I return a few days ago a mini-vacation there in the Motherland away from the Cold Foreign where the melting is already being felt. At my arrival, yet you went all shaken, cynicism or indifference ration up or down, with the death of non-princess, sister artist, of the unknown. My first few hours immersed in this spring that no longer leaves, they saw the eternal return of a funeral cathode black on black, umbrellas, speculation, and gestures.
I came warned. Eager to brawl. Wanting to say that, like that, suicides (oops!) There are hundreds. That the proclamation against the ladies show is permanent seat on the patio. And sitting there in front of Our Lord El Tomate, they begin to parade pictures that I, in my exile, I have not seen: A beautifully angled face, a lock that covers like a starlette 40; fine lines, nervous hands, well-clustered bones.
- The truth is that was ugly Pici that - suddenly said Father Zito.
No, do not let you say that. Do not ever touch the remote. Let me contemplate a minute. Observe how your child walks to school, spy while almost posthumous hugs her boyfriend, guessing his sadness over the horrible tedium ceremonies. Let me make it my Laura . Let me keep looking at the painting. Is it dead or not? Perhaps, if I continue looking, if I continue fascinated by her apparent wounds, if I repeat again and again the same gestures, I can change the angles, return to the past and, as I could not do with Marilyn , grab his wrist at the time of season apathy that half empty bottle in his hand. Do not get lost in the silence. Not having the glass. Let me understand, to persuade her, hold her down there, where now only find despair. Let me save. Let me make it mine.
PD: I guess you already know. He's back. This time, moron and Nude , but has returned. Not like me.
