This is my first free day and I’ve been writing for two hours. Some log-in problem wiped out my writing. I start from scratch, again and again. I type in words and I wipe out emotions. What I have written matters only to me, it’s not that important that it’s all gone, because it’s all in my head anyway. The head play tricks and emotions are all tricks of the head. In my family we are used to talk about death, my parents are no drama queens and they deal stoically with it all. I have seen my dad crying for a death once, it was not about his dad. After his dad had died, he was sitting in the kitchen alone, drinking tea, waiting for us to come back, so he could tell the news. As he told me, I shouted he should have phoned me instead and ran upstairs. I’m too emotional, he couldn’t be like this, for his job needed him strong. When my mom’s dad died I was living in Rome. I booked a flight and left without saying anything to my flatmates. If anybody will die or be sick in my life, be sure you won’t get this information from me. I am not able to talk about it. Asking me how things go then, it’s silly, I will tell you it’s all fine also if it’s not. Or I will not answer, as I usually do. If things go wrong, do not ask, I hate it. People love to talk about their problems, I do it as well, I tell about my everyday life problems, I tell you about my hair, about whatever bullshit, but I can’t go deep into details, I am just done like this. Like my mom and dad. They don’t talk. They barely talk to us about it, but they do things. If there’s a lesson and they have given to us children, it’s about life and humanity, and most of the people don’t get it. Wherever I turn people are greedy and selfish. As I went home for holidays, I noticed things. My dad would wake early and go to his mother-in-law to help with breakfast, since she cannot do it by herself. After that he would go have a coffee with his own mother. After that he would say goodbye to all troubles and work on the countryside. My mom visits her mother every day. They have never complained about the responsabilities they have with their parents. Not even once! If I look at other old people’s children, they are mostly not there. Too boring, too heavy. As my mom drove as much as she could to help her aunt who was dying by cancer, the aunt, incredibly attached to her properties, asked once to my mom: “why are you doing this?”. My mom said because once she had done it for her as a child (in fact she wasn’t that kind of aunt, but it was nice to say). After those few words, my aunt told my mom’s brother “beware of your sister! She will steal your house”. When my greataunt died, with no children, my mom was the only serene one, who had helped as much as she could. Three different wills came out soon after the death, furniture, half a house, and jewels were mostly to be acquired. Everybody was pissed because she has been evil in her will. Only if you’re truly pure in your behaviour, you won’t feel betrayed. My mom’s mom lives in this old people house. I and my siblings went there everyday and I never met any other grandchild, I must say not even a son or a daughter. At one point we would know many of them, we would kneel and kiss one, shake hands with another, talk with another, talk nuts with many of them. This lovely woman sitting with my grandmother at the dining table is still completely capable with her mind, but not with her body. Once I cut her food and thought what a miserable daughter she had, enjoying her mom’s house, but never paying a visit. These are people and this is life. I noticed my siblings’ attitude and manners and even if nobody ever thought us anything, we have learnt a lesson. The greatest lesson I must say, since it won’t be properties smoothing our pain when we’ll be in need.
I’m wearing my own t-shirt “Atonement”. I only enjoy the fancy shit, I shall burn it. Atonement is something I will never reach, I don’t want it, I wanna show you I’m doing good and I’m doing better and I’m doing whatever “sounds constructive”. I’m doing my best to get lost. In the last years everything went wrong but I’m a middle class man, my manners force me to wear clean clothes and smile also when there’s nothing to smile for. I cry for bullshit (can’t watch a movie), I smile sincerely when kids are around, but I won’t ask you how you’re doing. You’re doing shit, like everybody. Or maybe you don’t, because you understand how to enjoy a sunny day or whatever simple thing. I’d love that. Only once a horrible episode brought my parents to cry, it was about a tragedy and I’ll never forget my father in pieces on my sister’s bed. But then there’s no need to cry for death. We all die. When my grandfather died, someone asked me how was my mother doing. “I don’t know”, was my answer. We do not ask such things in my family. Something bad is gonna happen, I can’t say I feel it, but in a way “I do”. I’ll behave like I have to, I know the rules. Last morning a guy asked me if I was religious, I told him it doesn’t matter, I’ll be buried in our family chapel, that’s all.
I realize at times I’m with people and I don’t talk. I listen and watch. I look at people. I can be silent among people for hours. You like me only because I’m part of the game. I’m a good player, I’m sociable, all the shit you want. Since I know you (all) I’ve never said a smart thing, think about that. I only say comfortable things. You tolerate me for one reason or another, I know him or I’m a friend of her or we slept together years ago. In Rome, the last months before leaving Italy were uneasy. Once I got kicked in the streets, we know that. A kick in the back and one in the face, then the pimp got me from the ground and took me on his side. And all the people. I liked and knew a lot of people in Rome. We disappeared, I’m not there, you’re not there. This one guy met me in the bathroom in a venue there once and I couldn’t remember his face, he said “sure now that your band is known you don’t give a shit!”, and people talking about me being fucked up and all the shit. For a few months I abandoned the scene, gigs, parties, all the fancy boredom. If I feel any strenght in what I do here, now, in Berlin, it’s because I’ve already lived long enough in a capital city where I would move a lot through things. The past has made me strong but it has also revealed all the truth already. I do really care about the things you do, I do care about helping you with this project, I do care about supporting you, I do care about the fact you couldn’t shit today. I really do, and I do know you don’t. Tell you have spent the morning with me and I’m nice but a bit fucked up, tell I came to your event and I looked still interested in you, tell I’ve followed you to the bathroom, tell it, they’ll agree and it will be it.
You is you and you is not you. I need to write things down, it doesn’t matter anybody reads it. I’m just disappointed in myself. I’m not only like this.
I’d like to disappear, once again. I probably won’t but I’m drained. I feel no joy in anything, I float and at some point I’ll drown. People live their life and they are happy with the fact they’re doing it decently. I respect you, but for me it’s not enough.
You can just spare me all the bullshit like “hey baby what’s up”, I won’t answer. This is so pathetic, sure it is, but you have no clue how cold I feel. The more I get confident, the more I get distand. It’s a bit like that one who called me one week ago “my love”, sure it was bullshit, but we were having a nice time so it was part of the game, and instead of feeling good, I felt violent. Treat me well for the next ten minutes, then leave me emptier than before. Thank you.
I like to close chapters. The idea of change makes me feel good. When I am feeling particularly low I would pack. Actually it’s what I always do. I sort things in the flat, I tidy up, whatever in that direction. I woke up very low today. I have always been a melancholic guy, it’s easier for me to be jolly when I am with a lot of people, at home I am not like that. I don’t want anybody to talk to me. The real problem of feeling “low” is that all work is compromised, I can play but all may come out just bad. If I’d write lyrics, the result would be terrible. I can only be practical when I feel like this. My grandmother won’t ever go back to her summer house, and today I started packing her stuff with my mother. That house will keep the ancient flair but it will be renovated and part of it it’s gonna change a bit. I am mostly emotionally detached by all of this, also if I have to confess emptying the closets and chests of drawers was partly painfull. I am bringing some of her silk foulards with me, I want to wear them the way she did. This is the fist year since I’m alive that nobody lives in this house. I’m writing right now from the living room, sitting on a chair some ancestor of my grandparents used to sit on. It feels a bit strange not to have its owners living the house, on the other hand I can already imagine the new version of it, the dining room will be moved, furniture will be moved. This is the only “gift” I do have: I can see the new house already, I have an idea about proportions, I do see it all, that’s probably why I studied industrial design. On one of the living room’s walls is hanging a picture of my grandparents in the day the of their wedding. Their are in the garden of a villa in the village where they were actually born, which is not where we’ve always lived. My grandmother wears a fancy dress. The waist is so tiny my mother couldn’t wear it for her own wedding. If I want to see that dress, I’ve got to go to a local costume museum in town. Among some dresses they have from us, they also have two tailcoats, one for a child, one for an adult. I wore once the adult one, even the cylinder hat! I was a teenager. My grandmother wouldn’t let me use the “jewellery”, which included the stick.
Next week probably I’ll go to the countryside, I need a walk there. My grandmother owns a secret little spot dated XVIII century. I like to walk in the field, the carob trees still there, the ancient walls still up, not all of them. I’m a city man and I couldn’t live in such a far place, but I enjoy the silence. You hear no cars, no asshole screaming bullshit. Nobody and nothing are owners there. Leaving the island is always the easiest solution for me, I go back to a life where I’m damn poor, do shitty jobs and all the rest, but the loneliness I live in a city is comfort for me.
I love living alone. I’ve tried twice already to get my own place, once in Rome and then here in Berlin. I’m always to poor to get anything, also if in fact I’d be actually able to pay for it. I’ve mostly been looking for studio apartments, just for a matter of money, I couldn’t afford a bigger place. I love big flats, I love to have space. When I talk with people everybody would say “one or two rooms are enough for a single person”. Why? It’s like when they see my bedroom here, which is my living space as well and they say it’s big enough. It’s twelve square meters. My parents’ bedroom is over forty square meters, closer to fifty I guess. A bedroom is a place to sleep, but this is not a good reason why it should be a tiny dark prison. My mother’s bedrooms furtniture is my great-grandparents’ one. It’s wooden and it was hand made for them. There are really fine decorations and the bed is so huge and high that when we were kids we always felt we had so much space and when we were in bed we felt we were in the middle of a square or something, since the room was that huge. We needed such a huge room for that amount of furniture. It consists of a bed, two chest of drawers (with 4 and 7 drawers), five chairs, a tall armoir with a huge mirror, an ancient chaise longue with a little piece for the feet, a bureau and and an armchair next to it and a dressing table. The furniture was built for a huge space: the dressing table has a mirror and behind the mirror there’s the picture of a dame. This furniture was decorated both sides (as the bureau, actually), so that could be placed in a dividing position in the room: from one side bedroom, on the room side more of a living space. The original furniture included also a dormeuse, but my greataunt got it. I asked my grandmother why they would have so much stuff in a bedroom and why all these seats. In the original house, where this bedroom was once, they had four rooms to host people. I was said, my great-grandmother could invite, i.e., one of her sisters to sit in the living area of the bedroom, while a guest from her husband would go to study and a guest who’s not part of the family, would be invited in the main living room. I wish I could have breathed some of this atmosphere. The main hall of my grandmother’s house had seats but we would never sit there. Times have changed, in the past the barber, the hairdresser, etc would have waited there. It was a fine family.
Well, going back to the main point: I need space. At the moment I’m being alone here in Berlin, and I do enjoy sleeping in one room, working in another room, eating in another room. When I visit my family that’s how it goes for me. I would sleep in the guest room, have a drink on the terrace, eat in the kitchen, play in the living room. I would always choose to play in the living room. It’s so huge I’ve got a nice echo and then I can sit on these incredibly old sofas, that my grandmother would say “similar ones only in that castle there”. I adore ancient furniture, it makes me dreamy.
I will soon go back to the island. I was born far away and sometimes I forget things. This summer I’ll have “my own house”, which is not mine obviously, but I’ll smoothly move from one room to another. I haven’t slept in that house in about twenty years. If I’ll look up to the vaults, they will be five meters high. I so need it! I’ve humiliated myself, I’ve lost some strenght. The island will restore some of it. I will want to change things, when I’ll be back here. In order to do that, I need to remember a few things. I need to remember how it is to live differently. I need the island and I need my family. I won’t speak english, I won’t speak german, I won’t even speak italian. I can feel some fierce feeling growing in. I need to feed it.
I am a reckless person. I have bruises on my back, bites I couldn’t feel the pain. I need to feel pain. I’ve been approached in the early morning while I was picking a “fur” jacket from the street. I had no shirt, it was getting colder and it was raining. I saw clothes on the street and I looked for something I could wear. Somebody asked me: “do you wanna have a cigarette?”. I wouldn’t talk with somebody like me, half naked in the street, gathering whatever shit. Whatever shit. We found shelter from the rain. The guy lived just behing the gate. I asked if he had some wine, he did. I said “I should go away”. He said I should go away. I said I wanted some wine before. He said I should have some wine before. This is not safe. This is dangerous. What floor? Let’s go. As we entered he locked the door behind him. I noticed that, I kept an eye on the keys. I had my wine and we sat on the bed and talk. I said I should go away. He said I should go away. I said I would go away, but then I got undressed. The books on the shelf included Goethe, Beckett, Wilde, Genet. The plan is to not meet again.
Secondo numero della mia rubrica su ilMitte.com
During the last three nights I’ve been waking up constantly. I’m slowly getting sick, or maybe not, I can’t get it. As I lay down to sleep I breath badly and my throat gets extremely dry, that’s why I wake up, a bit to drink, a bit to breathe. I’m not an early bird, I hate to leave my bed, I’m not the type who will get a nap or lay down to relax during the day. I won’t stop until it’s time to go to bed again. I’m not an early bird, but in these days I’ve preferred to wake up early, instead of laying down feeling like shit. Everytime I’ve been waking up, I could still feel bits of uncosy dreams. Every time, inbetween dream- and real world there was music in my head: I tell you what, I tell you who. Last Saturday I went to see Mad Kate and The Tide at Supamolly. Since then I’ve been listening to their album “ALIVE:ness” dozens of times. I’ve been barely listening to anything else. I’m purely loving it. It’s interesting how everybody will find in what he listens to what he likes and he needs and he’s longing for.
In the first track “golden voice” it could be Patti Smith singing it, at least the first part. If I would know Patti I’d ask her to tell me fairy tales until I’d fall asleep. I wouldn’t fall asleep. I never fall asleep. It’s a trick I always use when I sleep with somebody, but I am never relaxed. People have told me tales to sleep. Made-up ones, a Persian one once, Grimms’ ones but I’m like kids, as soon as the tale is over I open my eyes wide open and ask “once more?”.
I attach a link because you guys have to listen to this album: https://madkatethetide.bandcamp.com/
While writing “bodies of flesh, bodies of knowledge” is running and he could be Jeff Buckley playing that arpeggio. It doesn’t have to be anybody, I know, I am sorry, I hate it when people do that with my music, but after all we’re constantly listening to somebody else’s music.
I really liked it all, the electro/rock/new wave/whatever… it just sounds great. I’m checking out the other albums now. Plus I will need a copy of the poster, Mapplethorpe would love it.
There’s something you can’t buy: proud.
I got all the best and I got all the worst from my parents’ families. I am the worm and I am the king. Who’s the worm and who’s the king? I am. Kneel and be sorry! “The dominion is ours!”. The third ring on my fingers will turn me into an untouchable man, a loser among losers, I’m longing for that, all happens in order to end.
Last night I was a new character, I was Alëša from The Brothers Karamazov. I dreamed I was a young monk, my grandfather died and I had to carry the coffin. It was cruel and my stomach burned. I woke up feeling so bad, I thought “somebody must have died last night, try to be cool, it just happens”, and I was crying before checking my mobile.
All day I’ve been daydreaming. Imagination is the strongest power I’ve got. People look at me terrified, because I am terrified. People smile at me, because I am smiling. When I went home tonight I felt like I haven’t been here for weeks. I looked at the streets, the tram rails and it all seemed new. Where have I been?
Somebody who feels too much, feels nothing at all.
Tonight I was at a friend’s and Winson was on the radio, Flux Fm. When I was on the terrace, there in the studio with my singer and he took a picture of us, I told him “God! So you’re not just a voice on the radio!”. Einstürzende Neubauten, “Stella Maris”.
One more ring.
I had one hour free today. I was in Kreuzberg and I had a beer in this courtyard, no green, only women covering their heads and bodies. It was warm. One woman came from a shop near-by. She sat. Looked around herself stealthy. Fast she took a little bottle of Pfeffi from her back pocket, she drank it all, threw the bottle away and went back to job (I assume, considering the clothing).
It started raining a bit so I went somewhere else for another beer. It was a gay bar in the Kotti area and it must have been a lesbian night. Four old gay people, two men and two women, they must have been in their eighties, were discussing about german grammar and Thomas Mann, while drinking beer and sending kisses to one another. Around eight in the evening, when I left, one of the men left as well: “ich muss nach Hause”.
I have ideas and I take notes.
I lose my notes and I forget my ideas.
The sweetest thing that have happened to me in the last few days was cuddling with some stranger in bed, all the rest was boredom.
I’m so fucking into “contemporary psychedelic rock”, you have no idea. I love the atmospheres, I’m tired of being a fighter, I am a silent fuck off’er, can you say that in English? I don’t believe in anything and I don’t believe in anybody anymore. It’s all bullshit, that’s why I don’t really have to care about social conventions or such shit, today I wanna wear red lipstick, tomorrow I wanna wear high heels, next week I wanna wear a man suit, I can fucking do that. I guess I’m doing good, also if I always have this sour taste in my mouth, it’s not because of the booze, it’s because “I wished it could have gone differently”. I admit I’ve known precious people, at times there was that “what is this?” moment with somebody and I’ve been thinking rationally then, like “hey, this could work out, smart, good, pretty one!”. I never feel anything. I only think about what I want to feel. This is terrible. Only a couple of times I’ve done something because I really FELT LIKE, I usually do it because I think it’s good thing to do/rational thing/whateverworksthingtodo. It was not like this when I still lived in Rome, afterwards I became way more hard to deal with, apparently I’m just more “relaxed” and “open” or something similar, I guess. I am not. I shut the doors. There’s no way to come in, I try to have a look out there, but the more I go outside, the more I get naked, the more I fly high, the more I’m shut into my precious and private empire of shit. I discovered loneliness in a different way. I like to stay alone, I like to go out alone. I’m an easy talker, na klar, but it’s usually people coming to me. People think I am sad. This is my face, sorry Leute. So they would sit and ask what’s wrong and I should enjoy life. Months ago I kissed this woman, eine echte Berlinerin, she would have turn seventy years old anytime soon. All around us was pretty hardcore, kids.
I just wanted to say that when last Sunday night P. told me I probably wanted something I couldn’t have, and the night was still begininnig for the both of us, well, I feel relieved. I do like you and I do like the idea of it. There’s some rock’n’roll fanciness about it. And I truly appreciated the sweetness, back then. I felt good a few days ago, I didn’t have the “weight” of making things work anymore, which is something I have assigned to myself, as I’ve said before.
Now I want to provoke myself, I want to embarrass myself, I need strong emotions. This morning my weight was 59 kilos. I never went any higher than 66, but lately I can barely reach 60 kilos. As I get a bath my hips burn, my legs burn, my left arm burn. I’m doing way better than ten days ago, but I do scratch myself, again after so many years. And it looks bad, when it’s over I still have a huge dark spot where before I had little bloody holes. I don’t understand.
I have big plans, like always, like all it’s been written during my adolescence. Only one thing would really terrify me now: leaving Berlin. I can’t imagine that. I do cannot.
Does my bedroom looks like a drug dealer’s filthy space? Why’s that? Must be the sofa. Sofa = friends = clients. What? Nonsense.
My idea of a sofa there has only porn oriented aims.
I finally got access to a huge archive of music I couldn’t access in almost one year. It contains all stuff from my Italian time. Wovenhand, Radiohead, Bauhaus, Chet Baker, McLusky, und so. It’s so much fun, even more than my gin and tonic. Hey guys: D.A.F. Ach, lieber Gott!
I could now put the carpet my great-grandmother sewed for my mom, because I am “ancient, as ancient as the sun”. I also found a little Persian carpet mom brought me from Iran. I talked with her a couple of hours ago, she in Japan at the moment.
I want to run. RUN. RUN! I find it so boring it’s taking weeks to settle everything in this new flat. Na ja, alles in Ordnung. Musicians in Berlin are so soft-pervert, it’s intriguing, but it’s not enough. Gehen wir! Wohin? Nach Hause. Meine Freundin wartet auf mich.
You must know I have discussed this with a drummer in the States, I’ll give him stories, he’ll write the book. I’ll tell you about your boyfriends. Once in Milan we were playing as support act for Courtney Love and Hole, a couple of girlfriends were shouting something at me, something sweet. Little time after some loser-boy who was there, somebody who wanted so bad to KNEEL, wrote that the girls were ignoring I just “wanted to fuck their boyfriends”. Oh boys! Boys are silly. Boys are little bitches, prude hungry whores-wannabe. I am so glad I’ve left that sick circuit.
I have plans I won’t tell here. But It’s countdown time, kids.
I’ve gotta go buying wine and such delicacies. I tell you goodbye listening to Nick Cave.