know a girl who works in a circus.
In his motorhome there are hippy drapes, orange psichidelico, curtains round the windows geometry. When not working
wear long gypsy skirts and white cotton shirt from tightly woven, with lace sleeves and S. Gallo in the collar.
shirts of his beloved grandmother who has never left home except for religious holidays, but that if she could, she would have wanted to go away with a circus passing through, to marry an Armenian trainer of Arabian horses, often make us' s love, you become very proud of some exotic animal tamer.
circus not made. Neither
travelers the world.
interpreters leaf ribs, chicken bones, coffee grounds, either. Music lovers
restless, frightened, amazed, enraptured by the sounds and silences of nature and people, not made. It is
. Sometimes
motionless in the scope of an armchair covered with rough fabric, in the twilight, with just the tips, the slippers, lit by the light that draws the prospect of the door window on the wooden floor.
In a room on third floor. Within the last stop of a life lift.
Rangers cosmic entropy, the lush jungles, mysterious and dangerous of their minds. We are born. Emilio wrote
Salgari eighty adventure novels, set in the most diverse corners of the world, from the Sargasso Sea to Malaysia, to the red rocks and deserts of Arizona and California. But he never moved from his home in Verona.
know a girl who works in a circus.
In his motorhome there are a number of white rabbits that jump from one cabinet to another, to the bed.
Sometimes, if someone comes to visit, they lower the long ears and bring you properties in groups of three, between the table legs and the chest of costumes.
has a few drawers of strange objects, which keeps the medals won as a young girl skating champion, strips of exposed film, a whisker old cat, caps, pens that do not write more, sticks of peach and berries of American grapes dried in the garden of his paternal grandparents, feathered wing goose over eaten, box of thumbtacks, small box of seeds of apple, pear and of watermelon, empty box of fish food to smell every so often, a piece of stolen chalk board in the second grade, first period of the cropping calendar, a calendar year in which there was only Thursday. Dry leaves, stones, beads, buttons, diaries, notes, little thoughts. Letters. Objects of the beating heart.
know a girl who works in a circus.
She likes to pretend to have been abducted, a child wanders from this diverse band, torn his luxuries of home ordered to patrol in the cornfield behind the garden, to sit under the cold marble of the steps above to the cherries, sugar and bread to share with the chicken greedy, and drops of water in watermelon red dripped from his bony knees, the long slender shins, the white socks in the sandals of paint.
She likes the carefree ignorance of his rabbits, the flattery of the Queen of Hearts and the Jack of Spades, the promises of the people of the circus to arrive, one day in Khartoum, and to erect tent camp on the edge of the city. See the color of ebony women, from the compact and flawless skin, slender figure and as shadows stretched thin, dark, ocher horizon.
course, she hovers on the trapeze, swing of the great, where you go up with the imagination of children, where the movements are calibrated, a potion of inspiration, endurance training, strength and heart.
Where the flight, albeit brief, between a barrier and the other is perfect as that of a bird.
you like that look, that they admire its light weight, the need to please the viewers' perspective for those moments that fly with her. Without envy or touch.
know a girl who does not know.
know some flowers in the garden of his thoughts, the horoscope that draws on the evenings of wind, sea, mild smell of nutmeg.
It 's a paradox exploited frequency to the cinema, in literature.
At times I think I know her well enough to not feel the need to know.
On the other hand, paradox mirror and upside down, real pain is caused by not knowing a person you know.
For example, a mother who does not know the son she knows. Or a wife. Who does not know her husband, who knows.
What's worse? Hopefully, in the case, you have the opportunity to continue to not know who you know.
To avoid nasty surprises.
know a girl who does not know. I know the moods and fancies.
I know the weaknesses and contradictions. The arrogance and empire. I know the generosity and the sweetness that flows like a stream karst under a layer of limestone.
How many of those know it as much as me?
In those behind fake smiles and compliments the hate hypocrites? I do not know.
E 'fragile as any woman who is delegated the duty to be strong. You will be Queen. What you are. Of yourself.
She points to the destination, severe and austere as a Jesuit, faith is not negotiable. Feeling of faith and morals.
Architecture of a life. That's not to ever touch down under the constant siege, as happened to the walls of Jericho.
As I understand it, shall consult the bearded lady, who calls her aunt and always has a kind word and a comfort to her in moments difficult. When you are afraid
coy, parading along the ideal line of the fence between the neck and shoulder blades, like a cat in it, and look suspicious, related. The
sincerely wish well in many, but the clown, with tears and smiles that you have to look at paintings.
As far as I know working in a circus, happy with his house on wheels, with matching hippie, with his white rabbits that keep company with his books and cassettes of strange things.
Travel at night, the circus, that every morning, open the door, a glimpse of the new world to illuminate his face.
She likes the smell of fresh laundry hanging out to dry soap, the sound of rain beating on the windows, the warmth of the hot tears that melted a knot and take away the sadness or melancholy.
As the flow of the white stripe on the asphalt road leads to a site for a new sweet nostalgia.
And that sense of travel, you know, is in the journey. Mica in the middle.
do not know where the gulls have their nests, where
find peace.
I am like them, in perpetual flight.
Life
like being the cascading water to catch food.
And as you may also love the quiet, the great calm of the sea,
but my fate is to live
flashing in the storm.
(Vincenzo Cardarelli)
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