All of a sudden the sky, the atmosphere, the light itself, have turned yellow, and a strong wind, like the blow of an angry and evil god, is severly bending the trees and wiping from the ground, at a great speed into the air, all the dust and sand and leaves and dirt it finds on its way. But not a drop of water has come down from the heavens.
Not yet.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Now the yellow has turned into dark bronze, the wind has died still, and a single blinding lightning, and a single deafening thunder, have made loose the wrath of the sky, pouring down with rage all its liquid arrows.


Last night I dreamt of Agnes.
I dreamt of Agnes and the dream was like this: I had arrived to a building, like a school or an institute, that could be the academy where we knew each other, though it wasn’t; that could also be the headquarters where I did the military, though it wasn’t, either. Maybe it was only a department I had never known, or a university I had never gone to. Its walls were terra-cotta coloured, the same colour of the place where I’m staying these days.
I came in through the glazed doors, which led to a wide corridor wherein there were some people, neither too old nor too young; they could be students or teachers, employees or customers.
By the first door on the corridor stood Agnes, like a pupil who waits for the teacher to come, or like a teacher who waits for the pupils to get in; or just like a clerk who steps out of her office and looks, observes, thinks.
Agnes and me. I don’t know who first noticed whom, or if we noticed each other at once; nor can I say whether she was waiting for me, or I was looking for her, though rather we didn’t know at all that we were going to meet. However, on catching her eye I walked towards her like if she had been the only pourpose of my being there; like if an order, coming from an indefinite somewhere, had pushed me to assist, had pushed her to wait. And none of us showed any surprise.
Despite dream’s usual deceitfulness, she was Agnes, no doubt. Now red haired and a bit slimmer, but Agnes she was. As pretty as always, as young as always, time seemed to have ignored her.
I came to her and, like if our eyes had agreed before our mouths could speak, or rather like if it was a routine, understood, natural and expected, we hugged and kissed like a couple would do. And in this way, her chin on my shoulder, mine on hers, she told me I love you only an instant before I told her I love you. Our voices crossed in the air, and we both sighed, like if relieved of a fear that had just abandoned us.
Then she asked me, or maybe I just could hear her thought: Why?
Staring at her eyes I replied that perhaps I had loved her since we first met. And she: why hadn’t you told me before?
Because I hadn’t realize. Because I didn’t know… But you, since when you love me?
Oh!, you know it too well: I’ve always loved you.
No, I didn’t know that. Her big, bright, beautiful eyes had lost the funny, slight oscillation of the pupil they use to have, but the new red hair and undulating hips made her look great.
We hugged tight again, and long kissed each other, not bothering about the people, who seemed to not bother about us, nor even see us. I said to Agnes: and we’re still in time, aren’t we?
Of course she replied, we’re still in time; we’re still young.
But are you real? I insisted. Won’t you fade away like a dream when I wake up? Are you actually here, and you love me?
You see that I’m here; you see that I’m real. Aren’t we seeing and touching each other?
I know. It’s just that I almost can’t believe this sudden bliss.
Well, then in any case said she, don’t worry: if you fall asleep, even if you’re actually sleeping now, and dreaming, when you wake up you’ll know that I love you.
Yes, Agnes, I will; and, much more important yet, I’ll know that I love you.
I don’t remember how or when my dream ended. Maybe it blurred away when mi hands tried to explore the most delicate parts of her body.

She’s like that

But she’s like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital.
She came to me, unexpectedly, one of those fine warm mornings in the late autumn.
I already knew of her, I had seen her before, long before; I had felt her by my side, I had dreamt about her, but she had always ignored me. However, now all was different, she looked for me any time, she met me everywhere, she haunted me, she hounded me, she loved me. And I let myself be loved.
She was with me a week, maybe ten days, during which we created great things. I told her my ideas, my projects, my interests, and she helped me to write them, she almost dictated the words to me, she put wings to my fingers on the keyboard, she filled with spirit my tales, and with life my characters.
One night, without any reasons, she suddenly left me when I most needed her; go figure why! Only she must know… or maybe not: female after all, not fond of reasons, least of all explanations. Since then, I haven’t seen her again. Since then, I haven’t written anything passable. The ideas I had didn’t prosper, and starved.
Will she ever feel a bit guilty, have some remorse? No, it won’t happen. Inspiration is like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital…

China Ranch (four women in the desert)

I. Of course, everything was about you ladies.

But let me write these words, these thoughts, before the treacherous and unreliable time blows from my mind, like it does with footsteps on the sand, the imprint of the memorable weeks I’ve spent among you. There is a moment for everything, and this is the one for recording my recollections from China Ranch; and this I ought to do lest my merging into the strong stream of new experiences and adventures prevents me from ever doing what I promised, and -what is worse- thus losing the memory of my recent emotions. And emotions are (can you doubt it?) the source of inspiration and creativity.

Though, my heart is not bleeding as I thought it would. Perhaps I’ve hardened it, through travelling, more than I realize; perhaps the tide of life, in which I’m immersed, is at present too intense for letting any mental wound to appear; or… perhaps I’m bleeding deep, deep inside, and not yet aware of it.

But for sure my heart is touched. I’ve left there, in the desert, a part of my soul, same as the air leaves on the ground, on the plants, on the rocks of the land it kisses, part of its humidity. Or perhaps it’s the desert what lives now in my soul, in me. I’ve been touched by the magical mountains and the unreachable horizons, by the inmense landscapes and the beauty of their silence, by the glory on the warm colours and the joy on the flowers, by the dust and the wind and the distances, by the neverending roads and the mute plateaus; I’ve been overwhelmed by the infinite stars and the solitude, by the canyons and the golden, blessed dunes, by the stretching of space and the fading of time, by the silent night and the still nature. Now the desert belongs to me, same as I belong to it.

I loved that land beforehand, and I’ve learnt to love it even more, with a better knowledge and a wiser mind. However, all those emotions could have never arisen without the presence of the four of you. Obviously, the latent beauty I found there is intrinsic to the place, but without you it could have remained partially undisclosed to me. It was you, ladies, who unknowingly set my mind receptive. Your existence in space and time was providential.

II. Four crazy women in the high desert.

First of all were you, Scylla; the craziest one, leading the gay team, running the business in your smart and gipsy way, with your odd vision, your funny projects and your outlandish ambitious goals. You’re a strong character and a natural leader, easy to follow, attractive, magnetic. I learned to love those long breakfasts and our queer, unlimited conversations. Ours was a good, laid back understanding. You captured me in your cobweb, and I let myself be captured, and we soon developed a profitable symbiosis that then turned into a nice and friendly relationship. You know -I told you- how to get the best of people, how to make them feel good, satisfied and happy with their jobs. You know the words to be said and you don’t spare them. Flattery in your nice charming way, you passed your enthusiasm on to me.

Then Karen, looking crazier than she actually is, fooling -in that sense- everybody but herself, caring equally about all of us, despite having endured so much in her life (or maybe just because of that). Trustworthy and honest, commited and reliable, hard working, always ready to cheer us up. Absolutely authentic and true, incapable of lying, straightforward to an embarrasing degree, and -no doubt- the most balanced of all. I learned to always welcome her company and to like her simple, plain talk, which never involved deep or sophisticated things, but which got straight to my heart and was so helpful for me. Never pretend you are whom you are not, she told me. Is there any simpler sentence? Yet so true and teaching.

Of course there was crazy Daisy, so professional in every imaginable way… Pretty witty lovely Daisy, naturally coquette and mischievous (thanks to her for this word), with her adorable sparkling laughter, her bewitching stares and her tender, somehow moving, flirting behaviour. A childish mind in an adult container. Every of her movements being a work of art in itself, she puts a bright note of colour onto the brownish canvas. If it wasn’t for her, my stay in China Ranch would have been half as intense in the emotional side, and half as worth being recollected. How could I not thank her for what she gave me? And Time, heavens!, will so quickly rub out from my memory the bads, that pretty soon I’ll only remember the suggestive, delicious moments of our affaire and the armonic texture of her voice.

And in total contrast, like sun and moon, god and silver, outside and inside, stood sweet Katharine, an adult mind in a childish envelope (beautiful and perfectly shaped, by the way). Cute Katharine, crazy in her own way, obscure and enigmatic as can be, the hardest to be known and understood; distant, almost un reachable; her inmature brain trying to believe what her mature mind probably ruled out (but who knows?). Fragile and strong at the same time, silent and tender, good natured, more caring than she looked, and so concerned about profound and essential matters. Absolutely lovable.

III. Farewell

So, I couldn’t have found a better company and place, and for that I would have stayed in the Ranch forever. But there’s a time for everything; circumstances never last long, and something inside me -like an instinct- was telling me that it was time to take off; I had the feeling that I shouldn’t stay longer, lest the routine killed the beauty and I lost all the memories that I now can enjoy. The place was perfect but the timing was not. Shall it be some day? I don’t know. Often I believe that my destiny is this pilgrimage, this constant travelling that I love and loathe at the same time, my freedom and my jail. It’s a gift and a torment, a joy and a sorrow. I don’t know where the paths of life will take me, but I like what I’ve trodden, and I’ve definitely loved my stay among you.

Farewell, my crazy women. I’ve enjoyed your company, your presence, your existence. And even though I’d like to come back some day, we’ll probably never meet again; therefore, perhaps this is the only inmortality you and I may share, ladies. Farewell.

Last lines of Lolita

This note is just a quotation of a paragraph (from the website Reading group center) with which I totally agree and empathyse:

The last lines of Lolita are: “I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita”. What is the meaning of this passage? What does art offer Humbert and his beloved that sexual passion cannot? Is this aesthetic appeal merely the mask with which Humbert conceals or justifies his perversion, or is the immortality of art the thing that Humbert and his creator have been seeking all along? In what ways is Lolita at once a meditation on, and a re-creation of, the artistic process?