Triscìli
Walking the path backwards in time towards the origin of your present life sometimes can be as trivial as an extended dinner with your parents. Trivial and surprising, more than the fact that your glass has been filled twice as often as you thought it should have been.
Giving you the excuse you need to not stand up from the dining table, not to interrupt the precious flow of memories that are leaving back fresh, polished and shining pictures of lifespans, of experiences, of battles and games, and wonders and worries, fears and dreams, gifts and sacrifices, facets so numerous that a diamond would look shapeless compared to these winding and spiraling tracks. Inviting you to walk forward without the pretension to step on a straight road, instead, stoically ignoring linearity and chronologicality.
And so I let myself dive into the fascinating stories of the magical perception of a childhood lived wild and free where it was able to be, always threatened by duties as numerous as the stars, in a world which was left to the children of wars. Battles of stones and hunger, of adventurous games, played with ingenuity and an army of guardian angels.
To shift to the struggles of an adulthood that came way too soon, not giving the time and space to explore the strange space in between a child’s dream of the world and the debunked reflection that waits on the other side of the mirror, where time starts to tick, and fantasy and adventure have to give room to problems and hurtling, restless chases.
The rural life with the land, the mother. Mysteries that marked the skin of innocent children, not explained, not fought or questioned, but accepted and avoided. And beauty. Of a life without clocks, the rhythm of land, animals and seasons.
Scarcity that could have been enough if justice hadn’t been rare and given instead. The only chance was to run, run for a better life. To sacrifice all that was left, the innocent wild heart of the land, in exchange for a bet.
Finding holes that were as deep as lost hopes. Holes left by death and despair. And still able to host innocence again. Playground to measure the strength, the force and the will to survive. Slingshots and bitter flowers. Freedom and bloody holes filled with sugar, masking the wound that pretends to heal to harden.
The tears were left behind in places where water doesn’t need to be a burden. Where a favour isn’t a threat. Where your family is a safe place. Where kids can grow up and have a chance. Kids who were friends, sharing joy, thrill and food. a place to grow and to find the part of you that your family couldn’t see.
But they walked their own paths and were so different, too far they went, too cruel the rules of the game they chose to play. New friends appeared, life gave new options in books and schools after nights of communion and dusks of hard work. When love came into the game, it was always late and had to rush to get the last bus.
The time of carrying water is long gone. No one is proud of the silver pipes on naked walls, no more. New visions and dreams emerged from the shimmering sea on the long way down to the horizon, shared as often as they could.
Spiralling as three: past, present and future. a spiralling road, spiralling memories, shared gold. How will I write it down? How will I hold it without losing a single grain of sand? So many images I need to preserve and archive and shape into a form that represents them as well as they deserve. I’ll start at the point where the spirals will tell.