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The Fiftieth Day
Daniele Leonardo
GENERIC NORTHEASTERN ITALIAN COASTAL REGION APARTMENT INTERIOR; A FEW STEPS AWAY, THE ADRIATIC SEA

[facing a blank page on a screen:]

I recently moved (here) and supposedly did my personae as well. My studio is in the making, but it has been a decade now since my tools started adjusting to fitting luggage.

As I mentioned the first time we met -some might be hearing this anew- the place is ridden with ambivalences: personally speaking, it feels somewhat new to live it as a denizen, but not as much in general since I’ve been visiting all my life.
It’s struck by seasonality, not only weather-wise, but environmentally as a whole: from small to ghost town during most part of the year to bonafide city in the summer; within days actually.

I’ll tell more about this through what I envisioned as logs of sorts.

I’ve been thinking, on foot along the shoreline mainly, about what both my insights and outer inputs and features -my profile and presence- could be in here, this thing that we somehow share.

I decided to divide my contributions in a series of exercises and excursus that will lead up to the final work.
Don’t worry, I’m in no position / have no flair for teaching anything anyone. These will merely be suggestions. Open for everyone to follow or not.

Oh, by the way. Call me Daniel
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JUNE 2, OPEN CITY SCENARIO







Visitors are coming, you can tell…



e là, sul monte cui temean le genti
per lampi e voci e per auguste larve,
alta una nera, ad esplorar gli eventi,
aquila apparve.
On June 2, 1946, with the right to vote unprecedentedly extended to women for the first time, Italy voted the monarchy out in favor of the republic. With a deviation of less than nine percent it was screamingly by the skin of the teeth.
After what had just been -twenty some odd years of escalating conspiracy into subversion, then totalitarianism into world war- at least that’s how it sounded to me at, is that thirteen?
Old habits die hard.

On the same date, every year, Italy has ever since had its Republic day, to celebrate, at home, the homeland. Can’t hurt.
These kind of times though are to wave yesterdays goodbye…
Il tricolore!… E il vecchio Fauno irsuto
del Palatino lo chiamava a nome,
alto piangendo, il primo eroe caduto
delle tre Rome
There’s one of the main roads that runs just behind. There’s such a change in the tone of its sound just past twilight. Where were they hiding?
che avean portato al sacro fiume ignoto
un errabondo popolo nettunio
dalla città vanita su nel vuoto
d’un plenilunio.
It’s been a couple of days now, the curfew’s over, and you can tell. Especially after midnight. Not the brightest bulbs in the nightlife of the city are committed to, among other things, prove exactly their foundational point. One can’t necessarily spot them but boy can you unhear’em…

Freedom is exercised in debauchery these days, and gadaboutism.

Still, anecdotal evidence, examples and specimens are not what we base the law upon. Now, is that right?

..
I have a clear view now, a faraway and far from picture-perfect veduta of this whole place. And I got this feeling…
I see her majesty; the beauty, the architecture, the history, the nature. But I just don’t hear a thing.
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The barbarians did some unsolicited remodeling the other night. Pretty sure they have a whole office for that at the city hall already, where to move a single bench the red-tape it takes is a couple of acres in trees.

Apparently they recouped the year they missed by doubling down.
To settle the score. Authority docet.

Locals said it still was nothing in comparison with the previous years. The wall of foam rising and walking on its own all over the square; the carpet of the usual human trash grimly shining in green the day after on the beach; the puffed-up faces, the bloated bellies sticking out of the sand, site of the nocturnal self-burial; only a couple of apes on the lampposts as opposed to the one ass on a crane.
Some biblical imagery and quite the improvement.

One year the fire department had to help one of these fierce devotees come down from the church’s rooftop he’d got on top of to take a nap or pass out closer to the heavens. If you’re used to Gothic pinnacles but can’t help yourself to the Romanesque’s maybe drunken stupor from all the wine in town will get you there.
The mystery of faith…

Still, they made it to make the news all the same; an accomplishment in and of itself… Let’s just say that when the perpetrator is a Westerner, caucasian and ostensibly wealthy, in general you can put down in print nationalities. Also, you’re pretty recognizable when you’re not wearing a mask. To set the record straight.

And a tradition around here, around this time of the year.
We got history.

.

Surveillance capitalism for the poor

As a newbie resident and an April early bird I had the luxury to stop by at some restaurant’s timid early opening to buy some take-out on the way home, along the empty strip mall across the beach. “Ok, …We’re open, but keep your distance. And, no pizza.” the newly printed sign said. Like, you kids

Dogmatic but somehow gentle, “I can roll with that” I thought to myself.
And if you knew me, that was quite the leap of faith.

A bunch of couples, in the open and at a distance, diligently in a line to get some french fries. Under the glare of police cars slowly rolling by… The efficiency.

..

Easier to find a plumber on a Sunday than any cop for the Return of the prodigal son.
If that’s not a saying already around here somebody turn it into one.

Authority tacet.
Like an instrument would. Some tools
CORPUS DOMINI
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But as of now, the blazing days of future under progress, right away you see the older ones, persisting in a sense. Sticking out, grasping for air among the newer ones casting brazen shadows all over their facades. Spanking decadent and shooting stars… As if.

It’s that brand of new that won’t age well.

.

“When I bought this place you could see the horizon line in at least three directions. Not to mention the sea upfront.
I was assured there were rigid environmental restrictions around here.” They came long after that.

All things must pass, I guess
“Una caserma, un seminario, una spiaggia libera, un casino!”
There it is. There’s a whole row of beachfront condos that I just don’t ever seem to recognize amongst those I pass by everyday during my shoreline walks. Or what’s been left of them.

I know that all that glitters is not gold. I know what some of these look like on the inside. Kind of dated, but with the world reversing and devolving at such a rate it all might be going to be back in style and appropriate over again. Good news
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“Milioni di piccoli borghesi…
pascolano.”
We used to draw whole semi-paradigms and idioms to integrate in our lingo from columnists’ pieces. The fine ones. You could swear back then the jive was opposite-different. Now, unconsciously, we merely embody the former foretellings.

.

It’s the hen and the egg. Did they, someone, anybody, track an actual change in trends of wealthiness and lifestyle expectations on vacation of the incoming visitors, or they simply, delusionally envisioned, or coveted, a future, upper-class clientele that never really showed up? And thank god for that.

The Garda must still have the worst of it all. Nota bene: It’s June…

..

Matter of fact, here it is again, as empty as the first time. Or heavily uninhabited at the very least. Kind of unattended too.
Are they seeing something and somebodies I am not? There are psychics.

Neon lit name and number engraved in a copper like plaque. Just beside the main promenade, the private teak boardwalk crosses a shallow pool similarly lit from underwater from early evening and for all nighttime long. Sprinkling on the very side a fountain of modern design. Not too frilly though; even water has to adjust to the laconism of the future and its bland minimalism, the very same one the few tenants themselves got shoved down their throats, from the handing out of the leaflet to the handover of the downpayment and the undersigning of everything there was to.



I first spotted it when I had just come back. Stood out, but against my memories. And at the end of the day, per se too perhaps.
Metropolis-bound, high-end, Abu-Dhabish tacky, although this might be a garage at best over there. Luxurious, pretentious, out of phase, not from nor for here.

Some weren’t there I’d say not even ten years ago, but I cannot tell for sure. About ten years ago was the last time I was in here for a while myself.

The natives were known to be characteristically sober and dignified, and the place family-friendly. Is that original old question again…
What in the world do you raise in there
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JULY 5, TERRACE SFONDATO: CICADAS OVER MARITIME PINES;
LATERAL DIN AND POOL WATER SPLASHES IN THE BACKGROUND

This could mean a lot, this could me anything. Or not a thing at all.
Also, this is true on so many levels.

.

Dear reader, we’ve come at a crossroads with this in *here*, this both original and eschatological one. For you who have come along the journey this far, I can tell you this much: you’ll be offered the situation once again, and again, whether or wherever you’ll decide to carry on with this. This thing somebody calls something else; whatever it might be to your understanding, of your vision and from your view.

..

Some time ago it happened for the first time, and I had a realization. Of something I was envisioning. Don’t ask. Go figure.
I was rummaging through miscellaneous files of written content -notes on paper and words within a screen; the pages of a little green notebook that I had dedicated for this specific purpose and experience with content annotations of all kinds that I’ve been carrying around mostly everywhere ever since- that altogether formed what I’ve been writing but not what you might’ve ended up reading.

Chapters. Of different periods and differing in tone and content. Adding to the whole picture, possibly.
‘Cause you can let out whatever goes through your mind; just, you cannot release it all.
I might have phased-out editorial standards…

And it struck me. A whole month had passed and the words alone were… enough to bring me back to where and what previously, or consciously, felt just like an immediately adjacent room. A step away just left behind. Right behind the corner, where the office in the sea-all-for-ourselves, all for me, was, standing still.
I felt all over again the cold, the wind, the silence, the meager crowd, the occasional encounter ridden in caution and unsettledness.

To read of, say, April and May in June was quite the trip.
Is this what the lingering power or legacy of literature is? Of memory as well, then.



Though, or as a matter of fact, not everything made the cut…

There are things that weren’t mentioned, that haven’t been said; others either nearly or completely missed. Gone overlooked or untold, almost for good.
Again, this applies to so many and on so many levels.

Also, other weird alchemies worked their way undercurrent.
What I thought I was saying, I was doing; what I was believing to be thinking, it was happening before me if I had eyes to see.

While the exercise was incarnated, the excursus exemplified.

So, a partly authorial, partly editorial note, if you will, the missing chapters is this: “all of the above”; but you’ll read of it in my final piece also as a theme in and of itself: what still didn’t make it; what doesn’t make any sense.

…And ended up leaving gapings within it. But these are not blank pages we’re talking.

In fact I would advise our reader to see and walk, of all things, The Fiftieth Day as a constellation rather than a storyline.

With the additional missing bits, that will be periodically dropped and published, like some fine gentleman with delusions of nineteenth century novelry would, some things will make more sense in there.
For others the vertigo will amplify.

Part of the work will remain in the dark, unfulfilled, until a light, a word, something, will make its way.
Have no fear though. This ain’t the media.

… …

One last, rearview mirror note (before I leave for there): inexplicably, as I mentioned at the very beginning, it seems poetry still cannot fully untangle from the political. For those who remember and look ahead.
I think antidotes come as a reflex, too.

As a general rule there’s one thing I’d suggest, I’d say, my dearly unknown, never to do. “Following the leader”.
So, unless that is the case, please, feel free to come along for the ride. Your way.
This way
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“tra case coloniali scrostate ormai come chiese”
As I got home I went through my boxes. I took a picture out I had remembered I took years ago. About to be sixteen in July; about to be eighteen in the fall.

Things were kind of different then, and bound to more and major change. We’re talking all sorts of things. Huh! Now, tell the difference.

Things had just gone d i g i t a l, and for good. And troppo.
Yeah, in retrospect.

That future clashed with this present, though.
Something doesn’t add up in this picture.

This couldn’t be just a hole earlier, some vacancy; is there some failing on my part? I have no memory of a ravine being there. Is this reeling me in or me projecting outside?
This is going to get metaphysical.

.

They saved a church from the flood; not that there was any scarcity around here. They moved it into a little wood of pine trees. They say a priest, a pope no less, whose ghost still lingers within the walls, took refuge in it before he took off …for the sea. Is it the ghost or the priest?
There’s too much to this.
Allegedly.

..

The invaders -“#1”- with whole grand plans had grounds to fear they would arrive from the sea. Any minute. Funny how now, for those historically in place of them, it’s like a blessing almost.
Perfecting storms might come alive.

They had a whole vision, so they put up a little panopticon. And everybody turned the other way. Today.

It still stands. Pathetically. Among a disused deposit and campsite for local fishermen and an old fashioned ice cream parlor with windows opening on the promenade next to the beach but no one in, barred in beams eaten around the edges.

Profane remains, now covered in odd graffitis time-capsule of the nineties, with those chubby, gummy capital letters in pink and blue, telling the undecipherable truth of a tight-knit group of the recent past with no reason or license to coexist in today’s stage scenario. Let’s just say today, in all its tragedy and vacuousness. Eventually life finds its way, in or around.

Some habits are in the past. So it’s told. It’s more the unspeakability that’s revealing. It’s just that PSA’s have a whole brand new fixation in content. Nu-generational. And turned simulcast. Can’t miss it.
Funny how it seems there’s always something coming. That’s how you run (rule?) things around here now; make that globally.
Next.



This place’s wondrous. It feels like walking in the room when the balloons are on the floor and the chairs stand flipped on the tables with the feet in the air.
Is it morning already, is it too early to call it a night?
By the main street, like a pool the amusement park reverberates, in the dim light of the last wee hours, when there’s white and pale blue along with black -like there are new twilights within nighttime almost, and here we got more than one-; when no playful screams or siren trill is to be heard and no one is there but the rides, in the moonlight resting in colors. With their beautiful tender faces, smiling unduly and open-eyed. Familiar.
Like walking offstage through the dressing rooms of any theatre alive, with that peculiar smell, the frenzy like is still there, upon things and dusts, among the chairs in the way, a presence ghost all around, in the emptied but lived.
“Hold on a sec, gotta go back in. I’m missing something”.

It’s like -and it’s weird- it’s fun -but for how long?-; you got the whole place for yourself.
The world. At times. But out of ultimate reach.
Like wonderlands in dreams.

.. ..

I closed the file.

I’m facing it. I took a second look. I was right. They took the whole building down.
I wasn’t there.
What’s wrong with this place? What was wrong with it in the first place? The other one…
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“sospingendosi…
sotto gli illesi palazzotti”
There is this braided river whose course has never been altered to serve human purpose, yet it’s calm and rich; that spreads from north to south, intertwining and stretching, tail in the mountains and head into the sea; that splits the region in two and whose mouth detaches and sort of protects the one-time island from any foreignist drift or inflow.
No need to get fancy. Ecology had plenty of identity. And giant balls of fires all around.

Except the saviors dropped a bomb on it and peppered it with their usual recipe. Is that the one time they were solely *testing* it? What are you against p e a c e?!
Hmm, generally it’s only eyes bursting out of sockets and those foaming at the mouth I adverse.

Stations; bridges; civilians usually. That’s what you go after when you’re going for world peace. Seems like e v e r y b o d y had a plan for us today.

Eastwards, on the coast, it was the harbor; the railway station; the construction site; the hospital. “Light bombing”. Gotta love the term.

Most didn’t take refuge, suspecting it to be the umpteenth drill. Still holds. Not the land though. Ruins found a new way.
Our littoral, almost all along the country, is encountering some form of erosion or another. Mainly uncovered. Down south it’s the weirdest scenery: like a moonscape in colors where the craters didn’t manage to crumble all the way downwards to the ground, then into the water.

In more than one direction, but not in that sense, our borders, beaches and coasts are invaded and run by morons. Over.

Winners write history, no one else. Then cover up the rest.

.

For generations we’ve bathed and chilled in the placid waters of that river, here and there, during summer break, between the seasonal dedicated vacation to somewhere else specific and visiting relatives. It was a safe harbor, for spending afternoons, a diversion to the heat or the familiar playgrounds at hand in the backyards. Safe but still, to be careful around and in, watching out for the occasional twirl.
I wonder if these waters are the same as they’ve always been. Or hold any memory of it all
AUGUST 23, BETWEEN THEN AND NOW
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“…come milioni di porci.”
“Romani! Romani!”
“Vacate the premises!”

People stopped and peered at the sky, curiously.
The alarm was met with suspicion and reluctance by the locals. After years of authoritarian maneuvers and what seemed ages of crying wolf no wonder the hall was empty and no one was into theatre anymore.

.

“This place does not just s t o p.” “Go out, have *dinner*”

Because “apericena” is so undignified I cannot even have the guilty pleasure of reporting it in the name of full disclosure and chronicle’s sake. That whole apparatus of the terminology of the beginnings -the words used; the spite implied; the ones forbidden-: it’ll be a mess to make sense of it for the ones to come.

“Have fun; especially hang some and hug some special ones.”

You cannot merely repeat the fierce imbecilic immorality of these orders, maybe any order, without risking some of the backfire of infamy under which -their- names should be, engraved, for eternity and their pointless being around for their time being.
Historians, if there’ll ever be some again, shall remain speechless in front of our ruins.

The sounds of toasting in favor of the camera; the chewing and gulping faux exotic food dropping the prompter for that one moment. Or taking it up a notch.
The face-down sneering behind the back with those bulgy empty eyes. The fuck face.

“Don’t you dare go out! You did this!”

Directly reminiscent of “’Twas y o u r stone! Youbbastard!” It amazes me how pathetic those helmeted ghouls in uniform can be.

“Have a balcony or something…” “Cheer us the fuck up! BBC is watching. Get the accordions out.” “And, b b y t t h e w a a y …We (!) are having a hard time back at the Palace.”

No one else…

“How could we p o s s i b l y k n o w?”
“You should’ve known better. At that bar of yours!”

The-experts-say.

..

They heard the shakes. They knew their land. They were ready to flee their homes, in the dark. “Go back to sleep” they were told.
“How could they k-?”
Now you know.
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“Proprio perché tu sei esistita, ora non esisti”
As kids we got used to newer things, everything, smoothly and would adjust like it was nothing. Passable, top notch, what even is this?, it made no difference really; it just did not matter. Not on the long term. Surroundings as a whole did. Fun and family. Friends, pets, boy…
Sure there might’ve been some grumbling here and there -me being the major grumpiest of them all- but usually that was over in a couple of minutes/hours top, and with the timely intervention of sodas and ice cream sandwiches in a row. I see that with my nephew today.
Life was grand and there’s that. The whole gang hanging out, in adventuresome land.

And I know, it must’ve been nothing compared to the ingenuity of the older generations before, with post-war childhoods and the derived all-encompassing scenario as playground, where, in an instance, everything could have potentially turned in a memento of devastation and mourning.

But if you speak to them, or leaf through the family albums you don’t see that necessarily, or at all. You just sense the good times; the in-good-spirits. People really have the power.
Well I did. And I’ll cherish it.

And, mind you, evil is not forgotten; only, it’s pushed where it belongs. To the sewers.
Only the good ones are shown and told. That’s what you hold on onto to carry on. To begin again. There’s such a dignity, a decency. A clarity of vision too.
Far from any pietism. Or demagogy.
The opposite of the news today.

I have vivid images in mind as I speak. Launch al fresco, the table, with tablecloth and laden with dishes, set on gravel in the backyard. Men, sitting in undershirts, with one hand holding a glass and the other pushing on the armrests turning towards the camera; women, standing laughing, either saluting or holding some tray with coffee and, seemingly, pastries. Children playing or in semi-poses all-around. Some youngsters, girls and boys, both timid and flirting, scattered at the corners of it all, with a hint of a smile forming at the angles of their mouth.
This is so sacred I could only share it in words.
Whole cosmos and lifetimes were conceived during a single summer. And crammed in it. Year after year. Time after time.
To each its own summer. To each summer its own story. You’d live and come home to tell the tale.

Youth’s such the force of nature: give the kids dirt and you’ll get mountains; or a whole castle, a mine, or something going on in your own backyard.
Leave. The. Children. Alone.

.

During family trips, to places you’d still refer to as ex-something else -their history still being hot-, we used to crack jokes in the car making affectionately fun of all the things rolling by outside our windows, that even though we had never lived through and experienced first hand in our time at the time, we still inherently knew to belong in the past rather than being some futurism in gestation of sorts.
There were nations we were visiting where that funky hair style we had only seen in photographs of the prior decade, or in reruns of those candid camera type of home-movies, was still a thing. It was trip-worthy discovering that whole countries could be stuck in a decade earlier while being right on the other side of our very border. Customs; costumes of the past. The cars. The hairdos. The main acts on the few billboards. Nature.
We wholeheartedly enjoyed it though and as kids we thought it added to the flavor. Food was fun too.

Later on, way later on, with the advent of the try-and-search-your-mind-through-this-innocent-bar, we’ll collect some data and record the action, we found out it had a name. It was glorious. An international nomenclature to spend in the name of hilarity. Of an abomination.
In the evening, I had to brief the whole band that same day.

Didn’t age well.

Fast-forward that -for no good reason- and it became a thing again. Anew. I think it’s a befitting sign of the current times. The apocalypse, if you will, got cheesy too. More on this in the end
In here, well into the nineties you could spot, unbeknownst to us running around, ‘70s, ‘60s, and even still some ‘50s architecture. Standing, that is.

I wanna shake hand with the guy who saw a swamp ridden in mosquitos and blasted by wind and said “there will be land”. But I picture it with romance. Some archival photographs seem to corroborate such naivety.
Fine architect, mustachioed adults from the nearby cities, in tailored suits and Panamas, with their khakis buried in sand, squinting eyes, surveying the land first, like it was newfound, and only last pontificating, with ruler and compass in hand, all over their blueprints.
Backslaps, handshakes, high hopes. Send the dozers in.

Some of the villas are quite the time travel. The luxury in the sixties was so blatantly futuristic you must’ve felt like your home, your whole family, the whole nation, could hover and hop into space at any given moment -with you being in for the ride-. All the while the lady host would be smoothly gliding on synthetic rugs serving daiquiris to the garrulous guests to that background beat a la Esquivel.

They lied.



They say when the ruling empire is bound to its end its orders will reflect the anguish and desperation, of those in power, in pure madness.

The approaching demise systemically coincides with seisms of the whole constitution: parliamentary; urban; sanitary; military. Anthropology; geography. The spirit. Natural law.

The mullet is back. Along with white tubes in rubber sandals. Though, you see, these are *statements* now.
Guess from now on it can be any time.

PS: (Who’s gonna read the last tag on the wall? The last post on earth?)
*KBOOOOMMM!*
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“Sprofonda in questo tuo bel mare…
…libera il mondo.”
He was resident number three-hundred something.
This place was an island in the beginning. Unheard of almost to the point of sounding like inside oral intel, I guess most things started that way.

They poured dirt and made land out of water. Matter of fact, initially, only by boat one could reach the place.
If you will, and really think about it, and either close your eyes or go way up above heaven high, you can see the place as afloat; a boat in and of itself.
Parasailing will do.

It was all over, or it all began -and raised hell-, when they sanctioned their independence from the inland. No one would ever approve of someone else’s independency or cheer the proverbial goose laying the gold ones flying off. *They might even bring out their guns*
But that’s how we ended up having our little heaven today.

“Right there, were you see that oleander, my father planted a lemon tree. He cherished it so much he put an heater in the garden for winters, that are quite frigid in here, with humidity and everything.
…The poor thing, an exceptional frost in the eighties was the finishing blow…”

.

Some fishermen at the turn of the century entangled their nets on a cannon. The wreckage of a napoleonic vessel belonging to the Kingdom of Italy was discovered just after, not far from the coast. Surrounded and sunken or blown from the inside, there’s a bit of an historian’s debate.

Some dare say unity has come after that. Is it the kingdom or war? Is that the skirmishes?
A puppet state or union will always lay its foundations on swampy grounds in murky waters… and sharks -not endemic of the place- lurking in circles.
With the sound of that original shot echoing all around.

It now more and more looks like all things are ending like that.
Talking about having your winter in spring and a whole summer swept away -and orienteering the leading gun-, around the same time of the year when this all started, they carpeted the place going for the bridges atop the river. And civilians.
To unman.

The sky was light blue crystal clear. The kind spring has.



A welcoming wind. Literally. That was spring this year.
One you would not believe and they don’t remember having before in here. More like a whole perpetual blizzard. Bees suffer that too. And if they do, we all go. We rescued some along our way…
Apparently is unprecedented. Hopefully, not a sign of the time. Merely eschatological to the rookie -and that’s no mean feat-: sure you really want to be in here?
First decisions were oriented in that sense: we had to put on hold the thought of the warm and light finally coming, ahead of us, at least weather-wise, to make arrangements for the winter.

House first, home later, were difficult to spot. To reach, even. Permits to work and walk the earth. Most buildings have no chimney. That’s a giveaway. Either they ain’t supposed to last long or the peeps in it.

Spring took its time though and suddenly months are now rushing, bundling up on top of each other, to arrive first. Ahead of their time.

Looking out of the window, at the surroundings, there’s both the excitement and a question mark, hanging mid air, in the night of the sky. How it’ll be in here in a couple of weeks? Wondering, guessing: “who’s staying?” Who’s living over there? Is that smoke out of those chimneys on the horizon?” “And where to for the sunset?”.
We had that question before. Maybe it’s cyclical and it’s a good thing. In the country it’s how you measure, learn, discern. Your inputs, the work you put in in something and the environment all around: how everything reacts. If anything goes amiss you know you’ll have the next time to make it and the time being, the whole year, to perfect it. To get better.

Let’s wake up early tomorrow morning. I want to be a creature of habit of the dawn.

.. ..

Speaking of putting the freeze on something:

We’re skipping autumn and winter here. You can’t really tell how it is unless you stay in all the way through. The place filling with ghosts; lives in the households getting realer and realer. Squares of light in the near distance appearing for dinnertime. My familiar fireflies.

The dark, the wind, the whistling, the untouchable sea so friendly under the sun, all there. Still. Firm. And waiting.
Open. Perpendicular. A wall or a corridor?

… …

There’s a small croft in the backyard, like a grassy handkerchief. I’d like to do some sowing for the year/s to come. And I better get going as some plants favor this time of the year only.
All things have inner timings. It’s instilled.

To this day I can lay my eyes on the oleander in place of the original plant. And a young buck of a lemon tree, a tiny, robust little tree, is taking its space in the backyard, among strawberries and mint; basil and the walnut tree. An aloe too, good for healing burns.

A family.
New historicity.

There was a fool once who picked up a thing, a seed, of all things, just to see a whole world in it; specifically, almost everything.
As of now, I’ll take the view and my word for it.