At home. My radio plays Sonata op. 109 by Ludwig Van Beethoven. Next to me, a book by Ernest Hemingway wants to be read before I fall asleep. Next to my bed, Paul Auster, George Orwell, Henri Miller, Douglas Hofstadter, William Butler Yeats, Cesare Pavese, Alejandro Jodorowski are yelling: you have started our books before and you left us half way or so: not funny, not smart.
Once more my empty backpack looks at me saying: man, I know, I will be the last one on the list. I am used to get packed not earlier than a few minutes before each departure, but you go nowhere without me.
It is like I love to pack things and emotions at the very last moment before any travel, to let them free before being packed. Or, more true and simple, to organize things on time is not my best skill, and I am someway at ease in being messy as much as I can.
My radio now plays the Moonlight sonata, op. 27 no. 2 and Ludwig Van someway knows my hands wish they could play it too. I know it too.
But it's about time to leave again, and leave my piano some kilometers away from me.
I will leave Paris on an afternoon of early January, take three flights, go to an island. Stretch myself to fit yet another turn into my memories.
Yet another turn on a mountain road, where one turn comes just after the other. Yet another turn on a skiing path and, yes, the skier, myself, still have to get used to crouch at every turn and then rush down the slope at ease, painting each turn as if it were the only he can draw and feeling how different it is from the ones his mind could only sketch out.
I write and it feels like being alive again. I would sit here all night long just writing what I have to write. But I realize it took me almost twenty minutes to write the last sentence.
On my radio, Maria João Pires is about to play the last notes of the third movement of the Moonlight sonata.
Once more my empty backpack looks at me saying: man, I know, I will be the last one on the list. I am used to get packed not earlier than a few minutes before each departure, but you go nowhere without me.
It is like I love to pack things and emotions at the very last moment before any travel, to let them free before being packed. Or, more true and simple, to organize things on time is not my best skill, and I am someway at ease in being messy as much as I can.
My radio now plays the Moonlight sonata, op. 27 no. 2 and Ludwig Van someway knows my hands wish they could play it too. I know it too.
But it's about time to leave again, and leave my piano some kilometers away from me.
I will leave Paris on an afternoon of early January, take three flights, go to an island. Stretch myself to fit yet another turn into my memories.
Yet another turn on a mountain road, where one turn comes just after the other. Yet another turn on a skiing path and, yes, the skier, myself, still have to get used to crouch at every turn and then rush down the slope at ease, painting each turn as if it were the only he can draw and feeling how different it is from the ones his mind could only sketch out.
I write and it feels like being alive again. I would sit here all night long just writing what I have to write. But I realize it took me almost twenty minutes to write the last sentence.
On my radio, Maria João Pires is about to play the last notes of the third movement of the Moonlight sonata.
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