I'm sick, able to stay away from home, with the doctor's leave, with the approval of those around me. I'm sick. I mean, my energy is the one I usually have when I come home at night, but all day long. And the body is a trap, once again, and I'm cage with hateful pride in a relentless display of its superiority. Without me, you're nothing. And you can't do anything, reading will seem like climbing up to Everest, writing Txindoki. It seems boring, but no, that's the worst. Another travesura of the body. The brain, inside, does not cease to act, and sitting in bed, lying on the couch, begins the paths that lead to absurd crying or panting, in spirals of obsessive fear. Or (with fever?) It looks drunk and tempted you to make calls that don't suit you, in barbaric, sentimental, nostalgic sublimations of affections, but if you believe in the trampite, it kicks against the wall. But I'm going to win this greeted body. When their powers were designed, there was no screen. There was no internet. And now yes. And that's also true for when I come home every day.
I don't know how I've come from a conversation about the gospel of St. Matthew of Pasolini to the costume parties of the Bauhaus School, the colors of Itten, the Amancio Williams Theater and the Kokoschka doll. From the distance of Michelangelo's fingers to what he had once seen in an exhibition about the young Ribera: and, it is true, on the screen he has not caught me as he did for many minutes in the exhibition of El Prado. But there are the lips of Mary Magdalene and the feet of Jesus. And that distance. And the tension it generates. It may not be a screen, it may be age. Now it gives me a little bit of disgust. Feet.
Those of our generation are programmed to fight the Internet and screens. And therefore, when we consume them to feel guilty. I'm deaf to what we've sometimes been given. Blind to what was happening by itself. “How long has it been today…”. Falling in love. For my body to fuck, for our separate bodies to fuck, they didn't know the Internet would be invented. I don't know if there will be a Sokurov Hermitage, a Quattrocento or a Pergolesi Stabat Mater.
Yeah, I'm sick.
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