Wednesday, February 2, 2011

* ?i-catcher Console - Web Monitor

La poetica del vaffanculo (from Barcelona to Barcelona)

the last 24 hours seems to be happening all over the world. Ruby is pregnant and getting married. The White Stripes, disbanded. Amy Winehouse back in Italy - the hotel manager where he will spend the night is already starting to fill up the mini bar. Napolitaner visiting here in Bergamo - the City has amortized the cost of removing the decorations from the attic recently used flags for the last meeting of the Alpine (and still stained with red grape and ).
But above all my last 36 hours are ideally gravitate around the city of Barcelona.

From Barcelona is back for a short, very short, meteoric stay Italian my-ex . Yes, that one. I had talked here, but also here and I think I quote from somewhere else, what a bore. I mean, that guy had not heard-I saw two years. What I do not have even the most tried-and-I-uh-uh-uh-I did ( dear Pinocchio, a friend of happier days, of all my secrets ......... ) .
Ok, yes, I sent her (dead?) Italian cell phone number 3 posts (over two years!) To find out how he was. In these two years the dispatches on his health and / or life came from occasional meetings with his friends, seeing me, they felt an obligation (or perhaps were not other topics to avoid awkward silence after the "hello!") to talk to him.
Oh yes, now in Spain. Yes, I heard the other day. Ah yes, now he's on vacation in South America. Yes, he came to Bergamo for 2 days.
Once, I think this summer, I wrote an email too. Without ever receiving a response.

me find him Tuesday to 10 feet away while I'm about to board a bus to go home.
Sliding Doors.
I could not even see it. I could not notice the white scooter. I could stay in my world rocked by the Lower Dens I had in my headphones, I took the bus and I would be back home, continuing to write the thesis. Would happen.
Instead I turned my head to the right. And I've seen those fucking sunglasses Vuarnet. And tell those fucking hair (if you cut your own). And I also heard that fucking voice.
time to do 3 steps and to call that puts the helmet and the bike part. Did not hear me.
Then start to run. And I'm Propylaea-Via Zamboni in 40 seconds (for those unfamiliar Bergamo'm talking about 400 meters) as Forrest Gump, like a jerk, let's face it, not because the show was to be the best: Moz sballonzolanti type goggles, bag ( large) shoulder and he did suegiù suegiù, shortness of breath, stroke jerky ( duemesifamisonorottaduelegamentidellacaviglia ) on the neck and ear with Dens Lower still sang this:



seemed the beginning of Trainspotting But most unlucky.
But at that moment I was the queen of fucking everything .
Two years since I saw him, I find him, call him, can not hear me, starts off (mmmhhh, all this reminds me of a movie scene, but what ???): runs after it. (Bridget Jones, perhaps?? What top model reference!)
In this scenario there is to He added that, although m'avesse seen m'avrebbe not recognized: those with goggles and that Moz Moz cut and then I had the headphones, that is, never would have thought "Well, it is Worth."
Well, imagine a human case that sets a new record of the 400-meter dash and that is so lucky to be able to get the fucking white scooter in the meantime, stop at traffic lights - red, then green - has left arrow and is planted in the road, and that if a human scream as with all the strength he has in the body, with the desire to be heard by one with the helmet that is ten meters away, thus replicating the unforgettable scene of Sister Act as the Whoopie Goldberg touches the belly to suoretta Maria Roberta and brings out all that which has the item in the body, "as if it were to be heard from a guy in the back of the room ....."

(same, but no one was pushing her hand on his stomach at that time and the last time they did, last month, it was a pleasant colonoscopy)

He turns and is an expression in which two hundred and fifty mental processes converge to the total duration of 2 seconds echicazz'è?, waiting for this I know, I know why the wait, the Vale ??????, the Vale! ! Vale ?!?!?!?!?! Among the astonished
and the unbeliever, the surprise and shock, embarrassment and the "but what the fuck has become a lesbian?" my-ex (pronounced tutt'attaccato as if it were a proper name) approaches, let's drink coffee, do not appear in the past two years but two minutes, or perhaps two centuries, and I try to put together pieces of low-cut, connecting the dots as in the puzzle game of the week because the person in front of me I feel a stranger whose face I says something, he tells me so. More
speak more m'arrabbio.
And the smartest thing that comes to tell him is that I'll be right at the end of May in Barcelona for a festival (and I'm too weird to pronounce the words "indie" e tentare di spiegargli cosa sia prendendo come esempio i Belle&Sebastian ma è come se parlassi di fisica quantistica a un appassionato di storia del medioevo). E la cosa più stupida che mi viene da fare la scorsa notte è quella di fargli un cd di elettronica ("ormai è da tempo che non ascolto più musica") che contiene Aphex Twin, Boards of Canada, Bibio, Four Tet con e senza Burial, Flying Lotus, James Blake, Memory Tapes, Neon Indian e Nathan Fake. La vetta della coglionaggione è andare in aeroporto oggi mercoledì 2 febbraio zeroundici alle ore 19.30, chiamare il suo (non più defunto) numero italiano e saperlo già all'imbarco, un'ora e mezza prima della partenza. Sentirmi dire, con a tone as flat as my boobs, that there was no way they see and give him the CD unless it "did not take a ticket to Barcelona and m'imbarcassi.

ah-ah-ah. Baptist, broach, the feather is not enough.

Too bad the check-plated tell me that "it is feasible, as long as the person comes out from the boat and alerts our staff."
But I think in sequence to the beat of shit, his voice flat, his enthusiasm and sent away fuck off, just as in sequence: he, cd, me, him again, me again.
So I get home, I discover that you are added to the Spring of nomoni , and one of those names is just what James Blake there that I wrote recently. James Blake that I had mastered at-my-ex. And then third, the long, spirited him to fuck off, my-ex, who has always had dozzinalissimi musical tastes.


on air: Girls - Lust for Life

0 comments:

Post a Comment