Miriam 37 – Dear Andre, today I thought a lot, thanks to a “Diary of the Italians” that was posted around lunch time. The author’s name is Mattia, and she finishes her diary by asking a question to you, to me, but also to our long red couch. In this month of quarantine, she says she brought up a part of her life, that 30% often submerged, which she does not want to give up once everything will be over. In fact, she raises the bar: she wants to start right from that 30%, building (you see, the building comes back) around it everything else. A new fulcrum, therefore. New foundations on which to build a new scaffolding.
I though about it, and I am going to answer to Mattia here.
I thought about my 30%: I’ve always been very little at home. Not only because of a hectic job, but because I believed that “the outside” was better. I remember Saturdays and Sundays when I would get my children ready (not without stress, but basically believing to do them a favour) and I would take them around the city. I took them everywhere: museums, exhibitions, beautiful landscapes. Of course, I might have allowed them to see many things, many places, and I’m sure they will be grateful for this. But maybe we could have stayed a few weekends more at home, playing together on the couch, watching a movie, cooking together, learning to skip the rope. Now that we can only do that, now that my 30% is equal to the whole of my day, I realize how beautiful it is. Of course, I miss going out with them, but when everything will be alright again, I will do it, I hope, much less. I will understand more their habits, I will spend with them more time then I spent taking them along with me.
I will start over from my 30%, trying to build around it my future.
Thank you Mattia.
Andrea 37 – “I think and I write”. My 30% submerged was born 30 years ago. I was in third grade and the teacher had given us a daily task. As soon as we entered the classroom, we had to keep track of our thoughts. I think and I write: in third grade I was monothematic, on Monday I would tell the Napoli games of the previous Sunday, on Saturdays, the ones of the following Sunday. In the middle of the week it would be the games of the Italian or the UEFA Cup. I think and I write in middle school became a cup that I won in sixth grade thanks to a poetry contest, where I talked about drugs, that in the 90s were called “one of the plagues of modern society:”(the two points were part of the definition). I think and I write in high school was learning to structure my thinking thanks to Clelia first and then to Francesco, it was comparing Jovanotti’s “Bella” to a sonnet by Petrarca, and thus getting a good grade in literature. I think and I write at university were all the articles I had to write about semi-professional soccer games to become a freelance journalist, all the Sundays spent in the editorial offices of various newspapers, hearing managers inventing chronicles about the suburban stadiums of Campania, Sicily and Calabria. An archive of many articles that only a hardcore fan like my aunt Mary could keep in her attic. A collection we found out only after she was gone. I think and I write had stopped since 2008, indeed it had been I write without thinking. My writing was entrusted to the instinct of the social medias. My 30% is that: realistic writing, the one observing things and trying to give them an almost tactile sensation. That was my writing. And it came back, 37 days ago, when we started writing to each other. I decided it was also time to think. I think and I write.