Una short story di Paolo Carnevali
The road offers sad profiles looking out to sea. Thoughts run after each other. A thread of earth and then the blue, dotted with white foam. This morning the sea is big and full, it seems to assault the road, beautiful in its sway and pierced by heavy rain. I feel the brackish rising in the air, as when in the morning I listen to my loneliness, I run on the beach and the essential to say shrinks, as memorias fill the images. A friendship is a great gift: the game of affinities, of complicity.
I remember being struck by the simple ways, determined and practical as a Red Cross nurse, then I understood a fragile side that demanded sweetness. We were alone and shrouded in shadows.
“You awakened my conscience, I rediscovered the love of giving,” I told her in the corridors of the hospital while smiling.
“Friendship has only one soul and looks in the same direction” He answered.
I can’t explain why my mind was confused, but I accepted without asking, if, in a natural way this maybe not. It does not often happen in the fragility of desire.
I remember the words on friendship written on the postcard we bought that hot August afternoon: I was given a friendly presence as a gift… We also thought about it that evening in Lourdes, sitting next to each other on the bench. The illuminated cave and the Gave that flowed like our thoughts. I walked on your shadows and our hearts beat between happiness and pain. I looked into your eyes, hoping you would see in the same direction. You were too short a love. I was closed in on you, and I don’t know if I could imagine the kind of feeling. I loved to think that our souls would find the same intimacy as the sentences that flowed into the conversation.
“Life is the result of absurd and sometimes bad omens, concatenations of events that give joy and pain.” I said.
The touch of your hand was pleasant, it enveloped like fog.
I watch the foamy sea fighting with the force of the elements, I think back to Franz Kafka, at his showing himself naked to Milena Jesenskà, to their meetings. I remain silent, I search for words, I hide my thoughts in a cloud of blue-grey smoke that rises in the air. The rain thins out and the colours and shadows begin to take shape. The kites dance on the wind and the highway runs, tirelessly.
nato a Bibbiena (Arezzo) nel 1957. Traduttore e poeta. “I dialoghi di Ebe e Liò” ed. Lalli (1984) dal cui testo è stata tratta una pièce teatrale. Nello stesso anno redige “Poetica Città” poetry-zine underground distribuito nelle serate di lettura. “Trasparenze” ed. Tracce (1987) plaquette poetica, recensita sul Manifesto (1988) e sul Corriere Adriatico (1990).
Collabora con la rivista letteraria “Pioggia Obliqua scritture d’Arte” di Firenze come corrispondente da Londra U.K. Editor del magazine “Area di Broca”.
Altre sue opere qui.