Persa tra i miei pensieri attraverso la stazione della metro. Evito chi incrocia la mia strada mentre la mia mente compila una lista delle cose che mi rimangono da fare. Cammino con passo spedito, un… Altro
We landed yawning and excited. How the two go together I can’t say. Our luggage came in quickly and everything went smoothly as it should. Until we hit a stop. At the border control our Italian paper IDs raised suspicion. A few questions followed: where do you come from? What’s the nature of your visit in the UK? We were surprised. For the first time in Europe our ID didn’t allow us a swift walk through. When both officers (one for each sister) took out a UV pocket lamp with magnifying glass, concern flashed in our eyes. I could already see them sending us back, our holiday plans going up in smoke (not to mention all the money already spent on festival tickets and accommodation). The officers must have seen us exchange a worried look because they felt obliged to explain that our IDs can be easily forged and it’s difficult for them to check that they are not. Since no other reassuring words followed this explanation, they didn’t comfort us in the least. Then both officers gave us a good scrutinizing look, stared once again at our IDs (back and front with their UV lights) then exchanged a glance and a small nod. We then knew we were safe, though we were left through with a reproachful: “Next time use a passport!”. Not the warmest welcome, dear Britain.
The cloudy weather that awaited us outside the airport did nothing to lift our spirits. The grumpy welcome at our hotel was yet another disappointment, but by 9 am we were walking the reasonably empty streets of Castlefield. A lucky choice because the area has a fascinating architecture and it’s perfect for a walk to get a first feel for the city. The neighbourhood develops around a small network of canals that were used in the past to transport the carbon inside the city.
The old brick constructions are beautiful and often converted from industrial buildings. Connecting the southern area is a number of small picturesque bridges. Mixed with the old architecture are some modern structures, some disturbing the landscape more than others. We quickly checked out the Museum of Science and Industry (free entrance) which you shouldn’t miss, especially if you ever visit Manchester with kids.
At the end of our Castlefield exploration we walked towards the Albert square and intrigued by the sight of a nearby building we ended up in the Central Library. A great example of well used technology and a great service to the citizenship. A big hall hosts a basic coffee shop with interactive tables: large tables with a touch screen surface, which allow you to drink your tea while checking out the best sightseeing spots in Manchester or the latest issue of your favorite newspaper. If all tables are taken, a number of totems offer the same content and much more: the history of Manchester through videos and archive documents, audio extracts etc. On the same floor, not far away from the main hall, there is a small cosy performance room, in this case used by some artists participating to the Manchester Jazz Festival. And this is just the reception area (free entrance). We were in awe of this example of British service and efficiency.
Come lunchtime we decided to feed our musical culture as well as our bellies and stopped at the Jazz Festival pavilion for a free concert by Cameron Vale. A young band that gives jazz a modern twist. We left refreshed and recharged, feeling a bit more reconciled with the country.
We kept walking following the trail of the Dig the City Festival – a garden festival which was in all honesty, cute, but uneventful – to reach the oldest library in the UK, Chetham’s Library. It took us a little while to figure out where the entrance was since it is hidden inside the Chetham’s School of Music. But once we understood we had to go through the school entrance and be admitted by a grumpy guard, we crossed the arch into a Harry Potter movie. The school was a priest residence at first, then a charity school and from 1969 a specialist music school. Even from the outside it spreads its charm.
As for the library it looks taken straight from a Harry Potter scene of the forbidden library in Hogwarts. Rows of old leather bound books with partially erased titles neatly arranged in shelves that go from floor to ceiling and facing each other. The shelves create small alcoves with a high table between them to study the chosen books. These alcoves are closed by simply worked iron gates and aren’t accessible to the visitors. A small reading room at the end of the library is open to users and it is still furnished with the original interior.
By the time our eyes were satisfied it was time for tea and how could we not have some in the motherland of tea? So we picked our place and relaxed with a delicious tea and scones. The warmth and sugar made us fuzzy and had the undesired effect of letting our tiredness reemerge. After all, we had been up and about for 15 hours already. We decided a regrouping mission was necessary. A good hot shower would help to get ready to face the evening appointment.
Time for a shower and a change and we were back on our tram, direction the Ritz for the first punk concert of the week. Now, I’m not a punk fan, my sister is, but I don’t mind trying other music styles once in a while and observing the crowd is always fun. I didn’t want to be front stage though (what with the whole pogo dancing) so I was delighted to find out that the Ritz has a big comfy balcony equipped with cool couches and high seats from which you can observe the stage and the audience while being a few feet away from a bar. I elected it as my perfect spot, while my sister found a place just in front of the stage.
One can say much about the British people but you can’t say they don’t start their concerts on time. The first group, Snuff, was supposed to start at 7:55 pm, 7:55 sharp it did. Though this often means that the line up is so efficient and strict that the concert lacks flexibility and spontaneity, I particularly think of some long encores that you can get in other concerts. Anyway, I did quite enjoy Snuff, probably because they have a softer sound. I particularly appreciated the trombone that added a little melodic twist and a folky rhythm. Yes, the fact that one of the musicians was handsome probably did play a part in my enjoyment.
The audience didn’t go crazy, it was rather calm, just mostly keeping the rhythm with their heads and feet. A bit more pogo dancing did take place during the main band, Bad Religion, but I must admit I didn’t appreciate them as much. I found them often off key and too much into the screaming act, nevertheless I managed to sleep through the last couple of songs. The rest of the audience though enjoyed themselves and smiles were all around. They all looked chilled and relaxed without a problem in the whole world, blissed punks!
Ready. My bag is packed with a heavy roll of posters loosely kept together and a pack of flyers. Based on yesterday’s experience posters are more appreciated than flyers since owners can ask you to hide them in the toilets. The maps are in one hand and a carefully compiled list of relevant places in the other. It should be a piece of cake.
As soon as I start my tour I notice a terrible mistake: I got the wrong underwear! It might seem like a stupid detail, but try walking around Brussels centre with the wrong knickers for four hours. Then my phone decides it’s time to go on holiday and deserts me. Ok, no stress, I can figure everything out from my tiny google map print. Finally, of course, today, nobody wants posters, but they all prefer flyers. Damned people!
To keep my own energy up, I try different formulations of the same request: I’m working for… I’m promoting… May I ask to hang… And the reactions are just as varied. Some really don’t like the idea of you sticking some A2 sized paper on their wall, but accept it under a number of rules: only there, were it’s absolutely unnoticeable. Please use the provided system: a series of spikes in a row where the posters are nailed down. Of course you shouldn’t cover the existing posters! Try finding a free spot in a wall covered with posters of the most bizarre events following this very simple rule. It’s a war.
However, there are some moments that make flyering bearable and even entertaining. Some people understand your mission by the moment you walk in, the posters hanging from your bag probably giving you away, and matter of factly point you to the devoted space. The best ones are though those where you enter cautiously vaguely thinking it might be good to leave a poster or a little flyer but not daring to hope for anything. Then the owner welcomes you with a big smile and, at your timid demand, offers to hang your poster in the best and most visible place of the shop. I had to repress a few times a sincere need to hug the owner in question.
Sometimes I invaded the daily routine with my tedious question, so I ended up catching two waiters chatting and eating after service; a group of youngsters listening to vinyls and expressing their approval or disappointment; a regular asking for a second glass of wine (at 14:00). The best of them all, was an owner with a waitress and two customers dancing and singing to a classic 70s song at 15:00. The scene cheered me up half way through my round of flyering and its memory encouraged me till the end. Finally, I have to thank the nice guy that stalled the bus for me on my way home, that was super sweet!
I see myself, about ten years old, buried in my parent’s living room armchair, with a big book in my hands. It’s Sunday morning and the rest of my family is waking up and starting their day. I, on the other hand, don’t move. My body is an empty unresponsive shell: I’m travelling… Continue reading “Addiction”
He took off, leaving me to bathe in my excitement. Slowly, my rational self rose from her slumber and I started to think. Wait. He didn’t leave, he fled. A quick, “I want to get out” type of escape. He chickened out abandoning a few things behind. I know what spooked him, it’s the same thing that spooks them all.
I’m an over-enthusiastically happy lover. I laugh, loudly. I talk, probably too much. I kiss and bite, both with the same passion. I’m excited and over the top. I’m probably overwhelming considered this encounters don’t usually survive a one night stand.
But I’m not going to say “I’m sorry”. Not this time. I can’t bear the serious sex, either deeply involved or extremely detached. I can’t help but be lightheartedly present. Caught up in the electric energy created by the body of someone I like. Delighted by this comically rejuvenating feeling. Absorbed in this ecstatic moment though not committed for life. Somehow my euphoria translates into engagement, as if I’d ask them to marry me at every laugh. No, sir. Oh, God no!
I only want some sex I can recall with pleasure and joy. Sex that will put a secret private smile on my face while recollecting fragments of its memory. So, no. I’m not going to beat myself up over another frightened selfish guy. Too bad for him. I’ll continue to be an over the top partner, loving in my own ridiculous, crazy and happy way until I’ll find someone that can appreciate what I do, and correctly decipher why I do it.
To all the others that didn’t get it, you’re the lovely assholes I’ll remember fondly because of some really good, happy sex.
My little sister and I organised this trip to the UK with three months advance, which naturally resulted in as much time spent in fantasising about the amazing things we were going to see and do. My mind created the ideal vacation during those three months without thinking once to compare it to reality. I only had those seven days of complete and utter freedom, so all my expectations were concentrated on this one holiday: I needed it to be perfect. I didn’t leave it all in the hands of Fate, I actually did some research and put some effort in looking for alternative spots to sightsee.
To cut a long story short, I had put all my money (literally and figuratively) on this trip, so it was bound to disappoint, at least partially. Nevertheless, some stories are worth telling even though they are not all rainbows and unicorns.
Are we going to get this flight?
I had the genius idea to go to the Esperanzah festival the day before our departure. We had arranged a shuttle to pick us up at home (in Brussels) at 3:00 am to bring us to the airport. The festival takes place in Floreffe and officially finishes around midnight, but no public transportation is available that late, so we had to leave earlier. We were so worried about missing our last connection that we decided to go to the bus stop well in advance (20 minutes). It would have been a good move too if we didn’t notice (obviously too late) that we were waiting at a suppressed stop. We did run to the following stop, tongues sticking out and heart pumping, but deep down we knew we couldn’t make it in time to catch the bus. Continue reading “Trip to the UK – Chapter 1: Are we going to get this flight?”
Suffocating blackness is swallowing me. I try to claw my way out but my fingers keep slipping. Where is the handhold in this damned place? There’s no water, but I’m drowning. Fighting for the breath I will never be able to breathe. Feeling the surface up there, so close and yet completely out of reach. Wrestling with all my strength like a mad shark caught in a fishing net, frightened and angry. Panicking, I kick and scream my head off. Let me OUT! A rope, a hand… please! Nothing, I’m left alone to battle this crushing darkness.
I finally manage to wake up, my body rigid with tension, my mind a scrambled mess. I fought off my nightmares, but the day just started and I’m already exhausted.
Phone. Clock. How many minutes do I have?
Planning. Programming. Filling my agenda.
Project. Class. Work. Run… run… run!
What about that meeting? Where are you going to fit the preparation for that exam? And don’t forget the project! Your group counts on you.
Where is that damned bus? You’re wasting 5 minutes you could use to half read a page from that book you planned to use on your thesis.
Counting the minutes, the seconds, I can use to achieve multiple ever growing goals. Filling my agenda with never ending tasks. I don’t feel in control anymore. There’s always one more thing to do, one more important page to write, one more urgent email to send, and I’m constantly trying to catch up. The finish line is moving faster than I’ll ever be, always out of the reach of my stretched hands.
Today I stopped.
There was no face staring back at me. Although I’ve met so many beautiful people. No comforting voice asking me if I’d like a drink and a chat. Because I’ve said so many times ‘no can’t do’ that friends have quit asking. No comforting arms ready to hug my stressed body, no one to let me know everything will be ok.
Just the cold face of my oppressive clock. Just the filled urgency of my agenda. I realised in the self centered maniacal attempt to keep up with my stressful life I forgot to nourish my relationships treating them as secondary, accessory to my ‘oh so important’ routine.
What have I done? Where are the hours spent listening? Reading? Looking? Enjoying not knowing what hour it is? Deciding there’s no need for a start or an end time? Just savouring the suspension of a present moment and giving my activity the time it really needs?
Suono viscerale. Intima attrazione che risuona all’altezza vaginale.
Come uccelli nella stagione dell’amore. Come animali in calore sentiamo quel richiamo e rispondiamo con altrettanto ardore.
Quando lussuria chiama andiamo tutti all’essenza della carne. Danza della carne.
Il desiderio eccitato dei neuroni. Il brivido della pelle. Il bisogno irresistibile di bruciare tra le mani di qualcun altro.
Questa è la musica della riproduzione.
La danzano i corpi che vogliono unirsi. Toccarsi. Farsi piacere.
Trans irresistibile, animalesca. Profondamente umana e carnale.
Baciami. Prendimi. Fammi godere, qui ed ora, su questa colonna sonora.
Conquistami, portami lontano.
Baciami. Ora, adesso, su questa nota gutturale. Prendimi. Fammi tua per questa notte.
La chitarra comincia, la voce segue ed eccola quella nota che determina la tonalità dell’amore, no, del desiderio.
Lo so, la riconosco, la sento tra le mie gambe.
Sesso, desiderio e oblio fino al mattino.
Alla ricerca del cavaliere nero. Un po’ peccatore, imprevedibile, grigio mistero. Lussurioso amante della notte. Sensibile e sorridente. Positivo, ma peccatore. Dove sei mio dolce amore?
Ti cerco e non ti trovo. Ti chiamo e non rispondi. Ti guardo e non ricambi. Ti scopo e non sei tu.
Cercami. Trovami. Baciami. Fammi tua.
Il suono si dilata. Il suono della mia vagina. Lo stesso del tuo pene. Il suono della loro conoscenza e frizione. Il suono della loro unione… del desiderio della loro unione perché la tensione è più potente di ogni consumazione.
Conquistami. Prendimi nelle tue reti. Amami.
Fammi male e poi abbracciami. Cullami.
Fammi male ma senza ferirmi.
Mordimi come se volessi assaggiarmi, non sbranarmi.
Abbracciami, per mostrarmi che mi vuoi tutta e non solo stanotte. Che tornerai da me anche quando avrò voglia di piangere. Di silenzio. Di pace. Allora tornerai da me con un bouquet di baci per ridarmi la voglia di sorridere.