When facing the question on how to compose and adventure that lasted several months in which the memory of it has been modeled into un unicum: a black room in which photos are constantly develop but are not connected to each other in spite of being complete.
I take the genial suggestion of L. Try and tell the story backwards.
It starts like this:
To write to shrink time and exhaust the brain. Food was eaten. Movie is over.
Not anymore Gomismta but the wall from the neighboor house and the view of the TV tower illuminated by the sunrays and the bright sky: it is the second day of self isolation among hibernations, fast foods, and square centimeters of bricks, artificial light, and books that grow thinner with the same rythm of time.
Is an empty day, in a capsule after a long dream.
On the night sky, stars are only a spiritual presence, Jupiter and Saturn are the lone Christmas decoration of the Tv tower, Mtasminda looks like a consolation price.
Phone calls are over, I want to go to bed.
I. brought me food, we met after several months. Unfairly brief. I want to get drunk.
\ I woke up wanting to be Covid Positive. To gather with other Covid Positive friends, with the immune ones. To end this scare tactic. To have not to worry anymore about catastrophic narratives. To learn to have fun while losing.
Rain is a portal to a new winter season: the night the only way to restart and comprenhend the new diurnal dilemmas ahead: one last beer in total freedom in a place worthy of nasty customer, of soul mistreaters.
“She is my girl, I don’t share her with anyone, I’m sorry: let’s instead have a toast for good health, for our meeting, and for Georgia, good bye and good luck: another day we will drink our souls away!”
Is not even 10 pm: I already feel in the middle of the darkest point of the humid november night: on our mind and intentions there was only that cold beer, in any kind of dirty bar, among any sort of humanity.
It rains, and rains, and rains: my feet are wet, her feet are wet. They were cold, now they are wet: better cold or wet?
There is always traffic here to welcome us, to slow us down, in darkness it feels even slower, and under the rain the city appears alien: it emerges from the asphalt and it precipitates up in the air giving us the illusion of the scenography to flying thoughts: traffic is more excrusiating than a long sharp trip.
Snows and we are encapsulated. There is heavy wind: we are encapsulated. Cold feet.
After the only stop, we ate, we contemplate what does purgatory looks like in the middle of a trip, with our evercold feet: I want to reach home and collapse.
Martshutka drives are also mental: I do not want to hear anyone, to think of anyone, to talk to anyone: silence here is not the same as meditation, but I am short on words on how to translate it.
Outside of the window I see workers building the new chinese road: what an absurdity is the progress framed between sickened houses of unwell countryman. Soon we will forget them, we will forget everything on this present: this is how progress look from the windows of those houses: to make space to something that won’t belong to us.
Mountains swift fast and endlessly, snowed and mystic: beauty is also the far away silence in between a more intimate one.
Winter is here. I was not expecting to say good bye to Guria talking in Italian with a russo/armenian man, who learnt Italian listening to catholic tv shows.
He had bright and sad eyes.
We need to eat fast, martshutka is leaving at noon, it seems that the day is already over: Gomismta is covered in snow and light, those huge clouds are similar to silver buffaloes.
Morning is still a flowing river, tweeting birds, a stair next to a kaki tree, the wind, the certainty that Venus and Mercury are rising before the sun but today they are undercover.
Night last longer. One movie divide it by a tenth of its lenght. The afternoon push me to Tbilisi, make me think of…
Guria is still blushing in green.
I am waiting for an important update regarding the virus.
To be continue..