Thursday, 13 June 2013

ISS: Italian Style Suicides

What's wrong with them? I mean, what's in the mind of those people, who are constantly striving to find the best way to annoy their neighbor, while still sitting on their thousands Euros/month chair in the Italian parliament?
June the 1st, June the 7th, June the 12th ... More and more often in Milan a citizen chooses to kill himself jumping under a subway’s train.
Who cares?
I'm speechless
I'm afraid
And if I look ahead, I can not see any light yet, and I think we are all tired.

Monday, 3 June 2013

Italian Breakfast for Mr Goose

Fleeting breakfast. Just a coffee. An Italian one. Is there anything more fleeting than an Italian coffee? Two sips - finished.
Good morning Sir, the waiter asks, what would you like to drink?
Coffee, please.
Italian coffee?
Ah-ah, nods he.
Ah-ah, the waiter nods too, scrawling in the order ticket. Anything else?
His big, goose beak-shaped nose swings – No, thanks.
The waiter takes away the menu.
Bring me a prune, please!
A prune?
Yes, please.
A prune for this fun gentleman, he writes again. 
This time the big nose sways like a vessel in the open sea, at the mercy of the waves, but still confident that all will be ok. 
He remarks: yes, thank you.
Suddenly a doubt comes. And if it’s too much? 
In fact, he knows he's drinking at least three coffees more, later in the morning.
Nooo, com’on, don’t think like that!, he ponders, looking up and smiling to the sunny air.
The waiter walks away, but does not take his eyes off.
A prune, tst!
The goose beak-nose follows him from afar to check the way he places the tray on the counter, and then how he goes with nimble steps from the counter to the young couple sitting at the table inside, next to the toilet’s door.
The goose beak-nose still amuses thinking that probably they will ask for a cup of tea, and a toilette detergent flavored tea will be soon served, but then he’s almost touched by the scene of the tired waiter forcing himself to smile courteously, indeed. He wears too flat, black shoes. The end of the day promises a pitiless backaches and a white dusty pair of shoes.
He can read some words on waiter’s lips: Good-mor-ning. How-can-I-help-you?
The sweethearts shake their heads: Uhm... Please, give us some minutes more!
They smile back to the waiter, like saying: sorry we were too busy with snuggling.
Sure, I leave you the list.
Oh, thank you.
So, he runs back to the counter. Smoke rises from under the white foam of a beige colored cappuccino, just like from under the black & red volcano’s lava. It trembles softly on the saucer while he moves it from the counter to the tray to start his tour again .
Unexpectedly, he yawns while turning on his flat heels.
Boredom? Fatigue?
Both fleeting sensations, anyway - just the time of a yawn, Mr Goose's thinking when...
Just the time of an occlusion behind his goose beak-nose, under his toungue, a minimal stenosis, better to say a fleeting stenosis, indeed, and Mr. Goose’s world gets half milk-white colored; the remaining half is stained with some dark-red and pasty substance.
Italian coffee is ready!, someone shouts from behind the counter.
The waiter look out of the corner of his eye for Mr Goose seated at the table outside, and focuses on his frozen, empty smile. It seems he’s winking, but lid does not lift up yet. That one eye stays closed and the arm dangles at his side, and a transparent line of saliva stretches from the corner of his mouth down to the chin.
Sir?, the waiter calls him, but Mr Goose can’t say a word.