X
Metro abbruttiamo the We the People of the multinationals. It is dull and indifferent in the eyes cross in the morning and grab the widespread failure. On the way leading to the offices not been heard voices or laughter or a happy chat. At each stop takes us to the hum of the air ports, the constant mix of squeaks and mechanical means to track, and the robotic voice annunciator that indicates the destination station.
'm not the only one to suffer.
irritation that takes everyone to stay together in the coupe is obvious. Lingers a deep spirit of intolerance. Even a fart would be preferable to that tedium. Everyone is looking for a way out. Most look out the window scrolling clouds and gray houses. Others listen to music in earphones. Someone is immersed in reading. Avoid reality. Observed in the mirror and find out what happened to the shit we have done is hard.
Once removed from the van as we head compact warriors marching to the offices. Tlack-tlack! Tlack-tlack! Tlack-tlack! The noise of the soles on the pavement marking time. A compact troop decided to sit on their chairs. Steady gaze, upright, determined step. Many give the impression of attempting to an urgent job and loads of responsibility. To me it does concern bind the day to resolve the jam of a bar code scanner, cash register that calculates unarmed, the colleague who remains in half-hour break, the other does not respond to telephone and similar trifles .
What sad! And to think that my life is drawn, without shaking, protected, insured. I could go on like this until retirement. U.S. multinationals, unlike in Italy, make all staff not to change the time. Pay the dentist of their own pockets, the subscription of the meter, overtime three times as much, and if you stay with them for more than six months, joy and jubilation, rewarding you with increased fifty-money paycheck. Many of my colleagues had bought a house to put away safely. A simple job paid pretty well, they suggested. What more could you want.
But I did not see it. I was not like them. I felt that I need to compare with other activities. In there wasting time. A
alienated twenty-first century, what I was. A man / computer well-paid, with a house with high ceilings, the fridge full, skipped common in the vortex of modern life like everyone else wants to be independent of fucking work, fucking for money, a weekend of fucking, fucking dick. For the privilege of not dying of hunger and have everything, I had to sit with headphones clasped to eight hours and answer questions trivial.
Anyway I had to generate income to get by and I was also going well, I answered. But that was the right way to do it?
Amsterdam offered so much fun after work. One time, I enjoy the arts, concerts, exhibitions, theater. Now I was lazy to the point that I did not feel anything. I often stay at home and watch the rain come down inexhaustible, without energy, without vitality, without sense. I had also lost the desire to write. I did not feel the need.
Either way, sitting on the chair like a jerk, laced with headphones, I came up with Adorno.
At that time I was living in Rome. A bustling metropolis, Amsterdam ruomorosa and dirty comparison was Eden. Living in Rome meant to be aware of the typical attitude of the Italians. Rome was a city of high powered machines that did not stop at red, the officials lounging in ministerial offices, apartments rented to university students, the city's shopping on Via del Corso for a couple of hours made him feel important to schampiste . Rome was a city overrun by tourists like cattle treated well only release money to those who cared about them as taxi drivers and restaurateurs. Rome was the seat of politics and the relevant departments were protected by bouncers in dark sunglasses and headset would miss Mr. Smith of the Matrix.
Rome was a rich city. Because of all the money in a way to Italy in the passs there. It seemed to me like a huge gold manger in which restorative well-fed pigs and sows. But the city of Rome was also employed at the call center money to seven hundred a month. Contract for three months, if it was fine. And with the enormous cost of rent, food, transport, entertainment, any project with a miserable salary was repressed. The entire salary is returned paro paro to survive. At month end there remained anything in my pocket, and touched to start again. We were held hostage. Without an escape route. This anxiety to make ends meet always running out, while on the other side of the road there were those who vulgarly flaunted wealth, increased competition. The city felt the rivalry between the common people. A war where you had to fuck free rather than help. Get rich first, then the rest does not matter. A tremendous desire that, as I saw it, came out clear from television programs. Me and Adorno whole days we stayed playing with Good Sunday, friends and shit like. Everything had been reduced to a race. Rank. First and last. In those television programs had lost the joy of doing things for the sake of it and went ahead by dint of juries that rose palette to decree the best. The dance, football, singing, acting, activities that have always represented a diversion had suddenly become important objectives, so important that the boys were fighting to defeat the disease of bad weather: anonymity.
Thanks to Penelope and Adorno, however, Rome became a huge hit and immortal as its ruins, with the silent streets of Trastevere, the historic buildings of Piazza Navona, and the power of the empire that came out from every stone.
Adorno was a postman. It was meet under the door of the house while deliver the mail that we met.
"Another Naples to Rome. What did you sell yourself as the Trevi Fountain? "Hard-nosed
told him I wanted to be a writer. He said I was crazy. Thus began our friendship. He also wrote. Working as a postman in the morning hours allowed him to devote himself fully to an interest in writing. In his free time organizing lectures, printed at his own expense, a literary magazine followed, and everything else.
is a smart Adorno. Often pinched an interesting event and we went together. One evening we went to the library Fahrenheit in Campo de 'Fiori to hear Pivano and his stories about the beat generation. I was excited. For me Pivano represented one of the last messenger of a past of pirates, smugglers, Captains Courageous. The stories were poignant and revealing that she went to her husky voice made her skin crawl. But it was like listening to a wreck. That approach to writing was finished. The Paris Miller was gone. Hemingway had committed suicide. Freedom of Cassady, Ginsberg and Corso had been reduced to a menage a trois between gays. In Rome there were no groups or vanguard or leading characters, or at least I went to join any of them. Each went on his own. Everyone remained closed in one's dream convinced to do well. Yet in a city there were many who were writing. So many that if we each book we bought the other kind of output.
were recognizable aspiring writers, those with EXERCISE hand to watch the Tiber to come up inspiration, or a coffee table with a pen in his mouth, his clothes unkempt, his hair uncombed. I, however, I was sitting on the sidelines, holed up at home with a bottle of wine on the desk, tapping the keyboard of the old PC while Penelope slept, I throw a look and I felt like a king. I was beat, I was not able, I was not successful in anything, but I felt good when they try.
phone calls that day were less obsessive and I had time to think back on another night when I went to a reading Adorno and beat Villa Ada.
parked the car, we paid the ticket and entered. There was a lot of people. The lawn was invaded by hundreds of plastic chairs. We find two free, and a table not far from the stage and sat down. The reading began at the moment. Diane Di Prima with her screams had grit, like no, but it was not in my thanks. In short, the concept has run understood not stay menarla that word in forever, I would have said. But she did nothing, screaming Fire Fire Fire to exhaustion before settle down and change the word. In a sign of some kind of lyricism I just could not understand. "Imagine if I had to place her Cunt Cunt Cunt repeated forty times," I said. "At least you would have penned kicked and spat out, "said Adorno. I got up and walked around the park. Adorno was left to contemplate that crazy. M'interessai the stands where they sell books. On those occasions I used to take someone. My eye fell upon an essay by Simmel, Metropolis and personality. I had read it but he did not have a copy. Owning a copy of a book is important. You can take it back whenever you like, girartelo hand, even read the whole page. Of the good ones of course.
Me tucked it under her shirt and left the gazebo whistling.
Here, at the time I was convinced that the books did not go paid. And I was convinced to the point of having stolen most of those I had at home. For me the book is a good so important that it must be distributed free as air. Since this never happens, I robbed them.
Here I stopped and bought two beers at the bar. I went back down. I put the bottles on the table and the book. Adorno began to read it. I took a sip of the beer. It was finally the turn of my poet. He was my idol, the connecting link between all the others. An immortal flesh and bones still standing on him to give us the old fashioned way. Ferlinghetti long wheelbase and firm arranged the papers on the lectern and began reading. Already the first words that grabbed attend a reading is the opposite of cloth on the couch reading. The poem has its origin when the mind devoured the revival of the verses, and beyond the words themselves, is the shrill voice of the poet to create poetry, to fascinate.
I stood there open-mouthed, beer in gulps, folding vibrating. When the reading finished
applauded happy. Adorno was also revved up, "go round the fence and enter from the rear. Let's go find the poets, "he said.
We went behind the stage. The backstage was surrounded by wire mesh on boards with life-threatening - High Voltage. The gate was half open and guarded by a huge bouncer. We made the Indians waiting for it to divert to sneak. After a while the boys went cackling drunk. The beast moved towards them and slipped inside the fence. We were shown in a pleasure seeking. The poets spoke, ate and drank rumbling in cliques of two or three, each with a full plate, glass in hand and a yellow card for recognition around the neck. On the large table set with food and beverage was all loose, half eaten and left. The empty bottles down on the table were a hundred. We had to fill a few glasses to make a whole. Edible there was nothing left. Adorno began a discussion with a group of poets. I crossed Ferlinghetti in the company of a beautiful girl with a brochure in his hands. They set aside. I approached them and eavesdropped, "Why do not you come to my house tonight, I'd love to," suggested the admirer. Ferlinghetti And nothing, looking into her eyes gloated. "Come on, do not be prayer. We drink a drink and you read my poems. We love them! "Ferlinghetti then stroked the girl between her legs telling her something in his ear.
I too would have liked to give him my book of poems and discuss them. But at that point it seemed as ridiculous as a child to the zoo offering peanuts to the elephant.
came the cook with a pot full of spaghetti. The poets rushed to fetch a plate, while Ferlinghetti, blessed in a corner, he repassed the girl.
memories vanished.
It was thirteen, the lunch hour.
I took off my headphones, dismounted from the chair and softly went to the canteen.
Despite everything I had some appetite.
