(Philosophical tales IV) The moment of the transparence
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Running.
Running as usual in the mild mediterranean winter for the tired X-mas gifts ritual.
Slowing down, stopping for the green spot of a park, some benches, the awareness of some fresh open nightfall air.
I already know of course I'm running there into the usual things too: dirt, waste papers, other vandalistic signs of a lesser social disaffection, a metropolitan corruption of human and not human thingies.
Often in these places we happen to meet our "loser fellas". People owning nothing but the rags they dress with and the things they can carry; people nobody wanna see around, deprived of friendships and relationships, confined beyond any possible welfare and the good amount of bureaucracy and nuisances every possible welfare comes with.
And this evening too, sitting on the bench in front of mine, one of them.
It's an old woman this time. She is sitting there more rigidly than sedately. She is a bunch of stuff covering her body, more a wrapper than some contents.
She doesn't glance back to me because the glance is given by a curiosity and the curiosity is given by the participation of your/my/ourselves to the other from your/my/ourselves and vice versa. She is stagnant there with no programs different from a simple biological survival.
And you would have slipped out and far from me as usual if I hadn't noticed a detail. Through one of the transparent plastic bags you had disorderly stuffed your things into, one could still read, in lively colours, on an old fashion magazine page, an advertising sign:a woman is not a woman if she hasn't secrets
Here it is. The communicaton à la page, the precious and persuasive opulence vezzo, the ideological garbage cementing a conniving society!
Here it is. A drifting, taken out of context communication which you have to find during an even too long moment in the most cheater, false and cynical of the places!
I stand up suddenly and, vexed, go away.
Butt, butt, butt… while I'm walking away, a strange, curious smile is coming back to my lips.
It's a hopeful smile.
The hope that in that deep hollow hole you fell in, without digging, so close to me you don't remember.
You don't remember anymore.
How to read. ^-^
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Bravo!
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Bravo!
Grazie pastol! Really glad you appreciated it
It's always an interesting exercise for me when I try to write in a language which I never studied and I generally don't understand when spoken.
Years ago, in another forum, I remember a nice young guy - English teacher and fluent in Spanish - I had asked an opinion to about that.
Errors omitted, he answered he found my attempts uderstandable but bombastic. At times even snob. Luckily Ray Bradbury lent a hand and
I could defend myself appealing to the "generation gap". (In inverted commas. You can never know
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You selected a great "teacher" in Ray Bradbury. I love that man and his writings.
Your post was moving and enjoyable. The English was nearly perfect. One note: stay away from slang. Your writing is better than that. (thingies, fellas, wanna) Use the proper words (things, fellows, want to) your writing deserves it.
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You selected a great "teacher" in Ray Bradbury. I love that man and his writings.
Your post was moving and enjoyable. The English was nearly perfect. One note: stay away from slang. Your writing is better than that. (thingies, fellas, wanna) Use the proper words (things, fellows, want to) your writing deserves it.
Thank you pastol. Let alone the contents Ray writes in a very Italian way.
Concerning slang I was trying to remember but, as far as I can dig back, you must be the first to ask me for that.
After all it could be the generation gap indeed. I'm 52.
