I'm often asked these days are terrible on the incredible power of words .. on their ability to confuse, to say or deny, to suggest emotion and define incontrovertible facts. Torrents of words that arise from diffuse sources of humanity, who lived with their aspirations and possible limitations and frustrations. An endless flow of ideas by people unknown who stand with their certainties held by swollen important words, incommunicable by specialists in their presumed communicability of conviction ... Blathers, I know, but the explosion of a time when everything seems fluid, impenetrable.
My father is in a coma for the past month, following a serious intervention into the aorta, dissected in a few minutes, and cerebral ischemia that brought him briefly to a vegetative state from anoxia. Barely alive but in critical condition every hour, seemingly without conscience, according to the judgments of doctors Lecce .. but aware of what happens, we believe that children already missing her look far and deep.
Everything happened in the first week of December and wretched, while away from him and the people I love most was there in the mountains of an unknown country, including monkeys and banana trees as old as man, in the midst of those who wants me well but at the same time the illusion of a freedom that I shall never be entirely because they are too remote .. And pretending freedom, who has lost all of me .. my own eyes, along my nose and my lively irancodia, my shortcomings and my strengths, the things I believe, the things that I think the people I like and I avoid those, love for the intelligence ignorance and the need for the subject, the confidence man for man, kindness and modesty, always knowing how to judge kindly and never with malice, the smile for everything even the sorrows of life, its surprises , its unpredictability.
Anything and everything he taught me is my father .. intelligence, kindness, modesty.
Please Daddy, come back between us, come out of this unnatural state to sit still at our supper table for the holidays, I will tell you of Africa and its dusty roads, the air in your hair as you fly between the villages of mud and teeming with people, and you tell the good power, social power that exists if you ask and you do not order if you are modest and sincere just like you told me. I'll tell you how much things are distant neighbors, of my plans for life, of my future. Listening to Fado dad, and it saddens me even more .. but music is the soul, and it is impossible not to cry as I'm doing now.
your Holy
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