Need.
It's my time. I'm climbing on stage, shaky and drunk on vodka. I still have a shot of Jagermeister in my hands and the face of the deer impressed in my mind. A useless mental fixation built there by alcohol and by my desire to be paranoid at any cost. Listening to the screams of the demanding crowd is proving to be enjoyable, exhilarating and engaging. There is a small scale, and a guy dressed in black with a headset encouraging me to go up while clapping his hands. Overgrown Monkey with an ant's brain, unaware that loosing hair was a bad choice. Disturbance of public view. Wandering thoughts of a Monkey man while I slowly climb the steps of the ladder. My head comes out like the sun at dawn, a few millimeters per second, and it begins to crave the sun of that infamous day. Applause. Clap clap clap.
The piano is in the center of the stage, alone. My old Yamaha with which I spent mysad days comparing the shit faces to DO and RE musical notes, whilst trying to free my boiling spirit. I can't do it yet. Now I'm on this stage, unaware that it was a waste of my time all along. The hunter of ideas, the elusive runner masochist. I sit. Clap clap clap. The music written on the pentagram is Gymnopedies No. 1 by Satie, my favorite. Now that vodka has become the greater percentage of liquids present in my body, the impressionist in me presses the first note, a G on the first line in low-key, followed by the Si major chord. Three-quarter time, slow speed. But, something is missing. The track is flat and angular and it almost seems like a waltz in slow motion and my face is tense, as are my shoulders and arms. But is this a joke? - I hear shout from the audience. No dear friend, is not a joke, it lacks the resonance pedal and I'm fucked. If I will change the music? If I amaze with a vulgar gender change? An improvised blues. Yes here it is, my whining blues, my piano that cries of despair bringing to life the ghosts of those enslaved blacks in the Mississippi Delta. The land of fools’ farmers revolts against my piano and I. The shaved monkey who first encouraged me to rise lifts, relieves me and slams me to the ground as the fishermen of Polignano slam octopus on the rocks. I think I’ve suffered some sort of head trauma, two broken ribs, I suppose. The Monkey becomes small and black and I sink into the stage as if it were a sponge.
-Daniele! Daniele? Are you awake?- -Daniele fucking open your eyes! How much have you been drinking?- An entry far, far away. Now remember, Torre Caffè. When you have twenty years, people encourage you to not waste precious minutes and to enjoy every single moment of life. Why then... The work, the family, and the debts, and…. the mortgage. Suicide. Thus, rejecting any kind of advice, wasting precious minutes by drinking and lazing thinking, thinking, and thinking. The oldest art in the world, thinking.
There is a particular time of day, the one where you have to decide how to occupy the time to distract yourself from thoughts of death or of your future (which may be the same thing?). Those deep thoughts on how to avoid dying in pain, who knows, fucking every day and drinking in excess? A little as Bukowski. But in the end, you know you are a small fly buzzing around the room looking for shit to feed on. ah, and that shits everywhere. Do you realize how lucky Charles was not to die because of that fulminant ulcer. If I knew my fate, if I could die without letting anyone feel sad, I'd be happy to drink without guilt. I’m deeply ashamed of this.
On this confused night in July, I find myself lying on the rocks next to the high and coffee-coloredtower contemplating the starry sky and the face of Davide, the ugly face of Davide staring at me with that tragic expression of his. -I'm alive, keep calm- I try to get up, asking for help to D. -We were all worried, you disappeared for a whole hour- says Davide -I needed to lie down and contemplate the sky, you know, I didn't write a story for months because I was looking for inspiration- I answer -Our cursed poet! You're crazy, let's go- I got in the car and lay in the back seat, with my head resting on the legs of Roberto. Sweet Roberto. -I've been writing a diary for two months Rob- -Than?- he says -Dunno, I only told you this because I'm drunk- -I noticed, what about you Daniele? Two weeks of non-stop drinking!- -Did you know that I write better when I'm drunk? Do you want to read my diary? -Okay, tomorrow- -I changed my mind, I don't want to read it anymore. Shit!- -Ha ha, sleep! If you vomit on me I’ll piss in your fucking mouth!- -Eh eh eh- I close my eyes, I think of Woody Allen who succeeded in making the tragic life a comic story for everyone. I think Bukowski who yells at me –You’ll never become a good writer! Your life is too empty, monotonic, prudent -Sweet prudence, Giorgio Gaber calls it. He saved my ass so many times, but there comes a time when you choose to give it to the dogs.
