The house on a tattered Manfredi. Long hair and wool sweater off, with pigtails and hand-made brooch Peruvian Amazon. Majakovski and the poems of Blake's visions, but also all that Atticus Finch and To Kill a Mockingbird, Ferlinghetti and Jack of course. Jack.
And that morning before leaving home I saw Gregory Corso, thinking about a mistake, too much reading to the beat generation and blessed. And the house on the corner of the Fool and Mascarella Irnerio, right there where he ended up running Francesco Lorusso.
and the race was mine. Absolute and total, even four hours a day to Baumann, even at night all the way to the center with David, crazy horses to breathe freedom. Absolute and total, but always close the gate just after. No second thoughts. Next, and more to do, say, to listen to.
now running well, with these faces livid and arrogant around with this stupid anger he wants to explain the world or a future already demolished, now I think of "our" world that we had to paint, the inability to stand still, the ideas that germinated and often (too often) rotted in a hurry, the beautiful square and square to the library of Helios, the reading of Castelporziano in tents and Ginsberg's mantra, to Arlo Guthrie and Ritchie Heavens all'Antistadio, small Woodstock who could not afford the real thing. He's right Ramina
Beppe: "relations between individuals were replaced by unrelated individuals."
That was the story, this is the present. We have not been able to paint.
