The home has definitely become the only possible world. After the first week of difficulties given both by the sudden change of routine and by finding ourselves obliged within family walls, we have now settled down.
We each have a routine made up of daily and other impromptu gestures. Everyone learned to manage their own space and to interact with that of the others in the group. Small hierarchies and a civic sense have given way to the initial inability to resist us.
We also created a "desert" phase, after lunch, in which everyone exercises the right to be alone. A little work to make it understood even by the little one but with patience we did it.
However, I can't write much, my head is empty, a thousand projects pile up in it but in a confusing way and nothing takes shape.
I decided to use this space, to fill a little this empty wardrobe that I carry inside ... Waiting that soon all this will be passed and I can reuse it for its first purpose: to talk about travel, territory, home.
The house actually continues to be the absolute protagonist in this blog because talking about other things seems to me not only inappropriate but also extremely distant.
I often think of all the projects that have been paused. And I wonder if the world hasn't been a little overzealous in following me in my personal step towards conquering my time. I wanted to slow my pace at the expense of certain economic security. I left a profession in which I was now established and mistress to feel alive in a new holiday home project, to get back into the game and manage myself.
Life, much more brutally, seems to have made the same decision. It paused and without half measures it blocked everyone's life cycle. It put not only "an infinite amount of time" in front of us but also "the end of all time" by not allowing anyone to take part in it: you end your life ALONE in a hospital bed, without a friendly face, with just thought that we will never see each other again.
Here, I shake, because everything has collapsed. But if I think, this has already happened ... When during the war we died alone at the front or in a concentration camp ... When the empty time was torn by the sirens that warned of the bombing, when it was not known which side the world would restart. Where will we start from?
We are at zero point.
We have a temporal space ahead to be filled with our thoughts and our mea culpa if we have any. We can understand where and if we made a mistake, between our hands the opportunity to be reborn, between our fingers the effective opportunity to shape a new world.
I dedicate this poem to you on March 28, 1950 because I hope "this will be the voice that will go up your stairs" soon, very soon.
It will be a clear sky.
The roads will open
on the pine and stone hill.
The tumult of the streets
that still air will not change.
The sprayed flowers
of colors at the fountains
they will look like women
the terraces the swallows
they will sing in the sun.
That road will open,
the stones will sing,
the heart will beat with a start
like water in fountains -
this will be the voice
who will go up your stairs.
The windows will know
the smell of stone and air
early morning. A door will open.
The tumult of the streets
it will be the tumult of the heart
in the lost light.
It will be you - firm and clear.
March 28, 1950)
- Marta Rovere
Grazie Francesco, troppo buono😘
Decisamente la cosa più bella che abbia letto da 3 settimane a questa parte!