Since I have moved to New York I always have to do this before writing a text: change the writing language of the messages, otherwise it takes so long to try to convince my cell not to suggest English words while I am trying to write to someone in Italy.

It has become a sort of rite of passage now: before starting to write, switch to the right language. Switch to another dimension of yourself and look at the world with a different attitude. English-Italian and viceversa requires a corageous leap into a diverse universe. I am not saying it’s like changing your personality according to the language you are speaking. My English and my Italian version peacefully coexist and are happy to share the same spaces.

Another thing I was thinking about today was my impulse for writing. Sometimes I feel I should set the language first and then start to write. I really do love jot my thoughts down, record an impression or a feeling in the moment I am feeling it. I believe it’s the best way for being aware of yourself at any time, even if what you are experiencing can make you sad, mad, or bad. As long as you are aware of it, I think, every second you are living is worth living. You are not waisting your time in tears or in lazy hours in the park or in coarse laugh if you know you are into that mood at a certain time of your day.

But the point is: sometimes my Italian pen starts transferring my thoughts on paper, but then its English companion wakes up all of a sudden and I cannot even realize that I am actually writing in another language. And maybe, I am not even writing the same thing I started from…

I don’t think I suffer from any mental disease. Maybe I am just growing up, which means, sometimes, be the witness of a duel whose conendants are what you are and what you think you are. And I don’t think I will never be able to convince one of them to resign, though.

Sara’ stato lo zucchero nel caffe’. Sara’ stata la pioggia cosi’ sottile e gentile che nemmeno si sente picchiettare sull’ombrello. Sara’ stato il pane caldo con la crosta che si sgretolava tra i denti. Sara’ stato che anche se non ci sono le lettere accentate su questa tastiera, l’apostrofo sembra funzionare benissimo.

“Io sto bene come uno quando sogna
non lo so se mi conviene
ma sto bene, che vergogna.

Io sto bene
proprio ora, proprio qui 
non e’ mica colpa mia
se mi capita cosi’ ” 

Proprio ora e proprio qui. Non sono mai stata tanto sicura di dove trovarmi come ora. E’ assolutamente illogico, ma non per questo stupido. E’ illogico perche’ non si puo’ formulare a parole e frasi compiute una sensazione cosi’ diretta e sincera come quella di essere assolutamente consapevole di dove si trovano i tuoi piedi in questo istante.

E’ la pura percezione del suolo sotto le suole, dei capelli sopra le spalle, delle dita che digitano carattere dopo carattere, del braccio che si appoggia sulla scrivania.