PULCINELLA AND THE MAIN PURPOSE OF A WONDERING WANDERING WRITER
La mia città del mondo è la più bella; c’è il Vesuvio, Sorrento, il golfo, il mare… fan le chitarre la serenatella, i pescator si sentono cantare:
per me, quel che mi piace e mi fa gola son solo i “maccheroni a’ pommarola!”.
Pulcinella, sott’ ‘o pergulato, comme se dica a lengua malandrina miezo vevuto e tutto nnammurato abbocca ‘a cafattera a Culumbina.
Tu si’ nu franfellicco nzuccarato! Tu si’ na rosa ‘ e maggio senza spina! De sta cantina ‘a frasca m’ha chiammato e tu si’ ‘a cantenera ‘e sta cantina!
Io, tale e quale ‘o sguìzzaro mbriaco, vevenno sempre d’ ‘ a matina a’ sera, pe’ nun te lassà mai, nun me vaco!
E, surchianno ‘a cannòla, ‘e chist’ammore dice, cu nu suspiro, a’ cantenera: Nu’ cchiù, cannòla mia, ca Giorgio muore!…
Time goes on, whatever you are doing. I spend some time,yesterday, watching some pictures of my twenthies, when I was in this country for the first time. Maybe without any merit, I spend six months of my life studying in a prestigious university, the university of Glasgow, and I still remember what I studied here. I still remember the astonishment when I had read for the first time In Love For Long or when I founded in the library some books of Wole Soyinka. I believed I was founding the topic of my dissertation, my business card to enter finally in the working world. I wanted become a writer telling to the world how gorgeous shall be when people created arts, at twenthies.
I had in my mind that I was studying the truly nature of the earth, because the world without art is just “eh”.
I was fighting against the other people that cannot understand the value of my studies, of my self-denial to the books. First, my father tried to persuade me, when I was 8 years old, that everybody can write a book, the writer is not a job.
He was right. You can find time to write, and to read, even if you are working in another place to earn the money to survive. It is not necessary be paid to read good books and to write your own story.
I am aware of this, at thirties.
I am aware that it is dangerous for the society knowing only a single story to explain anything: a place, a person, a culture, an historical time. Chimamamnda Ngozi Adichie told me recently. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is a contemporary story teller. I pay to buy the books she had write.
It is her job. But it is not just a job. First, she was a reader. She read many books from England, from America. At the beginning, her imagination was populated from people with blond hair and white skin, whils she lived in Nigeria and she and all the people around her were much darker than them. She thought about it. She open my eyes, at thirties, telling me through a video on the web that knowing only a story to explain this world is dangerous.
It is easier, I know.
It is simple said that Italians are all crooks, English people are bad cooker, French are posh, German are nazi.
It is not the truth.
Through the reading, I can tell you about the Little Prince who had as a friend a fox. He left on my heart the teaching that the essential of things you cannot see with eyes, but you must use the imagination. Or the heart.
I can tell you how important is listening people, watching them on their eyes, like a wee child with dark curly hair did in the German novel written by Michael Ende. I can tell you how huge is the love from a father for his child, even if he stop to go at school to follow a cat and a fox in the “never never land”.
First of all, I am a reader.
In English, in Italian, in Romanian, in French. I am reading, and not just for me, but for all of you. For Chikaima Maitea, who cannot read yet because she is just 2 months old. To know better the man that loves me and that I love him from to the moon and back. I am writing to leave a spoor in this world of my reading, of my thinking, of my ideas. To leave traces of my love for my family, for my friends. I am writing to tell to the world that any single meeting we are doing during ur life is important and we can learn something from everything.
I don’t want live a secret life. I want admit my mistakes, my believes, my purpose.
A secret is something hidden. I don’t want hide myself to the world. I want investigate and discover every secret of the world, secrets of my soul. The mission of my life is transforming to the world every single mystery of the life to “Il segreto di Pulcinella”. I am not a scientist, or a theologian. I cannot tell you the reason of the creation of the world, the true name of God, the purpose of the universe. I am a writer. I am a reader. I can tell to the world that for my life every single meeting is important. I am still alive even if I went in Napoli, so “Vedi Napoli e poi muori” for me was wrong. I do not know when I will die. I do not even in which way I will die. I know how I want to live.
I want tell to the world the world through the pages of books. I want tell to the world meetings of my life. I meet people on the road and on the reading. Reading give me the opportunity to meet people who lived many times before me. Reading give me the opportunity to meet people died years, centuries ago, when I was not born yet. I want make the world laugh with a character of Napoli called Pulcinella.
I want amuse my world. My world is Chikaima Maitea. My world is Love.
I want make love.
At thirties, I know that does not matter what it is the job I am doing to pay tax and fees.
At thirties, I had learn that the most important thing is love people around you who fill the world.
At thirties, I had learn that live is love and love is laugh. It is really important laugh every single day of this life, starting at the beginning of the year, during Carnival’s time. Let’s do it, then!
Carnevale in filastrocca, con la maschera sulla bocca, con la maschera sugli occhi, con le toppe sui ginocchi: sono le toppe d’Arlecchino, vestito di carta, poverino. Pulcinella è grosso e bianco, e Pierrot fa il saltimbanco. Pantalon dei Bisognosi “Colombina,” dice, “mi sposi?” Gianduja lecca un cioccolatino e non ne da niente a Meneghino, mentre Gioppino col suo randello mena botte a Stenterello. Per fortuna il dottor Balanzone gli fa una bella medicazione, poi lo consola: “È Carnevale, e ogni scherzo per oggi vale.”