Jean Michel Basquiat Self Portrait
If only I were talking more.
Or at least if I did not speak at all.
missing something, right? The information on the structure we Campania 'IF / THEN / ELSE'. But I am not able to close the loop. If
if
itself.
If only I could avoid ever using the word if . It would be nice to live without being slaves to the hypothetical periods. It would be nice?
Your canvas again.
Have you photographed with your digital camera and, as always, you have sent me into a high-resolution files. This time it's really huge. I used the computer to download the study, it would take me a life using my slow connection. Slow as the white clouds that run on the buildings on this day after all sunny. I'm listening to an Elvis concert when I look at it, but I have a lot of music to play and a deluge of urgent work to complete. I made a request that does not enter anyone in my office, so everyone will think I'm concentrating to complete the draft of the new advertising campaign for the region of Puglia. When I was a student I never imagined that my study could look like so much to my room. As for disorder, that is. My secretary is bigger than me and reminds me of my mother when she scolds me for the chaos that through water while working. Now also allows you to say that this is unprofessional, because it is right.
note carefully the last your creation, and surely I empty a packet of cigarettes. Turn down the volume on your stereo.
been months since we've seen. Apart from the cafe 'hello how are you well and good hello'. For months we produce paintings and I send pictures. Then call me in the middle of the night asking for an opinion. For months we'll send you the haiku I write, but do not ever give me some advice. For months we talk about the perverted taste to savor the memories associated with those and those harmonic frequencies hour mix from the phone line. And while so that mannequin resembling yourself sipping a macchiato, playing a pre-recorded message about the new expressive techniques that were experiencing I stared at the perfect copy of your eyes, concentrating on the lip-read and interpret properly to what I was saying. I admit I have failed miserably. They spoke too fast your eyes, and when they saw that I was one step away from following the thread, go down embarrassed. So I tried to break that my silence, which lasted who knows how long, to say something that would go well in any situation, not the dummy suspicious ...
And now I have put aside the role of the musician, even before those of the advertiser, to enter the part of scientific investigation. I look at the copies of your pictures and take notes. Then I read the reports previous works on trying to build a network of links inexorable, forecasts of possible logical explanations. No. 'madness. Neither logic nor the most modern technological resources available to the forensic science could lead to resolution of this case. Want to talk to me through the marks on your canvas through the colors, always too icy, too sad. And then that red sign . There is always a red mark. There was never a red in your pictures before you knew me. When I have my own aesthetics theorized red. I can feel guilty / responsible. So I find myself stroking the PC screen, in those hot spots where you have decided to place where you left a clue hunt torment. I feel stupid and presumptuous to draw any emotional signs so strong, so linked to the image of me that lives in you. But I just have to cling to other, linked by a rope-tampered-that is about to give the scent of your hair, which is sometimes a shake to wake up in bed at night, then running away like a coward in a sidecar with the warmth of your body cold.
And the words evaporate in the sunshine of a summer ever lived. Superfluous as a trick that might spoil your face so fascinating. Lengthy and unnecessary addition of water in a risotto that cooks ever. Water that evaporates in the sun to the remoteness and silence only to be replaced at a new conversation clinging to the mirrors 'I do not know' and 'you know'.
Words that do solidify in the cold winter that never ends, in order to obtain perfect cubes with which to build robust, elegant symphonies of nothing. Haiku, poetry, short stories paradoxical. I just have to play with words. And play with my image reflected in a bottle of the past, sweet surrender to the night my days too dopate caffeine and incomprehensible laziness. I make a mold in the cork and enjoy it in series in my accomplishments. Every once in a different sauce. Sdogati my Binge image in a thousand forms which stirs the beast in me. To feed on demonstrations of esteem, pleasure, sexual attraction. But it's just a beast that I defend, but making me unapproachable. It 'a dog barking. Bites too, but has no teeth. It does not hurt. It does much more harm his indifference. He just needs to be approached with courage and confidence, even that he should stop barking. But then someone comes to climb over the fence of my heart, without permission. Then the beast before devastate the victim, is to tear me.
And then I would start to swim forever in silence in a low key. The silence of two dumb that they see the words flowing from the objects and the eyes of people who feel the emotions through the wrong notes in a solo jazz, breaks through the cacophony, the notes collected at the foot of a God who does not exist but that comes from transport, those notes that make you stop the beat heart for a few seconds and then you push it at an accelerating pace, those notes that you are sure you have not chosen voluntarily and that make you be so proud at that moment by the illusion of being the creator of all this huge whirling asylum.
If I were God, at this point I realize I'm a bit 'sadist. Ask someone to send me to that country and that country would begin to think of a more honest life.
XXXVI
If I 'do not return the hatred of Love,
that he will not' for Heaven
the 'ho' n the woman that I 'heart seated,
that, who said: - We fo' emperor,
and is 'who do not see indeed du' hours -
them so I would say - 'Go, thou art slain! -
and seeing her, "They parted
of all that is called pain.
Inasmuch ch'i 'of what I n'ho mixed
to see what that agony I tolla:
which is more that makes me frat'Angioliere,
for one thousand hours to be 'n on the glue;
already ten years that rupp'un glass:
even maladìciarmi not spring.
LXXXVI
If I 'was fire, arderéi' the world;
s' i 'was wind, storms;
if I' were water, the 'drowning;
if I' were God, mandereil'en deep
if I 'had Pope,' then joyful,
because all Christians Imbrighi;
if I 'had' mperator, you know 'what to do?
All mozzarei the head in a circle.
If I had died, my father andarei;
if I 'was life, flee from him:
faria similarly to me 'mother.
If I 'were Cecco, is' I am and I was,
torreo young women and gracious:
and old and ugly Lassere others.
[Cecco Angiolieri - Rime]
IF x;
THEN y;
ELSE z.
Another canvas
another if ;
the circle closes.
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