Non ho mai condiviso né apprezzato espressioni del tipo “cercare (la) fortuna”, “tentare la sorte” o “stirare le mutande”.
Le prime due perché ritengo siano i metodi migliori per non trovare niente se non grattacapi, la terza perché, diciamocelo, è un emerito spreco di tempo e energie volto a rendere presentabile il cassetto più intimo della stanza più intima di una abitazione.
È come dire “defecare educatamente”.
Credo, tuttavia, nel “titillare la sfortuna” e nel “portare sfiga” e sono fermamente convinto che ognuno è l’autore della propria rovina mentre c’è sempre da ringraziare Terzi, in caso di successo.
Mr. Terzi si interessa sempre dei nostri affari e dei nostri problemi, è un demiurgo che guarda “X-Factor” e “L’Isola dei Famosi” e ci crea le opportunità e ce le offre, a volte su un piatto d’argento, rendendoci sospettosi e facendoci nascere dubbi atroci sulla bontà del genere umano…
Con il conseguente senso di colpa che sta all’origine dell’Otto Per Mille e altre fiabe di retaggio mediorientale - anche se fingiamo di essercene dimenticati.
Lo fa perché vuole che entriamo anche noi a far parte del suo sacro esercito volto alla distruzione di quell’entità malvagia chiamata Fisco e, da educatore navigato qual’è, il maestro Terzi sa che per insegnare a nuotare, il miglior modo è buttarci in acqua senza salvagente, senza preavviso e con tutte le firme nei posti sbagliati.
Terzi ama mettere alla prova la nostra fede e la nostra pazienza.
Ci giudica quando non ci facciamo il segno della croce se entriamo in una chiesa, parla dei cazzi suoi con il commesso allo sportello delle poste.
Terzi vuole modellare un’umanità di individui integerrimi e onesti.
Tramite metodo contrastivo.
Terzi ama che un perfetto sconosciuto sia portato ai più alti livelli di notorietà ma sa anche che più in alto si sale, più duro sarà il suolo quando le ali non reggeranno più, per cui si premura di colpire preventivamente, con una scusa qualsiasi, per sventare la futura catastrofe.
Non sia mai che gli schizzi di sangue vadano a macchiare il vestito immacolato del direttor Terzi, che si veste per rispecchiare la sua coscienza.
In altre occasioni, ci offre una lezione di umiltà con all’interno una sorpresa: un buono di quindici anni per una nuova vita all’estero.
Un biglietto di sola andata per un paese straniero per insegnarci che la cultura non è tutto e il lavoro non è cosa che può essere distribuita senza un criterio: come “l’abito non fa il monaco”, così “la laurea non fa il nuovo contratto a tempo indeterminato”.
Sia per diventare monaco, che per diventare nuovo assunto a tempo indeterminato, c’è bisogno del sostegno di Terzi.
L’arroganza di chi crede di farcela senza l’appoggio di uno o più componenti di una famiglia – non necessariamente la propria – infuria il cavalier Terzi: è così che si creano pluralismi culturali, nocivi a una crescita uniforme del pensiero comune.
Sono anni che ne abbiamo la riprova sulla punta delle dita: Milena Gabanelli e Emilio Fede a un solo tasto di distanza.
Terzi è pure genetista e ostetrico, anche se rifugge certi argomenti troppo espliciti e volgari, come “contraccettivi” o “sesso sicuro”.
Il primo perché amorale, il secondo non ha ancora deciso come classificarlo e se ha a che fare con la legge Merlin.
Mr. Terzi fece in modo che i nostri genitori provassero il giusto livello di vergogna nell’articolare, in presenza di un farmacista, la parola “preservativo”, facendo sì che anche le coppie meno agiate e in una situazione passeggera difficile potessero godere della gioia di un figlio, a cui voler bene e per cui provvedere, portando serenità in una casa che altrimenti avrebbe visto solo un paio di tristi individui, trasgressori delle parole sacre di un libro ritradotto innumerevoli volte e mai mutato di una sola virgola perché emanazione divina – come tutto il creato, ma di più - , impegnati solo a accumulare ricchezze per giocare a fare loro stessi i demiurghi, pianificando con tracotanza il giorno esatto in cui diventare genitori, egoisticamente cercando di elevare la propria progenie al di sopra della media.
Senza mai chiedere il consenso del dottor Terzi.
Potete quindi vedere come l’influenza di Terzi possa decretare lo scorrere di una vita.
Io sono una di quelle vite riportate sulla strada dell’umiltà, sono un sedizioso a cui è stata posta una scelta: un paese nuovo dove essere docile ambasciatore di Terzi, o una vita nell’ovile, in qualità di buffone di corte e pietra di paragone per le nuove generazioni.
Genitori avrebbero puntato il dito verso la mia figura, rannicchiata in un angolo di strada e avrebbero detto ai loro figli:
“Non essere pigro, fatti amicizie e sfruttale. Quando non hai voglia e il sapore è metallico e hai la lingua felpata, continua a leccare, o finirai come quel cretino lì, senza un soldo, con un pezzo di carta incorniciato e stagista a vita perché si riteneva migliore e pensava che la sua lingua fosse per esprimere nuove idee e non per inumidire chi sta sopra di noi sulla piramide”
Ora Terzi mi odia, perché gli ho voltato completamente le spalle, ho deciso di non tornare più.
Non posso più rendergli conto come un tempo, perché non sa più se il mio sesso è spontaneo, missionario e santo, oppure blasfemo, irresponsabile e incendiario.
Non può più contare su di me nel caso ci sia bisogno di sottopagare qualcuno.
Sono fuori dal giro di chi può fare la differenza prestando il proprio nome e fondoschiena per una nobile causa qualsiasi.
Non sono più il suo uomo, se si tratta di invecchiare pacificamente e senza aspirazioni nello stesso angolo di piazza in cui mi sono laureato, votando sempre per lo stesso schieramento per non deluderlo e tifando la stessa squadra per lo stesso motivo.
Ho tradito e non merito più nessun tipo di attenzione.
Ora sono un senza-Terzi.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Valley of Giants
23rd September 2057
Sometimes I feel like I'm the last man on Earth.
It's mostly due to the fact that I'm getting old and the planet is getting emptier by the day (not in the demographic sense, in the other sense, you know…) but I think it has to do also with the places and the situations I found myself in: all my life I put my dirty bones in the weirdest sites known to men, starting with the Gulf of Mexico back in my younger days, finishing here, in Austria.
Where giants are watching my every move.
If I was a less experienced fellow I would have lost my shit days ago, when I first started walking down this road.
I’m not saying I’m cool with it, to be honest the sight of those Things staring constantly down at me and my senses clashing against my memories of what I experienced when I came here the very first time, when I still had a family, they are piling up and sooner or later they will take a toll on my nerves.
I have the memory of the smell of a wooden fence on the side of a private road, leading to a farm where my dad bought some cheese and I saw a cow pee: one of my fondest memories is my sister blushing for it and the sound of my mother laughing at her for her silliness.
Damn, that bovine had to go something fierce!
I don’t think this is the same road, or even the same corner of Austria, what I know is that the smell I remembered so fondly, the colors I tried to reproduce with so many crayons for my “show and tell” at school, are now all blurred into a way-too-real parody of what Earth used to be.
It’s like a t-shirt that’s been used so much and washed so many times that you might still use it but has lost all the original qualities that made you like it in the first place and now it’s good only as a tool, so worn out that it barely serves her purpose anymore.
All there is to smell today is dust and rot.
But this is the Road I decided to walk, the Land I was destined to roam by birthright, the World I contributed to kill with my mere existence.
Actually, I was warned by a local “do not go down that road, great misfortune!” and the sucker was so damn serious about it, with his gummy mouth and funny hat that I almost felt sorry for him, but then thunder roared in the sky, like a big fucking exclamation mark made of light and my subconscious said to me “where are you draggin' me, you douche-bag? Didn't you see the freaking lightening?! You blind motherfucker!”
Truth to be told I'm loosing eyesight and I actually have become sort of a douche-bag…
So I guess that's why I entered the Valley of Giants (don't ask me how they call it in German, I wasn't listening...).
Well, the real reason is that it's the fastest way to go from where I was to where I want to be without crossing path with any Purist Militia: last year an old buddy of mine was caught travelling from Paris to Reims and after they found out he didn't speak French (not well enough that is...) they cut of his tongue and left him naked in the middle of the road.
I guess we have to thank old good Euro Nationalism for that...once again...
Anyway...where was I?
Yes.
Giants watching my every move.
They are quite something: all rusty and with bolts here and there.
Stiff.
I was so curious about them that I climbed what looked like an old skiing track covered in high grass, just to get close to one.
Its feet were stuck deep in the soil, like it sprouted from the very earth, or was on the foreshore of a sea of grass and, I must admit it, made me regret I lost my faith in god - or gods - a long time ago: I would have gladly prayed to that colossus of metal for some “last minute miracle” to save…well, me!...and a couple of others…so we could repopulate, you know…
Instead I sat next to it, drinking in the amazing view I had from up there: the snowy peaks and blue skies almost made me forget I wasn't welcome in virtually every corner of the continent I was born in just because I would not bow my head to bigotry and racism.
But strangely, unlike all the other times I had that thought, I didn't feel the weight on my stomach: I looked at Ol' Rusty and I saw him standing straight, proud, tall and brown and it filled me with heroic fury so, after I smoked my last joint (I was saving it for an important occasion and I figured that was as good as any), I set off to get back on track...unfortunately, I stumbled and fell so I sat there another hour or so, until I could walk on a straight line again.
So here I am, with my backpack, hiking in an awe-inspiring valley where nobody walks anymore mainly just for ignorance and superstition and where the thought of being the last man on earth isn't so depressing, if faced with reality.
Truth is, to think like that is just intellectual cowardice…and I know it.
Nonetheless, if after so many years of ugliness and chaos you find yourself in a quiet and beautiful place like this, you get selfish, and you just wish that everything that's wrong in the world would just disappear, without thinking about the consequences.
An old man told me, a long time ago, during my violent past: “your worst enemy's daughter could easily be your son's only true love. Karma's a bitch”.
He was an old romantic pig who harassed every woman who crossed his path, but you catch the drift, right?
Kill a bug and a vegetarian gets food poisoning from some rotten eggplant…that sort of things…I thought they were nonsense once. All my scars prove me wrong.
There was this singer once, a bit of a nut-job, if you ask me, but with loads of charisma and what seemed to be a Vision who said that if you try to think of a World with no religion or social differences or racial hatred your job is done: we are in this mess because we didn’t even make the effort of thinking that we are all the same.
I’m not so naïve to think that’s actually true, I’m not a sodding Care Bear, all I’m saying is that I miss the time when people still had dreams of peace, equality, human rights.
Nowadays all we dream is that the river of violence doesn’t cross our path.
And right there, that’s the difference between being human and being born: to think about the greater picture or just take care of your own skin, head stuck in the ground, rifle in your hand and firing at every noise you hear because you are afraid that somebody is going to butt-fuck you without your consent.
I had a small amount of hope injected in my life-stream today and it was thanks to some long-forgotten piece of art that made me feel like a human again, made me want to raise my head one last time, look around for others like me, my peers...someone I could actually have a conversation with, not just somebody to talk to.
Now I have to leave you though, I need to concentrate on my Austrian accent, there’s people coming…and they have guns.
Farewell, for now.
I don’t think they are too much into art…
Sometimes I feel like I'm the last man on Earth.
It's mostly due to the fact that I'm getting old and the planet is getting emptier by the day (not in the demographic sense, in the other sense, you know…) but I think it has to do also with the places and the situations I found myself in: all my life I put my dirty bones in the weirdest sites known to men, starting with the Gulf of Mexico back in my younger days, finishing here, in Austria.
Where giants are watching my every move.
If I was a less experienced fellow I would have lost my shit days ago, when I first started walking down this road.
I’m not saying I’m cool with it, to be honest the sight of those Things staring constantly down at me and my senses clashing against my memories of what I experienced when I came here the very first time, when I still had a family, they are piling up and sooner or later they will take a toll on my nerves.
I have the memory of the smell of a wooden fence on the side of a private road, leading to a farm where my dad bought some cheese and I saw a cow pee: one of my fondest memories is my sister blushing for it and the sound of my mother laughing at her for her silliness.
Damn, that bovine had to go something fierce!
I don’t think this is the same road, or even the same corner of Austria, what I know is that the smell I remembered so fondly, the colors I tried to reproduce with so many crayons for my “show and tell” at school, are now all blurred into a way-too-real parody of what Earth used to be.
It’s like a t-shirt that’s been used so much and washed so many times that you might still use it but has lost all the original qualities that made you like it in the first place and now it’s good only as a tool, so worn out that it barely serves her purpose anymore.
All there is to smell today is dust and rot.
But this is the Road I decided to walk, the Land I was destined to roam by birthright, the World I contributed to kill with my mere existence.
Actually, I was warned by a local “do not go down that road, great misfortune!” and the sucker was so damn serious about it, with his gummy mouth and funny hat that I almost felt sorry for him, but then thunder roared in the sky, like a big fucking exclamation mark made of light and my subconscious said to me “where are you draggin' me, you douche-bag? Didn't you see the freaking lightening?! You blind motherfucker!”
Truth to be told I'm loosing eyesight and I actually have become sort of a douche-bag…
So I guess that's why I entered the Valley of Giants (don't ask me how they call it in German, I wasn't listening...).
Well, the real reason is that it's the fastest way to go from where I was to where I want to be without crossing path with any Purist Militia: last year an old buddy of mine was caught travelling from Paris to Reims and after they found out he didn't speak French (not well enough that is...) they cut of his tongue and left him naked in the middle of the road.
I guess we have to thank old good Euro Nationalism for that...once again...
Anyway...where was I?
Yes.
Giants watching my every move.
They are quite something: all rusty and with bolts here and there.
Stiff.
I was so curious about them that I climbed what looked like an old skiing track covered in high grass, just to get close to one.
Its feet were stuck deep in the soil, like it sprouted from the very earth, or was on the foreshore of a sea of grass and, I must admit it, made me regret I lost my faith in god - or gods - a long time ago: I would have gladly prayed to that colossus of metal for some “last minute miracle” to save…well, me!...and a couple of others…so we could repopulate, you know…
Instead I sat next to it, drinking in the amazing view I had from up there: the snowy peaks and blue skies almost made me forget I wasn't welcome in virtually every corner of the continent I was born in just because I would not bow my head to bigotry and racism.
But strangely, unlike all the other times I had that thought, I didn't feel the weight on my stomach: I looked at Ol' Rusty and I saw him standing straight, proud, tall and brown and it filled me with heroic fury so, after I smoked my last joint (I was saving it for an important occasion and I figured that was as good as any), I set off to get back on track...unfortunately, I stumbled and fell so I sat there another hour or so, until I could walk on a straight line again.
So here I am, with my backpack, hiking in an awe-inspiring valley where nobody walks anymore mainly just for ignorance and superstition and where the thought of being the last man on earth isn't so depressing, if faced with reality.
Truth is, to think like that is just intellectual cowardice…and I know it.
Nonetheless, if after so many years of ugliness and chaos you find yourself in a quiet and beautiful place like this, you get selfish, and you just wish that everything that's wrong in the world would just disappear, without thinking about the consequences.
An old man told me, a long time ago, during my violent past: “your worst enemy's daughter could easily be your son's only true love. Karma's a bitch”.
He was an old romantic pig who harassed every woman who crossed his path, but you catch the drift, right?
Kill a bug and a vegetarian gets food poisoning from some rotten eggplant…that sort of things…I thought they were nonsense once. All my scars prove me wrong.
There was this singer once, a bit of a nut-job, if you ask me, but with loads of charisma and what seemed to be a Vision who said that if you try to think of a World with no religion or social differences or racial hatred your job is done: we are in this mess because we didn’t even make the effort of thinking that we are all the same.
I’m not so naïve to think that’s actually true, I’m not a sodding Care Bear, all I’m saying is that I miss the time when people still had dreams of peace, equality, human rights.
Nowadays all we dream is that the river of violence doesn’t cross our path.
And right there, that’s the difference between being human and being born: to think about the greater picture or just take care of your own skin, head stuck in the ground, rifle in your hand and firing at every noise you hear because you are afraid that somebody is going to butt-fuck you without your consent.
I had a small amount of hope injected in my life-stream today and it was thanks to some long-forgotten piece of art that made me feel like a human again, made me want to raise my head one last time, look around for others like me, my peers...someone I could actually have a conversation with, not just somebody to talk to.
Now I have to leave you though, I need to concentrate on my Austrian accent, there’s people coming…and they have guns.
Farewell, for now.
I don’t think they are too much into art…
Friday, January 7, 2011
The New Assignment
Damn rain, thought Jim, looking grimly at the sky and opening his grey umbrella. The
road was starting to turn into a marshland and getting to his office wasn’t a
pleasant experience even when the sun was shining: too many dangerous corners...
He inhaled deeply and he set on a fast pace, ignoring the stench of excrement that
was coming from somewhere at his right side.
He knew he was nervous and overly irritable but it was the day of his first big
assignment: a new life was in front of him and, if one part of him was happy for his
success, he was also panicking at the idea that he was going to leave his house, his
wife and his two sons (one of 2 and the other of almost 1) for months in a row until
his job was done...and nobody ever knew how long that was going to take.
Lost in this train of thoughts he didn’t realize that his friend Bee was right beside
him, staring at him.
For her, moving in the rain was even more dangerous than it was for him...how could
she be so calm?
Bee was an old colleague of Jim since the very first week of his career, when they
were assigned to the Department of Human Resources, and lately had become his closest
confidant and counsellor: the “emotional buffer-system”, as she called herself.
Jim always thought that if he hadn’t met his wife Cree, he would have fallen for Bee.
He dismissed that thought and turned with a faint smile to his friend.
“Good morning Bee”
“Good morning to you Jim, you look crankier than usual today” she replied with a
smile and a peppy attitude.
She was wearing a sun-yellow dress, with a hint of black here and there, as she
always did.
“Well...it’s the big day, you know...I didn’t sleep at all last night and I couldn’t
go out thanks to those bloody farmers stinking up the air with their bloody
pesticides...” he said with a deep frown.
Bee chuckled for a moment than turned serious: she did that a lot and was one of the
reasons Jim liked her. She was as honest as her face, as he liked to say.
“I’m sure you will be all right, Jim. You will have the most boring assignment and
you will have time to go visit your family every weekend and...” she was starting to
wave around, getting more and more animated.
“Ok ok, I get the picture Bee. Thanks for your support,” he said with a smile.
“Hey, don’t mention it. Remember, though, that I’m expecting the same from you when
my turn comes” Bee replied, finger pointed at Jim’s chest.
“I got your back pal...I must hurry to the secretary office now, I don’t want to get
there late...” he said, checking his pocket-watch.
“All right, break a leg buster!...and remember: the best way to deal with an
assignment is to be everything but themselves!” the last part they said it together,
quoting from the manual that every potential field agent had to study to pass the
exam.
She waved at him, smiling her best smile of good luck and disappearing around a
corner, leaving Jim all alone.
He walked down the long corridor and finally reached his destination: he sat down in
the orange waiting room for the Activation Office, where he would take The Oath,
officially becoming a Monitor.
He still had time to refuse and he was really tempted to do so, especially after
looking at the pictures of his family that he kept in his wallet.
He was almost rising to his feet to leave the room, declining the job, when a female
nasal voice disturbed the silence.
“Jiminy Cricket, you are next. Jiminy Cricket”
In that moment, with a gut decision, Jiminy decided to trust Bee on her word that it
would be the most boring and easy job ever and so he entered the office with a
confident smile to start his new assignment.
That decision cost him his marriage, a perforating ulcer and a fortune in alimony...
The only consolation he has now is that, without him, Pinocchio turned into a crack-head teenager and Honest John and Gideon are serving twenty five to life in Oz...
road was starting to turn into a marshland and getting to his office wasn’t a
pleasant experience even when the sun was shining: too many dangerous corners...
He inhaled deeply and he set on a fast pace, ignoring the stench of excrement that
was coming from somewhere at his right side.
He knew he was nervous and overly irritable but it was the day of his first big
assignment: a new life was in front of him and, if one part of him was happy for his
success, he was also panicking at the idea that he was going to leave his house, his
wife and his two sons (one of 2 and the other of almost 1) for months in a row until
his job was done...and nobody ever knew how long that was going to take.
Lost in this train of thoughts he didn’t realize that his friend Bee was right beside
him, staring at him.
For her, moving in the rain was even more dangerous than it was for him...how could
she be so calm?
Bee was an old colleague of Jim since the very first week of his career, when they
were assigned to the Department of Human Resources, and lately had become his closest
confidant and counsellor: the “emotional buffer-system”, as she called herself.
Jim always thought that if he hadn’t met his wife Cree, he would have fallen for Bee.
He dismissed that thought and turned with a faint smile to his friend.
“Good morning Bee”
“Good morning to you Jim, you look crankier than usual today” she replied with a
smile and a peppy attitude.
She was wearing a sun-yellow dress, with a hint of black here and there, as she
always did.
“Well...it’s the big day, you know...I didn’t sleep at all last night and I couldn’t
go out thanks to those bloody farmers stinking up the air with their bloody
pesticides...” he said with a deep frown.
Bee chuckled for a moment than turned serious: she did that a lot and was one of the
reasons Jim liked her. She was as honest as her face, as he liked to say.
“I’m sure you will be all right, Jim. You will have the most boring assignment and
you will have time to go visit your family every weekend and...” she was starting to
wave around, getting more and more animated.
“Ok ok, I get the picture Bee. Thanks for your support,” he said with a smile.
“Hey, don’t mention it. Remember, though, that I’m expecting the same from you when
my turn comes” Bee replied, finger pointed at Jim’s chest.
“I got your back pal...I must hurry to the secretary office now, I don’t want to get
there late...” he said, checking his pocket-watch.
“All right, break a leg buster!...and remember: the best way to deal with an
assignment is to be everything but themselves!” the last part they said it together,
quoting from the manual that every potential field agent had to study to pass the
exam.
She waved at him, smiling her best smile of good luck and disappearing around a
corner, leaving Jim all alone.
He walked down the long corridor and finally reached his destination: he sat down in
the orange waiting room for the Activation Office, where he would take The Oath,
officially becoming a Monitor.
He still had time to refuse and he was really tempted to do so, especially after
looking at the pictures of his family that he kept in his wallet.
He was almost rising to his feet to leave the room, declining the job, when a female
nasal voice disturbed the silence.
“Jiminy Cricket, you are next. Jiminy Cricket”
In that moment, with a gut decision, Jiminy decided to trust Bee on her word that it
would be the most boring and easy job ever and so he entered the office with a
confident smile to start his new assignment.
That decision cost him his marriage, a perforating ulcer and a fortune in alimony...
The only consolation he has now is that, without him, Pinocchio turned into a crack-head teenager and Honest John and Gideon are serving twenty five to life in Oz...
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