sto venendo lì.

anche se non so come arrivarci.

“[...] sono in perenne conflitto interno, tra vivere e non vivere le emozioni interne. E questo vale per tutto, la mia famiglia, i miei amici, il mio lavoro, i miei progetti futuri [...].

Come spesso avviene, non leggo le email per le quali dal solo “Oggetto” intuisco future sofferenze.Quindi spengo tutto, cervello compreso.

E accendo un libro, un film, una serie TV.Mi ci butto dentro, fino alle viscere.

Ieri sono andato a vedere “The Social Network”, il film sul fondatore di Facebook. Di norma eviterei questi film, ma i siti ai quali faccio riferimento quando scelgo il film da vedere mi davano feedback ben superiori alle aspettative. Quindi vado.

A prescindere della storia in sé, che in parte conoscevo, mi ha colpito una cosa.

E questa cosa mi ha spinto a chiamare Eddy in Grecia, e a insistere visto che non mi aveva risposto.

Poi sono riuscito a parlarci.

E gli ho fatto presente le sensazioni vissute nel film: mi aveva ricordato il passato agrodolce che avevamo passato insieme a sviluppare senza successo il nostro progetto internet.

Attraverso un film che parla di Facebook e delle azioni legali che il fondatore ha dovuto subire sono andato a cercare il Pierre che ha sputato sangue nel periodo 1999-2001. Eppure nel 2003 qualcuno ha avuto un’idea geniale.

Sono andato a cercare dentro di me una sofferenza che non sapevo più di avere.

Poi ieri sera, mi son rinchiuso in me.

E’ il mio modo Ghi’.

Ci posso lavorare, certo.

Ma la mia natura è questa e più che combatterci ritengo sia più utile assecondarla questo modus vivendi.

Non per pigrizia.

Per vivere.

Vivere le angosce e conoscerle meglio.

Ora quindi posso leggere questa tua email.E risponderci [...].

Molto interessante l’articolo “Libri etico-compatibili“, scritto da Antonio di Pietro.

Lo rendono intimo, non per tutti, esclusivo.

La differenza è chi passa, chi entra chi esce, chi si ferma, chi resta fuori. E quanto e per quanto. Ma conta ?

O conta riuscire a passare quando accade solo per il piacere dell’attimo in cui accade?

Non ho scelta con te.
Ho la sensazione agrodolce di essere osservato dentro.
Intensamente.
Nel profondo.

Non lo capisco subito, ma non posso comportarmi come sempre.
Dare il massimo è un obbligo.
Non posso aspettare che si diventi amici.

Non sono abituato.
Ma decido di seguirti.
Almeno su questo.

Dire Straits – Your latest trick

All the late night bargains have been struck
Between the satin beaus and their belles
And prehistoric garbage trucks
Got the city to themselves
Echoes roars dinosaurs
They’re all doing the monster mash
And most of the taxis, most of the whores
Are only taking calls for cash

I don’t know how it happened
It all took place so quick
But all I can do is hand it to you
And your latest trick

My door was standing open
Security was laid back and lax
But it was only my heart got broken
You must have had a pass key made out of wax
You played robbery with insolence
And I played the blues in twelve bars down Lover’s Lane
And you never did have the intelligence to use
The twelve keys hanging off my chain

I don’t know how it happened
It all took place so quick
But all I can do is hand it to you
And your latest trick

Now it’s past last call for alcohol
Past recall has been here and gone
The landlord he finally paid us all
The satin jazzmen have put away their horns
And we’re standing outside of this wonderland
Looking so bereaved and so bereft
Like a Bowery bum when he finally understands
The bottle’s empty and there’s nothing left

I don’t know how it happened
It was faster than the eye could flick
But all I can do is hand it to you
And your latest trick

“C’è una parte di Pierre spenta indipendentemente dal lavoro.
E’ la parte di Pierre che lo fa essere felice a intermittenza, a tempo determinato.
E’ la parte di Pierre che però quando si accende lo illumina d’immenso indipendentemente dal lavoro.
Quando si accende fa venire fuori il Pierre che tutti vanno cercando.

I fallimenti come le conquiste fanno di una persona un grande.”

Vero, verissimo. Anche se di tanto in tanto mi ritrovo a vivere una scena come questa.
Pezzo mitico di uno dei più bei film di questi ultimi anni, “La 25a ora”.

25th Hour (2002)
Regia: Spike Lee

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone’s written Fuck You!)

Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.

Monty’s Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps.
Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth.
Wheelin’ and dealin’ and schemin’. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe.
Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn’t know about that
shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin’ parade in the city. And don’t even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the
Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You’re not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don’t want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man.
Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child’s pants.
Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you’re at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity!
Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend’s ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar.
Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.

Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!

(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)