burn to summer days dazed by the sun, the stubbornness to avoid anything that would shelter. And the screams of my mother chasing me, the flies if they were stuck on the skin, stubborn you drank my blood. I think that in those days was a black blood, dark, dense as some of the oil. That the density of the oil can not say even ten seconds, and now that I think, perhaps, the oil is not even full, but for sure it was my blood. I was a dirty little beast, con un paio di ciabatte della Fass e dei pantaloncini rossi con una fettuccia bianca lungo gli orli; e quella era la divisa della mia estate, che poi, a dirla tutta, le ciabatte nemmeno le portavo tanto. Le lasciavo in un angolo della casa, magari all’ombra, o forse sparse, una in giardino e l’altra chissà dove.
In quei giorni la terra aveva sete, tanta sete. Il sole se ne stava lì in alto, silenzioso, e io lo guardavo per un secondo, come si guarda una persona degna di rispetto. Come quelle persone che se le fissi anche un solo istante di più, poi, non lo vai a raccontare in giro. C’erano spaccature e ferite profonde nella terra, ce n’erano dappertutto. Era uguale alla terra africana, la stessa che vedevo nei documentari, cosparsa di nugoli di bambini scuri con le teste grosse e le pance gonfie. E quei bambini, io non lo capivo perchè, si lasciavano succhiare dalle mosche; si lasciavano succhiare tutto, non solo il sangue. Le mosche le avevano sugli occhi, dentro alla bocca, in fondo alle orecchie. Ed erano mosche più crudeli delle nostre, che, se volevano, potevano anche farti dormire per sempre.
Nell’aria infuocata del pomeriggio portavo la mano alla fronte per farmi riparo e guardare l’orizzonte. E l’orizzonte brulicava di una luce incerta, pari pari a quella del deserto, quella maligna che genera i miraggi. Voltavo la testa a destra e a sinistra come fanno le vedette e cercavo il trattore di mio nonno. Lo vedevo là in bottom, near the river rival digging ditches. Was under pressure to quench the thirst of the plants which he loved, those he worked for a lifetime. These ditches were water veins, veins that were used to feed the trees from which I gathered the peaches, plums, cherries with which I snack or simply thrown away, horizon. And they were sweet fruits, with thick skin and shiny, and now that I think I had never thanked my grandfather for the fruit.
format with my cousin and my sister, cruel and a band across the fields around the house looked like dark-skinned weasels and our constantly moving us covered with a thin film of sweat and the sun were polished and lubricated as the bodywork of a car. Then slip into the ditches as crocodiles, in silence, not being discovered by my grandfather and we expect covered with mud and annoyed to see that our second skin die. And with the fabricated mud balls, bigger than a fist, to pull against the tan lizards among the stones of the old house, the one our grandparents had lived many years before. And the lizards they hit and how, sometimes remained completely trapped in the mud, sometimes leaving a tail severed between the stones.
And then one day I was alone. I tried but my cousin had gone to the spa, my sister and I knew that was not there. I had seen her go in a bicycle with his friend and bike in the trash had slipped something. I was lying on the cold tiles of the corridor to read a book. But I was hot, sweating their own, and I was bored. My mother was in the dining room, listening to a song of Matia Bazar and told me not to be lying on the ground. I went out, just to do something. And before the window of the room and the kitchen was a bowl of dark stone and covered with moss. It had been filled with clear water and without hesitation I sat on the board, dipping his legs to the knee. I kept my legs give up to feel the coolness, kicking water at a rate of Matia Bazar.
I heard off the radio and turn on the telly. I saw behind the screen the light blue screen and the dark silhouette of my mother who did her nails.
"What gives the film?" I asked.
"Obsession, Visconti's"
"It 's good?"
"Yes, it's nice, you're goodie ..." Then I went
standing at the edge of the tub issandomi on the ledge, nearly breaking through the screen door, and crouched there for me more than two hours. Massimo Girotti tank top I was nice and the movie seemed to me the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I did not understand everything around, and I kept asking questions to my mother
"What do you call him?"
"Gino, you know as well ..."
"Mom, do you call the fat? "
" Bragana, let me hear the movie now ...".
almost ended in the evening, and was no longer so hot. On the sill, with me, had risen and the cat, before coming down, the scalciai below.
I walked along a path towards the channel from which my grandfather was pumping water to fill the ditches. I was just happy. I loved my mother, my grandfather, I liked to walk barefoot in the dust. And from that day I loved the cinema.
In quei giorni la terra aveva sete, tanta sete. Il sole se ne stava lì in alto, silenzioso, e io lo guardavo per un secondo, come si guarda una persona degna di rispetto. Come quelle persone che se le fissi anche un solo istante di più, poi, non lo vai a raccontare in giro. C’erano spaccature e ferite profonde nella terra, ce n’erano dappertutto. Era uguale alla terra africana, la stessa che vedevo nei documentari, cosparsa di nugoli di bambini scuri con le teste grosse e le pance gonfie. E quei bambini, io non lo capivo perchè, si lasciavano succhiare dalle mosche; si lasciavano succhiare tutto, non solo il sangue. Le mosche le avevano sugli occhi, dentro alla bocca, in fondo alle orecchie. Ed erano mosche più crudeli delle nostre, che, se volevano, potevano anche farti dormire per sempre.
Nell’aria infuocata del pomeriggio portavo la mano alla fronte per farmi riparo e guardare l’orizzonte. E l’orizzonte brulicava di una luce incerta, pari pari a quella del deserto, quella maligna che genera i miraggi. Voltavo la testa a destra e a sinistra come fanno le vedette e cercavo il trattore di mio nonno. Lo vedevo là in bottom, near the river rival digging ditches. Was under pressure to quench the thirst of the plants which he loved, those he worked for a lifetime. These ditches were water veins, veins that were used to feed the trees from which I gathered the peaches, plums, cherries with which I snack or simply thrown away, horizon. And they were sweet fruits, with thick skin and shiny, and now that I think I had never thanked my grandfather for the fruit.
format with my cousin and my sister, cruel and a band across the fields around the house looked like dark-skinned weasels and our constantly moving us covered with a thin film of sweat and the sun were polished and lubricated as the bodywork of a car. Then slip into the ditches as crocodiles, in silence, not being discovered by my grandfather and we expect covered with mud and annoyed to see that our second skin die. And with the fabricated mud balls, bigger than a fist, to pull against the tan lizards among the stones of the old house, the one our grandparents had lived many years before. And the lizards they hit and how, sometimes remained completely trapped in the mud, sometimes leaving a tail severed between the stones.
And then one day I was alone. I tried but my cousin had gone to the spa, my sister and I knew that was not there. I had seen her go in a bicycle with his friend and bike in the trash had slipped something. I was lying on the cold tiles of the corridor to read a book. But I was hot, sweating their own, and I was bored. My mother was in the dining room, listening to a song of Matia Bazar and told me not to be lying on the ground. I went out, just to do something. And before the window of the room and the kitchen was a bowl of dark stone and covered with moss. It had been filled with clear water and without hesitation I sat on the board, dipping his legs to the knee. I kept my legs give up to feel the coolness, kicking water at a rate of Matia Bazar.
I heard off the radio and turn on the telly. I saw behind the screen the light blue screen and the dark silhouette of my mother who did her nails.
"What gives the film?" I asked.
"Obsession, Visconti's"
"It 's good?"
"Yes, it's nice, you're goodie ..." Then I went
standing at the edge of the tub issandomi on the ledge, nearly breaking through the screen door, and crouched there for me more than two hours. Massimo Girotti tank top I was nice and the movie seemed to me the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I did not understand everything around, and I kept asking questions to my mother
"What do you call him?"
"Gino, you know as well ..."
"Mom, do you call the fat? "
" Bragana, let me hear the movie now ...".
almost ended in the evening, and was no longer so hot. On the sill, with me, had risen and the cat, before coming down, the scalciai below.
I walked along a path towards the channel from which my grandfather was pumping water to fill the ditches. I was just happy. I loved my mother, my grandfather, I liked to walk barefoot in the dust. And from that day I loved the cinema.
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ps
In the absence of other recycled this ... I know it's too lyrical, but I ...
