I realise that it’s autumn almost by accident. Twisted and reluctantly, as if a syllogism or a matter of logic. I notice this because yesterday, meeting up, we ate mushrooms and chestnuts. I become sure because this morning I saw the Tiber smoke fog and the wandering church steeples taming a ghost town, squatting under a low and heavy sky.
Even stupefied by the storm, I repent and curse against the usual narcotic mixture: the groggy awakening after a postprandial torpor from a handful of super-caloric biscuits. I go in the lift in a trance as if I was a Pavlovian automaton. A quick walk to the garage and I’m already out on the worn-out parking apron, behind the anonymous geometric profiles of blocks. They are shrouded in mist, pearly, bleached and faded.
Engaging in first is a conditioned reflex. Always start in the lowest gear. They told us so. You shouldn’t be in a hurry to go fast, but patience, spirit of service and strong, steady progress.
I realize then that it is Autumn accidentally, procedurally and vaguely organically. Even from the touch of dermatitis in my left eye – which, without allowances, sets the pace of the season.
And with this sudden illumination the desire increases to take to the woods. Sure! And fast. Here it seems everything dissolves. There is no force. There is no trace of the origins, the days follow each other unreasonably. The clock of time an unclean mechanism. What should one do to find oneself. To identify. Not to be overwhelmed by a formidable and powerful existential void. To not be overcome by the bourgeois divertissement of a suburban cinema, a funny comedy, Sunday, going past exhausted villages, gray and lost in the futility of an unknown indefinite actuality – which can not yet be said to be living. An operetta, frivolous, insulting. That catastrophe. Let us flee. Better if together, love. Because I have you. And you have two hearts. Like Pier delle Vigne for Federico II, you know me and you master my mind and my soul.
It’s easily said. And decided. No further questioning. What a waste of energy, come on. Take to the woods is an invitation, indeed an imperative, better a manifesto! Take to the woods to find those broken paths lost among the branches. Already, just a nice illusion. We kill ourselves going some way through the brambles and then... no more light and just beastly effort. Oh, what a terrible thing! An infernal tangle of clematis scratches the face and blocks the path. Worse than the Mekong Delta.
While wearing your cross, beast of burden that you are, do not forget the day when, perhaps by accident, you found your glade illuminated.
Recommended listening: Cesare Cremonini (Lost in the weekend)