(SO WE START) – PLEASE PRESS PLAY.
It’s been over a year now, since I’ve undertaken a love discourse, (ab-)using nothing but my mother/ tongue.
It turned out, outright, to be a humble resource, compared to the generosity and the reckless promise I immediately found in her.
I was there (standing at the edge of winter), painted allover in some undefined color.
I, before; what did I ever assume? Presumptuous, without any good enough tool to make her understandable, for me (at least).
All because of an experience that didn’t comprehend her.
So, once the forecasts vanity vanished, I’ve lived the whole time, up until May 14th – already passed – hanging over the present.
I don’t even know when everything changed. Anytime that it seemed possible and I was laughing (at it)? Anytime that the impossible affected the mind but let the heart be spared and I was being so passionate to swear on the eternity of a time, yet too short to be.
The fact is that the healing garrisons, floured, have been swiped away at the border.
The desert keeps its charm even now that I (fore)see dusty clouds coming. Dust is raised by the new dreams legion.
They’re coming and demanding, in their form, an indispensable translation : as if the love discourse in the mother/ tongue was suggesting different questions.
“You know, they’ll express curiosity, you’ll wanna have differently readable texts” They’re suggesting me, leaving me sleepless.
“English language. Translate. Re-make. Calling for. Getting out. Take your lover by the hand and let her breath. Don’t be jealous.
Risk!: let that others might pick up her qualities. They’re insisting, leaving me breathless.
So I said:
She seems to understand me better.
“If you win jealousy, the armies of the Tartars are becoming caravans of shield maidens.
They’re Weaver. Equilibrists. Ecologists. Sensual. Breathless. Confused. In love. They’re making me a royal. So I think.
There-fore. Operaprima will give birth to other. A child, we don’t know how he’ s going to be. But he’ll be, beautiful. He’ll be a starting point. He’ll be moving.
“Time is some-thing. You can touch it : with the joy that sometimes you can feel (ot)her with : alive and full of mute cravings.
Not by chance a mail arrived. It closes yesterday’s love, country border. And demands the understanding of a different man and doctor and lover. I’m sending it to you. It’s a translation.
“There is a seminal substance in your project. A design of a new specie. There is you. There is me.
Emotional eyes. The soul in peace. So we start” (*)
(*) comment on “ Il tuo progetto” – Operaprima – May 14th 2020.
Great was the emotion. Safe the reunification of the love discourse, started a while ago. Through it, I expected the universal of individual events to spread over different loves. From the ABC poems to the pop lyrics it would pour itself into the opera temples, up in the sky, so unique and specific, falling back then, as uniform damp substance, over those who could understand it, around here.
“There’s a young viper in the air. It’s crucial, anesthetic, hypnotic. It carries a light poison. It’s subtle, bodiless and let herself fall down at my feet…”
I was saying.
And it’s not an episode.
Someone is going to translate the following sentences:
– Quotidiane elegie.
– Fiato in gola di una risata che non finisce.
– L’insistenza di un bene modesto e durevole.
A breathless emotion of an endless laughter
Persistence of an unpretentious, enduring love (*)
(*) comment on “So we start” – Operaprima – May 16th 2020.
Original Text _ “So We Start” by Claudio Badii
Translation/ adaptation and visuals Irene Silvestri
Music “San Solomon (Reprise)” Balmorhea