Sunday Morning

Valeria sleeps. I take the keys and I allow myself a walk through the semi-deserted and silent streets. A chocolate croissant and a coffee at the waterfront chalet. The guy in the bar wants to talk and tells me about his passion for Jennifer Lopez, who meanwhile is seductively dancing on MTV’s screen. Before that, had passed the video of Serebro, three Russian girls winking and a bit slutty, but nice. I pay and go out.

I walk in the shade of the Villa’s trees, then I sit on a bench. It’s not yet ten o’clock and the heat is already terrible. I look at Naples. The calm sea, the boats at anchor, the Posillipo hill. It’s all beautiful and I’m at peace. I think of this city as a woman victim of domestic violence, mistreated every day by those who say they love her. I look for words to describe this perversion of the Neapolitans, but I can’t find the right ones. I only know that the Camorra is not the cause, but the consequence.

I return home without haste. Piazza dei Martiri, via Alabardieri, Belledonne alley. Even there, everything is quiet. Shops closed, in the bars staff are cleaning. Maybe at lunch time there will be some aperitives. I arrive home. I have to work but first I want to remember these things. Valeria is still asleep. Argo roams free, somewhere in the Torca garden.

Une belle petite histoire

Les belles histoires appartiennent à tout le monde. La suivante, je l’ai trouvée dans un livre – Écrire Zen, par Natalie Goldberg – et j’ai décidé de le ramener ici parce que, dans sa simplicité, elle a été un moment de sérénité au coeur d’une journée frénétique.

«Un été, j’étais garde forestier pendant quatre mois dans l’Oregon, et pendant tout ce temps, j’ai vécu seul. Comme il n’y avait pas d’âme vivante, j’étais pratiquement sans vêtements. J’ai vécu au cœur de la forêt. À la fin de l’été, j’étais très bronzé et très calme. À la fin d’août, j’étais accroupi pour cueillir des baies dans un buisson, et soudainement j’ai senti une langue me lécher l’épaule. Lentement j’ai tourné la tête. C’était une cerf, qui a léché ma sueur de mon dos! Je me suis arrêté, alors la biche s’est tenue près de moi, et nous avons mangé les baies de ce buisson dans le silence. J’ai été stupéfié qu’un animal pourrait avoir tellement confiance en moi.”

A great short story

Beautiful stories belong to everyone. Here is one that I found in a book – Writing down the bones, by Natalie Goldberg – and I immediately loved it. In its simplicity, it was a moment of beauty on a hectic day.

 

“One summer I was a forest ranger for four months in Oregon. For all that time I lived alone, and since there was not a living soul around, I was practically without clothes. I lived in the heart of the forest. By the end of the summer I was very tanned and very calm. At the end of August, I was crouched down to pick berries from a bush, and suddenly I felt a tongue licking my shoulder. Slowly I turned my head. It was a doe, who licked my sweat from my back! I stood still, then the doe stood beside me, and we both ate the berries of that bush in silence. I was amazed that an animal could have so much confidence in me.”

Una bella storia breve

Le belle storie appartengono a tutti. Quella che segue l’ho trovata in un libro e ho deciso di riportarla qui perchè, nella sua semplicità, mi è piaciuta un sacco.

“Un’estate ho fatto la guardia forestale per quattro mesi, nell’Oregon. Per tutto quel tempo ho vissuto da solo, e siccome in giro non c’era anima viva, me ne stavo praticamente senza vestiti. Vivevo nel cuore della foresta. Alla fine dell’estate ero abbronzatissimo e calmissimo. Si era alla fine di agosto e io ero accovacciato a raccogliere delle bacche da un cespuglio. Ad un tratto ho sentito una lingua che mi leccava la spalla, e lentamente ho girato la testa. Era una cerva, che mi leccava il sudore dalla schiena! Restai immobile. Poi la cerva si mise accanto a me, e tutti e due mangiammo in silenzio le bacche di quel cespuglio. Ero stupefatto! Che un animale potesse avere tanta fiducia in me”.