Wishlist

Listen this while reading

Penang, Malaysia. October 2019

I would like to go back to sit in front of the island in Queensbay, in the afternoon, watching the crows scurrying on the ground and the couples of youngs kissing under the trees away from the eyes of the cars that run behind me.

Looking to the left thinking when the new platform will be finished, and following the paths of the planes overhead that depart and arrive at the nearby airport.

I would like to take the green bus in front of the university once again, wandering around for almost an hour with my nose stuck to the window pane, then get off near the mosque and go to my CD shop in Little India, choosing CDs with the loud music pumping from the loudspeakers all over the crossroads.

I would like to sleep one more night in the small hotel room in Kota Bharu, in the buildings in front of the main entrance of the big hospital.

Watching TV, late into the night, the Thai Boxing matches, lying on the bed.

Buying the bottle of water in the evening in the bookshop in front and having coffee, at morning, in the bar to the left.

I would like to go back to dancing, just once, on Dago Street in Bandung, on a Sunday without a car. All together, on Sundanese hypnotic music, to tell the man with fingers full of colored stone rings, in front of me, that I have also the “magic”.

Bandung, Indonesia. July 2016

I would like, for just one night, be a DJ of techno music, until dawn, seeing hundreds of people dancing in front of me with their arms raised, with my feet vibrating rhythmically to the sound of the 4 \ 4 bass drum on the floor.

I wish I could do a piano concert, in a large concert hall, in black pants, sneakers and a black jacket, for two hours. With the fingers running very fast on the keys that seem not to even touch them. And finally, to see the whole audience jump stand up and clap loudly, greeting the last concert of my long career.

I would like to see the collection of my photographic books in a large bookcase in bookstore, touching them without the others knowing that I am the author, and maybe see the girl with big turquoise glasses leafing through one of them, stroking one of the photos with her fingertips, unaware that I'm watching her. And I smile.

I would like, just once, to glide with the hang glider, among the very high mountains, over lakes that reflect the clouds, with the wind hitting my face hard.

Fly for two hours, crossing valleys, mountains, rivers; like those flight simulators where you see the sky coming fast against you and the whole world is under our wings.

I wish I could still drink so much, to hear the voices of friends and their laughter fade away slowly inside my head, like sounds in cotton wool, while the stomach burns sweetly, and the sugar in my mouth while mind  is throbbing hot.

The exact moment before nausea sets in.

When you are alone, with your head spinning and a smile on your lips; because then you no longer hear the screams of pain inside your head and the wounds in your heart.

Everything is now muffled and far away.

I would like to close my eyes swaying on the old wooden rocking chair that my grandmother had at home, in her bedroom.

I took refuge there as a child, while my parents were all together in the dining room, and I stayed like that, back and forth, listening to the big pendulum clock at the entrance. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

With the sound of the chair's wooden wings croaking sweets on the floor.

I would like to know, for just once, what it would feel when you try to run very fast, head down, with your feet that seem almost not to touch the ground. With the breath that pumps powerful in the throat.

I would like to go back to drawing, with pencil B, black and rough, on the 120 gram thick sheet, large 30 X 40, rough; and then blend the shadows with the tip of the finger that becomes completely black.

What a pleasure it was to control the grain of the graphite with the heavy or light touch of the hand to give thickness to the lines...

I would like to speak in front of a class of young students about the beauty of etymologies, making silly jokes to make everyone burst into thunderous laughter and then listen to their questions with red cheeks of passion and impetus for the two hours of lessons without a break.

I would like to go back in time, to meet the awkward me at eleven, twelve, fat and shy, to tell him not to be sad if he was considered only the joker of the class, or the best friend who listened to every pain of love while he remained in love in secret and never reciprocated.

I would like him to sit next to me on the steps of the schoolyard and tell him who he would become, and how much love we would find in future years, so much so that he could be addicted and learn to govern the heart in its insatiable thirst.

I would like to tell him that no woman would have believed him as he was now, awkward and shy, with those glasses the size of a tortoiseshell.

I would like for once at least to cross the villages of rural India photographing women with sunburnt skin covering half their faces with yellow and orange colored ulna.

Enter a temple with the smell of incense burning the nose and cross the great rivers in a wooden boat, with the sound of the wooden oar hitting the water.

I would like to go back, one last time, in front of the two women who, in the past, have hurt my heart the most, fill it with anger, hatred and pain, to look at them in silence, with cold eyes, and tell them that I never, never forget, in hate and love. That I don't ask for any forgiveness and I don't even grant it.

I would like to go back once again – what madness! – to the night before the operation that removed the tumor and part of my normal life, listening to Elisa's songs twice in a row, without being able to sleep, to savor that unspeakable feeling of pure terror and extreme awareness of every minute, sound, color, light, breath.

I would like for one time to hug my son of a few months to me, with the smell of milk still on soft skin, with his arms wrapped around my neck, plump, and his head resting between my chin and chest.

With the little heart beating hard on my skin.

This was maybe my greatest wish, which would change my whole life, making me better than I am today.

But life is not made with “ifs” and “wishes”.

That's what wishlists are for.

Rome, Italy. May 2017

READ ALSO:

• Riding Time 
• The Factory of Permanence 

 

Italian version