Two months ago, on July 16, finally saw the IGU ana in concert, after years of sighing longings; three months ago, however, the same 16, I took possession of this room overlooking the street with an exotic name and winning the Tor de 'Schiavi, suburban outpost of the forced romantic Roman still convinced he was happier than ever thought in my short life that leave the family nest for an indefinite period, treading barefoot strips the september sun painted on the floor, I stayed until the autumn boat smelling of ginger and ozone;
in May, again on 16 , carried out his years here, to the delight of my twelve and a half readers, the report of a birthday, which now re-read the notes put down during the return trip from Turin, it seems fun:
The first evening, the feast of a major publishing house to the rowing club. The place is very nice, the terrace, overlooking the river, overflowing with people. My friend tells me the dignitaries present at the party: there is the Strega Prize last year, the editor who works there, the corrector of proofs, which, instead, work there, almost the Campiello Prize this year, the writer , that other writer, the author of that show so much engaged. I feel out of place now, the music selection does not help me, one after another mixed Classicon so cheap, like partying in high school gym, but the crowd of young creative writers and welcomes every piece so enthusiastic. The watered-down cocktails, paid handsomely in my hand and sip to have something to help me do even less, it would take gallons of this stuff to anesthetize. I look around the room in Art Nouveau style. From the ceiling hangs the skeleton of an ichthyosaur reproduction, a remnant of an exhibition of natural sciences. I imagine him slowly become covered with meat, muscles, bones, plastic wrap, skin bloom on the meat and cover with scales, like a tale of JRLansdale, I guess that falls from the ceiling, getting rid of the wires that keep it suspended, rush into the crowd dancing, this jumble of saccenza and ignorance on the moneyed asshole with the unit in your pocket, the girl with glasses I find myself behind at every step, esaltatissima when they put a piece of Britney Spears coverizza Joan Jett, the ichthyosaur pounces with its new energy on a small group of graduates of DAMS, the frigid beauty in their ugly lanacotta and teachers chasing fresh mice, the ichthyosaur swimming in the air, taking with mighty blows with the tail, tearing meat diaphanous Piedmont intellectuals, but you know I look like Philip Seymour Hoffman? and who, I asked the aspiring writer with candid ignorance play away from Florence, is the film about Truman Capote, Truman Capote and who is, I'm opening wide eyed innocent, but do not have time to explain that ' ichthyosaur is already crunching his head like a peanut shell, the screams begin to overpower the din of music, I seem to recognize "Violet" from Hole, I have not heard from at least eight years, the grunts of joy dell'ittiosauro counterpoise to hysterical Mrs. Cobain growl, while the blood feast goes on.
Second night, continuing my foray into cultural-vip. The party this time is a famous school of writing, "in cahoots" with a famous publishing house. Of course, attend the famous writer AB, as well as dean of the aforementioned school, which is welcomed by the flash of photographers as he makes his way between two rows of adoring disciples, the writer AS, which air from frightened agoraphobic (You know, the mental illness caught in some quarters over bloated wallets) is around, carefully avoiding the center of the track where a selection of music rages even worse than the previous evening, the writer FG, which has cornered the votes, and not to save baptize our precious shoes heel 12 by pouring half a glass of rum and coke. After four tired rumors come to the conclusion that future Pulitzer Prizes attending school bribed the above do not understand a fucking worthy of music, nor even of literature. On the track, all crazy for Piotta. Carpio mutilated phrases of praise last effort of Saviano. Meanwhile, the paucity destroyed through water in which I decide to get back to smoke, I do twenty-eight years, I spend capital to achieve something vaguely resembling a state of intoxication, abusing an aspiring journalist who wants to be nice, I tremble at the thought of what awaits me tomorrow.
Books such as pots on display at the stands of publishers. Do not miss anyone. Nino d'Angelo booth Castelvecchi presents his autobiography. A little girl cries for the thrill of meeting his idol. Saviano escorted even managed to smile for the joy of his supporters, who shouted words of encouragement as he struts like a hero with that of Truth. I do not know why I'm here.
E 'September 16. My mother's birthday. An examination of history I have not even given today.
Summer is over, go in peace. My
0 comments:
Post a Comment