This is the last post I write that will appear on this blog. Who has always been already knows what the reason is: Richard left us yesterday.
But I will not talk about the void that he left, or the suffering that has made all those who knew him. Here we have always celebrated the joy of it with us, in small and large things have been these past three and a half with him. To remind you, we will keep the blog online. And here the public a letter that I wrote in November.
Over.
Your mother left me alone with my thoughts, on this night painted a cold ocean in which I are little more than a stone between the drops of a shoreline quiet, just murmurs that his singing to the stars forever. From shutters filter light yellowish too familiar, drawing on the walls flickering figures that so many other moments like this I have learned to recognize, and now I understand that each bike. Sporadic road noise from the wheels on the asphalt, the pitch drive of someone who comes back too late, blowing away a cat that does the mail to some corner of the house.
The chair under my back has now taken over my form, she is an old friend that I found in this quiet confusion that is my life now. I have a blanket over his legs, but of that soft blue formal Recalls the beds of long-haul trains, born to get married with aseptic white sheets of paper disposables. It's too short to cover all, or maybe I'm being just too long for her to know the range. As usual from the chest up and knees down the rest found out, since I'm only wearing the familiar gray cotton underwear that keeps my sleep, or lack of it, yet I'm not cold, though at this time, in which the boundary between the dark and the first glimmers of dawn becomes indistinct, is the very air around me to shiver.
Once I had the music, to limit the space between breaths, a blanket of notes evocative and subdued, or angry and hard, sweet both touch the strings in the most secret of my life a bit 'rough, sometimes lost, often tired of waiting for a reason to salvation. Or maybe I would have sunk his face in a book, any one of the many who love to search through the clarity of the ink paste, and the rustling of the pages contain enough words in my melancholy fed by the wind and the sunsets. And maybe there should be a woman, curled up between the covers of my bed to smell the sheets with her skin and her eyelashes, but someone to embrace the new day comes lazily to impose its laws to meet that need, not for anxiety love or desire, but to renew the mystery of two bodies meet, to drown your lips in the lips and eyes and eyes can tell, if only for a moment, drawing upon our lives. Mystery just made of hair, saltiness and a hint of rain, or dell'arrochirsi an entry into the folds of the evening. Mystery not of faith but of short awareness, memories and bland reasons.
Once all of this, or something else. A finger of alcohol, stray passes through the spaces of the rooms, ticking clocks ... waiting for a tear, or a sense. But not tonight.
Now, under this blanket just hiss and its discrete, a child is sleeping with my same name. My hands will shake the form, just because they can sustain it relax completely and get closer to my breath, this heart that he has lost so many ticks of thinking more than once to have stood still. I keep watching, listening to the minimal motions of his hands dropped on me, filling me with his silent presence, funny shapes of her hair, the line of her sweet little nose rounded. Looking at him even the smallest trace of me, looking her dreams cradled by the curve of my arms. Was wondering about the boy and the man who is inside him.
not pose complicated questions: I would just like to know if they'll love the books read to him, if he wants to see me with that movie that always makes me laugh, even the hundredth time. And if you listen to when he will speak of distant worlds and of enterprises of great heroes and imperfect, or tell him when I saw the cities, the thousands of people I have met and known. I wonder which face will tell you when the many small, silly, sad and wonderful things that have led so far to merge two lives into one; complain if he does not want this or that shirt, if you put the face because I giggled in front of the compagnetta an existential drama that is still not filarlo, or if I will embrace for a little game led by some remote roadside restaurants among heather and clouds.
And almost inevitably, my child, thinking back when I saw for the first time, small creature in a bed of pain, while around a wind whipped embers of the houses with features grim. At the end of a morning of unresolved moments, just as long as the roll is capable of being anxious of waiting, punctuated by very fine tremor of the strings of existence and the fleeting motion of the clasped hands, restless, unsuitable to measure the space between unnamed instants. Then, for days faded into weeks and months, just tears from her eyes withheld or collected, the rustle of fabric on your skin infinitesimal, your eyes just unfolded on the world. And I sit around, quiet, murmuring worlds of abstract painted canvases and plot without thinking. Also in a single step away from your breath, often inaudible.
troubles that have marked my gestures, my own face, my way to straighten your shoulders to hold up better than some of the weight of the world. Smiling in the face the specter of death, because when I looked at you I knew you would have known the touch of my arms for no reason, nor reason. Only certainty. And one day when the breeze drops moistened the windows off the buildings, then you have come here in these rooms, a creature of sighs in the embrace of the morning, bending the mysterious architecture of the mind to overturn its rules to remain silent at a standstill of understanding, full of warmth and neglect.
Since then, a long time, splendours of joy just under the arch of the eyebrows, the fresh smell of sheets sull'avorio bare skin ... and your eyes like twilight gaping smile that lights up not only your face, but the entire life of all those who have the privilege of knowing him. And that's why I'm here to fix these words: one day, no matter when, you can read it. And understand, beyond any of my inability to express what I feel with the gestures of every day, as my love for you has been a trickle of absolute purity light between the lands of dense shadows of my existence is uncertain.
The chair under my back has now taken over my form, she is an old friend that I found in this quiet confusion that is my life now. I have a blanket over his legs, but of that soft blue formal Recalls the beds of long-haul trains, born to get married with aseptic white sheets of paper disposables. It's too short to cover all, or maybe I'm being just too long for her to know the range. As usual from the chest up and knees down the rest found out, since I'm only wearing the familiar gray cotton underwear that keeps my sleep, or lack of it, yet I'm not cold, though at this time, in which the boundary between the dark and the first glimmers of dawn becomes indistinct, is the very air around me to shiver.
Once I had the music, to limit the space between breaths, a blanket of notes evocative and subdued, or angry and hard, sweet both touch the strings in the most secret of my life a bit 'rough, sometimes lost, often tired of waiting for a reason to salvation. Or maybe I would have sunk his face in a book, any one of the many who love to search through the clarity of the ink paste, and the rustling of the pages contain enough words in my melancholy fed by the wind and the sunsets. And maybe there should be a woman, curled up between the covers of my bed to smell the sheets with her skin and her eyelashes, but someone to embrace the new day comes lazily to impose its laws to meet that need, not for anxiety love or desire, but to renew the mystery of two bodies meet, to drown your lips in the lips and eyes and eyes can tell, if only for a moment, drawing upon our lives. Mystery just made of hair, saltiness and a hint of rain, or dell'arrochirsi an entry into the folds of the evening. Mystery not of faith but of short awareness, memories and bland reasons.
Once all of this, or something else. A finger of alcohol, stray passes through the spaces of the rooms, ticking clocks ... waiting for a tear, or a sense. But not tonight.
Now, under this blanket just hiss and its discrete, a child is sleeping with my same name. My hands will shake the form, just because they can sustain it relax completely and get closer to my breath, this heart that he has lost so many ticks of thinking more than once to have stood still. I keep watching, listening to the minimal motions of his hands dropped on me, filling me with his silent presence, funny shapes of her hair, the line of her sweet little nose rounded. Looking at him even the smallest trace of me, looking her dreams cradled by the curve of my arms. Was wondering about the boy and the man who is inside him.
not pose complicated questions: I would just like to know if they'll love the books read to him, if he wants to see me with that movie that always makes me laugh, even the hundredth time. And if you listen to when he will speak of distant worlds and of enterprises of great heroes and imperfect, or tell him when I saw the cities, the thousands of people I have met and known. I wonder which face will tell you when the many small, silly, sad and wonderful things that have led so far to merge two lives into one; complain if he does not want this or that shirt, if you put the face because I giggled in front of the compagnetta an existential drama that is still not filarlo, or if I will embrace for a little game led by some remote roadside restaurants among heather and clouds.
And almost inevitably, my child, thinking back when I saw for the first time, small creature in a bed of pain, while around a wind whipped embers of the houses with features grim. At the end of a morning of unresolved moments, just as long as the roll is capable of being anxious of waiting, punctuated by very fine tremor of the strings of existence and the fleeting motion of the clasped hands, restless, unsuitable to measure the space between unnamed instants. Then, for days faded into weeks and months, just tears from her eyes withheld or collected, the rustle of fabric on your skin infinitesimal, your eyes just unfolded on the world. And I sit around, quiet, murmuring worlds of abstract painted canvases and plot without thinking. Also in a single step away from your breath, often inaudible.
troubles that have marked my gestures, my own face, my way to straighten your shoulders to hold up better than some of the weight of the world. Smiling in the face the specter of death, because when I looked at you I knew you would have known the touch of my arms for no reason, nor reason. Only certainty. And one day when the breeze drops moistened the windows off the buildings, then you have come here in these rooms, a creature of sighs in the embrace of the morning, bending the mysterious architecture of the mind to overturn its rules to remain silent at a standstill of understanding, full of warmth and neglect.
Since then, a long time, splendours of joy just under the arch of the eyebrows, the fresh smell of sheets sull'avorio bare skin ... and your eyes like twilight gaping smile that lights up not only your face, but the entire life of all those who have the privilege of knowing him. And that's why I'm here to fix these words: one day, no matter when, you can read it. And understand, beyond any of my inability to express what I feel with the gestures of every day, as my love for you has been a trickle of absolute purity light between the lands of dense shadows of my existence is uncertain.
Your dad
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