[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
Yesterday evening I came out of my office later than usual, as I wanted to complete a model for some kind of simulations I've had in mind for a while but hardly found the time (and the right open-space conditions) to sketch it and write the code. Just before sunset the model behaved so fine that at the end of the simulation run, as I also said to the only colleague of mine still in office at that time, I was congratulating with myself. So I went out to reach the metro station in a complete state of euphoria.
When I reached Garibaldi station, half an hour later, I spotted a splendid coloring book ("The Enchanted Forest" by Johanna Basford) behind the windows of Feltrinelli library and, having some minutes before the train departure, I rushed in and took one copy for my daughter (of course I had to compensate this "kindness" by taking a book for my son as well). It's been some kind of self-rewarding act. Instead of making a gift to myself I had made it to the "next in queue".
When I woke up this morning my daughter had already perfectly lined up all her pencils on the desk and was ready to start her work. I saw that with her little fingers she was passing over and over the pencils as if she was deciding which hue to start from. So I asked her what was she doing and she replied: "I'm playing a colors' music".
A visit to WW1 forts cannot be complete without a walk into the trenches where the opponents used to live, spy and shoot at the enemy on the facing mountain or on the opposite side of the valley in between. Today the two flags are waving one close to the other, even though the European starred blue flag sits in between, as if it was a sign of a peace come for necessity, opportunity. In these days, looks like that the "enemy" has to be found elsewhere, very far from the fresh mountains where the Great War was staged.
I already posted in August a picture taken on the summit of Mount Campomolon, on the border between today's Veneto and Trentino, Italy and Austria one century ago, where the remains of an Italian WW1 fort can be found. Now I've managed to process some shots I took that day with my SRL. An ascent to one of these military cathedrals distributed along the natural borders drawn by the Alps tops is almost a metaphysical experience, provided you have an understanding of what really happened there long time ago. Every corner has a story to tell and it really does. These forts, no matter if they were on the Italian or Austrian side, were so accurately designed and carefully built as if they had never come to feel the scars of the falling bombs. Forte Campomolon destruction was ordered by the same Italian generals, as they couldn't leave it in the hands of the Austrian, on May 1916, the day that under the pressure of the Strafexpedition (the Punitive Expedition) they were forced to leave it. On top of these forts the silence talks, no matter the wind. I have never felt the same while visiting a medieval castle or an ancient roman camp. Here the presence of all the young men that spent years killing each other is still vivid, even if there's not much left to see beside stones.
Every year, I use to take a long walk before dawn on the last day of our vacations. The luggage is packed, the car is loaded, the sheets of our beds are folded and stacked up on the table, the fridge is empty and the night has been very short. Kids have been playing with their ephemeral Summer friends till late in the evening; we've been talking with their parents about our lives and marvelling how their daily issues that they face are surprisingly the same than ours, notwithstanding the long distance and the different life styles that divide us.
And then, once the lights are off a long train of thoughts comes in and steals some more time to your sleep. And you wonder, hypnotized by the rolling wings of the ventilator hanging on the ceiling.
So, at some point of your sleep an unexpected sense of irreversibility takes shape and makes you slip off your bed and silently put on your sandals ad walk away.