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Quanto mi fa male vederti così, mi ricordi la me stessa di qualche tempo fa. Impaurita, ingabbiata, infelice, insicura. E vorrei urlare, afferrarti per un braccio e scuoterti,  prenderti a schiaffi per svegliarti da questo stato comatoso in cui sei scivolato da troppo, troppo tempo.

Svegliati, ti prego. Svegliati! C’è un mondo là fuori, pieno di colori e profumi e cose terrorizzanti ed entusiasmanti. Tutto quello che vorresti è a portata di mano, devi solo svegliarti da questo fottuto coma e aprire gli occhi.

Apri gli occhi, ti prego. Basta solo un passo, un piccolo passo e poi sarà tutto in discesa. Promesso.

Il 2010 se n’è andato, e noi siamo ancora qui. Infreddoliti dalle temperature sotto zero. Inebetiti dal troppo o troppo poco sonno. Innamorati. Inscatolati in uffici, macchine, treni, metropolitane, città. Imbambolati dalla musica perennemente in cuffia. Introspettivi. Siamo, o forse sono.

Il dolore mi ha reso libera. Come Evey nella scena di V per Vendetta in cui esce dalla prigione e si prende tutta la pioggia in faccia, non ho più paura di niente.

[Evey is allowed to leave her prison unexpectedly and finds she was actually in V's lair the whole time]

V: Hello, Evey.

Evey: You… it was you…

V: Yeah.

Evey: That wasn’t real. Is Gordon…?

V: I’m sorry, but Mr. Dietrich’s dead. I thought they’d arrest him but when they found a Koran in his house, they had him executed. Fortunately I got to you before they did.

Evey: You got to me? You did this to me? You cut my hair? You tortured me? You tortured me! Why?

V: You said you wanted to live without fear. I wish there’d been an easier way, but there wasn’t.

Evey: Oh, my God!

V: I know you may never forgive me, but nor will you ever understand how hard it was for me to do what I did. Every day, I saw in myself everything you see in me now. Every day, I wanted to end it. But each time you refused to give in, I knew I couldn’t.

Evey: You’re sick! You’re evil!

V: You could have ended it, Evey. You could have given in, but you didn’t. Why?

Evey: Leave me alone! I hate you!

V: That’s it! See, at first, I thought it was hate too. Hate was all I knew. It built my world, imprisoned me, taught me how to eat, how to drink, how to breathe. I thought I’d die with all the hate in my veins. But then something happened. It happened to me, just as it happened to you.

Evey: Shut up! I don’t want to hear your lies!

V: Your own father said that artists use lies to tell the truth. Yes, I created a lie, but because you believed it, you found something true about yourself.

Evey: No…

V: What was true in that cell is just as true now. What you felt in there has nothing to do with me.

Evey: I CAN’T FEEL ANYTHING ANYMORE!

V: Don’t run from it, Evey. You’ve been running all your life.

Evey: [gasping] I can’t… can’t breathe… Asthma… When I was little… [collapses while V catches her]

V: Listen to me, Evey. This may be the most important moment of your life. Commit to it. They took your parents from you. They took your brother from you. They put you in a cell and took everything they could take except your life. And you believed that was all there was, didn’t you? The only thing you had left was your life, but it wasn’t, was it?

Evey: Oh… please…

V: You found something else. In that cell, you found something that mattered more to you than life. Because when they threatened to kill you unless you gave them what they wanted… you told them you’d rather die. You faced your death, Evey. You were calm. You were still. Try to feel now what you felt then.

Evey: God. I felt…

V: Yes?

Evey: I felt dizzy. Please. I need air. I need to be outside.

V: There’s a lift that will take us to the roof.

[They go up. Evey goes out. It's raining].

– V for Vendetta

Soviet Kitsch nelle orecchie tutta la mattina, sul regionale in ritardo, leggendo un libro che mi parla di scenari artici.

Milano è grigia oggi, ma può solo migliorare, dopo il 21 dicembre è tutto in discesa, no? La primavera è dietro l’angolo.

The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully, they might so I’m waiting and staying awake

Things I have loved I’m allowed to keep
I’ll never know if I go to sleep

The papers around me are piling and twisting, Regina the paperback mummy, what then
I’m taking the knife to the books that I own and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone

Things I have loved I’m allowed to keep
I’ll never know if I go to sleep

Things I have loved I’m allowed to keep
I’ll never know if I go to sleep

– Regina Spektor, “The flowers”

All the stupid shit I’ve done. Puntate su puntate di Californication. Anche il gatto disadattato ha bisogno di carezze, ogni tanto. Graffi. Guardare il tramonto sui tetti dal mio nuovo ufficio ai piani alti. Non cenare perché boh. Brigate della maglia. Bla bla bla chiacchiericcio inutile. Il diapason, il metronomo. E parlare a voce troppo alta in treno. Andare in un posto col mare e molto, molto caldo. Sonno che non arriva, e non ci sarà valeriana o passiflora che tenga. Forse è ora di riaprire quella boccetta di Lexotan. O forse no. O forse sì. Il chiropratico mi ha parlato della mente scimmia, e in onore di qualcun altro mi tocca proprio convenire che sì, la mente non sta ferma un attimo – come una scimmia. E no, non è facile vivere nel momento arrestando il vortice dei pensieri. Neanche con il piccolo Rasputin che fa le fusa senza sosta. Neanche respirando lentamente ad occhi chiusi – so ham, so ham. Quando la mente vaga a volte coglie delle verità nascoste, come se si trovassero scritte in un libro aperto solo un po’ difficile da raggiungere. E quando succede, wow, tutto quanto per un attimo ha un senso. Diffondere, elargire a piene mani e a destra e a manca, come suggerito da Brezsny. Discorsi fuori luogo con semi-sconosciuti. Porte che si aprono e poi si chiudono. Puro terrore, insomma. Altro che Blake e Huxley, qui non ci serve nemmeno la mescalina signori. E tra poche ore sarà luna piena, così tanto per dire.

Adoro le lettere, adoro le lettere d’amore, adoro le lettere ben scritte, adoro Hank Moody. Leggetevi questa, parla di una storia d’amore ambientata in una New York piena di gente e di colori, e guardatevi Californication (stagione 2, episodio 10). L’amore come non l’avete mai visto prima, l’amore per gente cinica disillusa autoironica cupa e autodistruttiva come me. L’amore che, nonostante tutto, è la cosa più importante.

Dear Karen,

If you’re reading this, it means I actually worked up the courage to mail it, so good for me.

You don’t know me very well, but if you get me started I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard the writing is for me. But this, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it, I met someone. It was an accident, I wasn’t looking for it, I wasn’t on the make, it was a perfect storm. She said one thing and I said another and the next thing I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there’s this feeling in my gut that she might be the one. She’s completely nuts in a way that makes me smile, highly neurotic, a great deal of maintenance required. She is you, Karen, that’s the good news. The bad  is that I don’t know how to be with you right now, and that scares the shit out of me. Because if I’m not with you right now I have this feeling we’ll get lost out there. It’s a big bad world full of twists and turns and people have a way of blinking and missing the moment, the moment that could have changed everything. I don’t know what’s going on with us and I can’t tell you why you should waste a leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn you smell good, like home, and you make excellent coffee – that’s got to count for something, right? Call me.

Unfaithfully yours,
Hank Moody