratic citizen: to believe in an impossible transparency, not out of faith in the institutions, but a relentless self-righteousness. We often forget that there are people behind the media, and that people are like us: fallible, and trying to keep their job.
As for me, my mind is clearing probably because I am finally accepting my condition, or probably because I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Soon my flatmate will leave the apartment, and borders will open, so I will be able to go home to grieve my deceased grandfather.
9th June 2020
I went to the protest on Saturday in Berlin Alexanderplatz.
Plenty of people, far too many for the times. But Berlin seems to have been incredibly lucky in the common misfortune of the virus. Over 15,000 people showed up, most people were dressed in black, looking really hot. Maybe the time indoors has made me more perceptive to the general attractiveness that humans have. Maybe I am just starved for sex.
I went there by bike, after my slot at the radio station. After me, two black guys from Georgia had their slot at the radio. I asked them if they’d join the protest. They were not going to. One of them told me he did not feel like getting too worked up about it on that day.
Protests in Berlin feel a little pleonastic; the level of general openness and understanding of different perspectives is welcomed here. On top of that, Berlin passed a law that protects discrimination over race, gender, disability, opinion and creed for individual facing charges from institutions such as the police, schools and workplaces. It seems like a good start.
Yet, I have had plenty of friends recounting me experiences of casual #racism, in the workplace, at schools, in public transport. From the German-born second generation immigrant family being asked “where are you really from”, to people ducking when seeing my Korean flatmate in the metro when corona seemed racially distinctive, to me being refused a physical greeting when corona “was only going on in Italy”. But the list is long and varied and, as an immigrant, I know the tendency of people who have never left their place of birth to assume far too much about people and cultures in general. Ergo, they have no bloody clue and live life sheltered in an illusion of separatedness.
As of now, and despite my job is in entertainment, life seems completely normal. The protest was a huge sign that authorities here are completely tolerant, or downright negligent. There were far too few police persons at the protest, which was peaceful anyway. Plenty of people out on a field day, however for a good cause. Not many black folks, who probably felt like the guys I mentioned before. On top of that, later speaking to an aboriginal friend in Australia, she told me she did not join the protest because she was too scared that if something was going to happen, she would have been one of the first people to be targeted. Think about that for a second. That is a profound turnaround a few of us white folks would have considered. So this was another element that makes on aware of the intricacies of oppression in a so-called liberal democracy.
Back to when I was at the radio, I did talk at length with one of the two guys from Georgia, mostly about the echo chambers of social media. At a turning point in our conversation, he confided he was a bit upset about some of his white friends suddenly sharing socially, politically relevant content to the situation. I am a great critic of social media especially when it comes to politics, and I made a point to him that if anybody was to truly grasp the depth of what it means to be anti-racist, it would take a while before posting anything on social media. Outrage in itself has no meaning, and throwing oneself to the keyboard in anger makes that anger go away too quickly. That anger needs to stay.
Before dying, Umberto Eco used to say that we need a critique of the Internet just as much as we had a rather prolific critique of television. The Internet has come to us nearly a-critically, a wild-west of sorts, mostly in the hands of American servers. The ‘blessing’ of social media has never been challenged. Rather, euphoria and a surprising readiness in their adoption marked the stellar success of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, the former two forming a monopoly in the hands of Mark Zuckerberg. I said to the guy, “Mark Zuckerberg is the Antichrist. Remember Monsanto in the 90s? Facebook is that. Only, he’s too powerful for people to fully accept that. They are not under the spell of an evil corporation destroying wildlife and farmers. They are under the spell of their own narcissism and marketing campaigns. As though this monopoly is offering a temporary freedom the state never gave them. I don’t know how long that’s going to last.”
He pondered about it for a while. I was actually surprised he did not think about it before. I guess not many do, or they cannot articulate this strange sense of coercion that social media imposes on us, controlling our way of responding to inputs (likes or worse than dislikes, indifference), manipulating the notion of community, forcing artists to ‘stay on’ to promote themselves, encouraging the capitalism of emotions and the ruthless marketing of the self, and effectively modifying our relationship with the outside world (think of your bent neck, the itchy eyes, the lack of awareness to visual details, and the, hear hear, 1.6 million people who die every year because checking their phones while driving – how do they count that? - ), in short expanding the scope of private enterprise at the expense of the public good. Probably it’s the very sense of coercion we feel inside, be it for upbringing, or institutionalised racism or discrimination, that we fail to notice how Facebook does that to us too. To a certain extent, we are used to being oppressed.
I do not really know whether this sudden awareness of racism will last. No social media event that has traction ends up being in the hands of good people. Facebook has been proved many times to direct elections, referendums, and steal sensitive data, on top of avoiding to pay taxes like the majority of silicon valley business ventures. More than one reason to stop typing statuses for a second and let the horrible images of violence and death sink in, and wonder why today, after centuries of struggle, we still are where we are, despite having a wealth of knowledge available and the opportunity of travelling to see things with our own eyes.
He said to me, “you know, every time I have an idea and I write it down, I quickly forget it. I have delegated my idea to the page, and the energy of that idea left me then”.
We must open our eyes to oppression. We must protect our anger.
17th June 2020
I am feeling cheated. I turn the light on, deep in this night, and I think of the writers who could not write at night if not with an army of candles by their sides, then I think of the times I have felt corny, overdramatic (be it because I have lived in Northern Europe long enough to be perceived as so, or because I have been feeling this being ‘inappropriate’ for myself, hence the choice to live in puritanical, apparently no-nonsense countries) and self-censored myself and did not write my actual sensations. I tend to intellectualise and at times it makes me sound like I know more than I actually can comprehend. Keeping a diary has always seemed a thing for ‘girls’, even though I have always kept one, only I have never called it so. I have called it “Today’s intuition”, or “Today’s fear”, “Emotional Vernissage”... always a funny or pompous name.
I have always been wary of writing of my “self”, as illusory as it can be, and I have always oscillated between “know thyself” and the social construction of such concept. Then I found meditation, which helped to heal this internal conflict.
Yet, I feel like monsters are crawling back and forcing me to look, once again, where I have not wanted to lay inner eyes at for a while.
Strictly speaking, the quarantine period is an apparently long forgotten memory here in Berlin. My Italian friends too are out and about. This being a big apprehension gone for me, since I do care about the health of my country people more than the ones I am living with (forgive the honesty based on an illusory concept, such as ‘country’). So it entails happiness should follow. I am enjoying being out and about, I feel like my mood is better, I am feeling like hope is a legitimate sensation again, and that people are not as bad as they look in the news or social media. I knew that before too. But if anything now, I feel cheated of my own device. I have spent huge amount of times trying to understand world politics, the subterranean forces at work, I have attempted not to be deceived by headlines and always look into the implications of each and every statement I have enmeshed myself in. I have felt the pain of others, the stigmata of the world and the growing inequality, and now, puff. Puff Puff I feel I have been used for a large scale experiment of some sort I have myself, with my own need and greed and desperation, subscribed to.
I cannot tell you exactly what it is. To me it feels like I had understood I had to stay away from the revolving toxicity of it all; the good reasons to be involved have been eaten up by political interests and propaganda of one or the other party; while we know all is crumbling, we focus on the entertainment side of any information, so to keep it lighter, so to stay ‘sane’, which means the opposite, of course. I feel deceived by myself, so invested as I was, and as I still am, but maybe I see all around me that the loneliness we have come to pushes us to obsessively try to connect with our fellow human beings through such perverse screens.
But I am not pointing fingers now. I am just reflecting, sitting on this feeling of deception. Much has been revealed, yet the thing revealed keeps on being hidden and showed, a give and take as though a slightly too short of a cover was being pulled in different directions, at times exposing this or the other truth. But I have known for a long time that there is no truth. Yet, I keep on falling in the hope, the chimera of truth, that so passé concept of truth as a thing, as a state, a perverse procrastination, truth after we die, truth once this or that government falls, truth when we’ll be free from this or that corporation. The truth is here and it is an ugly truth. It might as well reside in me, in my everyday choices.
I am happy to be out and share what is going on through my mind. Even though, dear friends, we all know that whatever we have felt in the (dis)comfort of our ‘homes’ is so profoundly intimate that I wonder whether we’ll be actually able to ever share it. It might be easy to walk back into ‘reality’ with the abandon of wanting to forget about it all. Others might feel overwhelmed with confusion and anxiety at the thought of going out again. The hard task of reintegration is beginning, and we need to discuss. I need to discuss in the real world, with real people.
18th June 2020
I am exhausted. I have had a very vivid dream of my recently deceased grandpa I have been not be able to say goodbye to. Back home things have been very hard, and as a result things have been very hard for me. This loss was like the loss of a father. I was very close to him. In fact, I am not even fully aware he is dead. From the voices I speak to through my headphones, to the screens showing news and social media madness, I feel as though this is a reality I have not managed to grasp. Yet it is so simple.
If I am to look at my daily routines, life for me has not changed. It just stopped. I keep on writing, playing music, doing the odd job here and there, as I normally do when I am off touring and performing. But this has never lasted so long.
I have been incapable of bringing forth a new strategy for myself. Ideas have been brewing, yet the core of my development has always been face to face interaction and travel. What I have been left with is an endless downtime.
I have relished the act of having to physically go to a train station to find out whether I could book a train ticket back home, as online booking systems are not clear at all. Yet, I receive no clear answers. I need to go home to at least face this grieving I feel so removed from. It’s an odd feeling of suspension that pervades me. I am not prone to dwell upon my emotional states, at least not consciously. I beware of sentimentalisms, reason why I too often mistake due emotions for the former.
Here too, I have had to deal with real and imaginary enemies. My roommate and I argued every week up until I told her she had to leave, and as a response she stopped talking to me; the silence of two people living together yet not interacting is the heaviest one.
Even all of my future prospects vanished onto thin air. I am fairly used to uncertainty and I have banked on it a million times. My life has been rich in physical adventures and mental stimulations thanks to my ability to journey through a million environments. I have coasted at times, knowing that cheap flights and opportunities to perform never lacked.
But I cannot lie. I have lost momentum. Not having the chance to excel with my instincts makes them feel they never were.
I have stopped and reflected, and life seems to adjust to any situation. I feel older. My articulations hurt more than often; I have a rather psychosomatic approach to pain, and for as much as I exercise and meditate, the other half of my usually restless living makes the former practices incomplete. Something is missing from the diet.
I have not completely stopped, that’s true. I have begun a radio show, and I have ben producing sketches. Yet, what is it, that makes me feel as though I am in a quagmire? Is it really the pandemic? A question that lingers...
25th June 2020
What is the point of it all? Rain is falling and thunder gently lull us into the warmest of night. We are always here waiting for a god to take a decision for us, looking out the window and praying when there is nothing more to look at on our phones. Are things that different from say, 3,000 years ago? Of course, I am typing on a screen (still, by candlelight)...
I took a train and went home to my parents, in the middle of the once called red zone, where Northern Italians and local dwellers wear masks at all times, rigorously and on their chins. The train went from Berlin to Basel and then to Chiasso, a Swiss-Italian town bordering with Como, where my dad came to pick me up and proceeded to hug me, taking me and my nearly untouched body by surprise, albeit matter of factly.
Once known as the ‘toilet of Italy’, due to its frequent heavy showers (and its people swimming in it like turds?) my hometown placidly harbors between lake and hills leading to the Alps. The weather is hot and humid, whether it rains or the sun shines.
The people I have met, besides my parents, have been: the always unimpressed neighbors; my old teacher of drums (the first thing I did after I arrived was to go to his school and ask for musical exile, hid myself in a rehearsal room and sung until my vocal chords bled, which they still are and tomorrow I am seeing a doctor); the massage therapist who has reduced the length of his sessions but at least he has not increased his otherwise competitive prices (no receipts, no taxes paid).
The country is in a state of chaos, which everybody is used to, so is it chaos? I have spent too many years abroad to know. What I know is that though the callus for disaster is quite well developed here, and that I carry it too — and while in the sober North I do see the deep, intellectual implications of the pandemic, here, in the midst of it, I see people trying to make ends meet after years of power reversals and broken promises, from the First Republic to the more recent anti-immigrant Nationalist movement. It all looks like the same debacle from here, and resilience is not a subject of newly developed spiritual or political workshop but the last resort; the invisible force that cures the economy are people, the people who have no time for the ‘palazzo games’ and go ahead.
My mom, a primary school teacher, is being ultimately forced to open a gmail account and to work only with Google suite, and to try to teach her children online. Considering that the school where she normally teaches is an old fascist building that rarely saw restoration or a new set of heaters, I find the futuristic move rather paradoxical. Of course, she goes ahead but she thinks it is all horseshit.
My dad is retired and for once he can relish to be in the right place at the right time, or so I want to think. After 40 years of work as a salesperson, not having his retirement money curtailed during a period where workers who were forcibly made redundant have yet not seen a cent must feel like a reward. Funny hey?
My grandpa died nearly two months ago, leaving my grandma widowed after 65 of marriage. He is sitting on the window seal, overlooking the waveless lake, in a medium sized urn.
16th July 2020
I have not left an entry in more than two weeks, because I am spending more time with people. There is an odd shade of nostalgia when thinking back to the early spring nights, forcibly spent reassessing one's existence. It's a spurious moment the one I am living in, stuck between a quantum leap, between the love for my life before and the new love for my life right after the 'before'. Stuck as I am, or rather, as I feel, for stasis is the same old delusion, I speak to friends face to face, and yet something hinders a wholeness. Was it always there? Or have we awakened to a new lack? Probably these are just the scars of the times, that we carry within unawarely and of which we cannot truly speak. Unravelling our stories might help as balm, but their significance in our intimate spaces is probably uncommunicable. Actions are stemming out of these realisations, and what was already painful becomes more so. I do feel I have awakened to something I cannot describe, veils have lifted, hence the melancholic effect of remembering the discoveries of the indoors, as opposed to the responsibility of returning to the outdoors with a heavy load of realisations to elaborate. Yet, my inner space feels safe, regardless of the many dysfunctional communications I often stumble upon and let befall upon me.
I have spent some time home, and let me be clear: pandemic or no pandemic, global crises or no global crises, the essential dynamics of relations might evolve, but do not radically change. 'Radical' is at odds with our movements. It is a striving towards, never a full accomplishment. But it works! Both in good and in bad...
And so after the months spent away from home, the death of my grandfather and the pain following a huge ingerence of the state in community living, I noticed that people go on; crises make state powers stronger, but people keep on keeping on. There was release in my return. There was release in seeing the movement of the times. Yet all felt so essentially "the same"! Even though the area I am from was so hardly hit by the pandemic. Some changes, such as the visibility of masks and the lack of tourism are obvious, but the people, the people are the same.
It's an in-between situation. When things still feel the same yet something has slipped away. And to be honest, a feeling I might have had ever since I was born...