Tag Archives: dialoghi

448. Dàjalog 3.

11 Nov





Fall, Smith Street, on a stone pankeen, in the evening. The sun sunsetted. Shadows are allonguating. The Barbon Man is fervidly naviguating, commenting mostly impatiently the slowness of the connection, interposing sometimes some easy questions to the netbook, the odd sentence in response and from time to time even some bad words & frank blasphemies. He is trying to discharge some program, or some video, who knows. The Lanlord appropinquates.




THE BARBON MAN. Please don’t interrupt, it’s not polite.


The Lanlord remains like this; or, to say differently, decidedly stupefied.


THE LANLORD, trying to apologize. I’m sorry, Sir.


THE BARBON MAN, very very fastidiated. You are deranging me. I told you please don’t disturb. Go to hell with your sorry, Sir!


The Lanlord enreddes.


THE LANLORD. Excuse me, dear Sir, my second sorry was not intended to disturb you, but to ask you to apologize my first one.


THE BARBON MAN, rising his head, almost yelling. Oh, I see. It doesn’t matter, however: I’m really upset let-it-be by your first sorry, let-it-be by your second one. You are decidedly a cullion-infringer, and I daily meet a lot of people very similar to you, and when I reach this very hour I’m very filled with it.


Openly yelling.


I desire to rend your lordship edocted I’m not at your service, and that’s very rude to think people is wanting for colloquiating only because you can find them so easily in a park, or on a stone pankeen. I’m trying to naviguate, if you don’t know, and I need absolute peace, respectful & religious silence. Much-more if you consider that the signal I find in this fucking place is the worst & slowest I ever found, in every place, at every time, in every town, city, village of this filthy, sticky, tacky, stinky, whacky country.


Calming down, a little bit anphanating.


But I think it’s the same, by now I’m interrupted, and the horned connection doesn’t work.


Very suspicious, lurks the Lanlord in the very face.


I don’t like you, your face is desagreable, viscid & untrustable. What do you want from me?


THE LANLORD, confounded. Oh, I was… I’m very sorry…


THE BARBON MAN. & three.


THE LANLORD. … I’m a thousand of times sorry, you have to excuse me. I only wanted to ask you, if you vouchsafe, if you are utilisating a SpeedTouch connection.


THE BARBON MAN watches on the netbook skerm. I think so. Why this question?


THE LANLORD. Because I think it’s mine.


The Lanlord finger-shows a window in the high.


I inhabit this apartment, a very long one, you have to imagine a sort of room-flee, with a sixtyfive meters corridor, &…


THE BARBON MAN, bitterly smiling. Oh, I see. Well, you don’t fregate me: it’s free, okay? I won’t pay a scornful cent. You can go & do in some ass.


He shows to go away with a caphon gesture.


THE LANLORD, sorrowful, protestating. Oh, no! You didn’t understand.


THE BARBON MAN, very excited, seeing on the skerm the download repeliated. Oh, shut the fucking pianell: it works, it works!


THE LANLORD, quite interested. Oh, yes? & it’s fast enough, now?


THE BARBON MAN, newly suspicious. What are you interested in?


THE LANLORD. I have to explain myself. My signal-gun is not working too well: when I try to connect myself, I notice the band is almost always insufficient, & I even can’t discharge my post. I wanted to ask you…


THE BARBON MAN. Dear, I don’t understand why I should be interested in your gun-affairs. What do you want from me? I’m discharging a very important document, I need it, absolutely. Do you know, the barbon life is very very hard.


THE LANLORD, quite shocked. Oh. Are you a barbon man?


THE BARBON MAN with proudness. Oh, yes indeed, lo I a one hundred percent pure & spotless barbon man.


THE LANLORD can’t help to smile a little bit. Spotless? Er…


THE BARBON MAN, yelling. What are you intending, stink-under-the-nose fucking little sixty-meters-corridor-owner bourgeois? That I’m stinking?!


THE LANLORD. Oh, no! But barbon men solitly are not perfumed. And I couldn’t help to see what are you downloading with your netbook.


THE BARBON MAN angry, covering the skerm. Don’t look at it! Dont’t look at it! Don’t be undiscreet!


THE LANLORD tranquilisating. Don’t worry. I’m used to download similar material. And, if I’m allowed to say so, I’m very fond of this type, even if not with this genre.


THE BARBON MAN interested. What is the difference between type and genre?


THE LANLORD. Oh, I principally appreciate videos with women fustigated, mistresses with arrow-pointed lucid boots vergating nude men weeping, women with mice running on their naked bodies, gangbangs with women pissed on, bukkakes with women penetrated by five men at once, orgies with women beated and kicked-on by camionist-like lesbian women, women…


THE BARBON MAN disgusted. What a filth. And what a bore! Always women.


THE LANLORD, with an eureka-expressing face. That’s, that’s, that’s. You’ll be surprised, I guess, but I know.


THE BARBON MAN. You know what?


THE LANLORD. You have to know, my wife is very interested in similar videos, too, and when I download such porn-videos, she’s used to see them back using the chronology. When I’m back home, we usually divert ourselves with five or six of my colleagues re-making what we saw in the videos. She’s very disposable to being beated, pissed, popped, slapped, kicked, cummed, mess-covered, hanged by the arms & spitted on the most pitilessly as possible; she’s satisfied only when penetrated by three of us at once, especially in her ass. My preferred play is when my office-colleague Menenio stress her by her hair, my other office-colleague Artemio stretches her by her right arm, Arsenio makes the same with the left one, and Manilio & Pompilio take a leg each one, my office-chief Ottilio casting her a minimalistic lamp in the mouth till to the mediastine, and Vigilio, our rude and nerborute concierge, spinging in her bottom a chaise d’amour Louis XVIth. After it, we are used to sbeat her against the wall, mostly with the head, till she gains a sort of mystical ecstasy, in which she would do the worst skeefetzes, like eating our ear-poils, sucking our socks, and paint our foot-nails alternately with black and vermilion. When I can coinvolge a ten-fifteen persons, it’s a feast, a feast! We go all at the balcony on the internal court and we bind her to the balaustrate, turning-on in posseding her with flower-vases and gardening-items, with all the neighborhood incitating and applauding at our best prestations, between which the most showy is when we cast her down from the balcony itself, one after the other, attempting to make her impale on my Mercedes posterior radio-antenn, between guessings and encouraging beastly yells. Yesterday evening my wife came back home, and, supremely excited yet, pregustating what I found for our evening-amusement, and smanettating with the chronology didn’t find – oh, no! – what I downloaded of pickling & inspirating on youporn and savagesex; but, for a joke of destiny conjointedly with your most honorable netbook, that what you did find, as-to-say a spaventuous scene with two men kissing tenderly, and a terrific sexual encounter between a young man on his thirties and a communal guard with a fine advice of morosity and a tongue exceedingly long. My wife downloaded in a sort of hypnotical imbambulateness all the fifty-four videos you discharged yesterday evening, watched at all of them with fixed eyeballs, and at the end had a severe hysterical attack. When I rehomed, with seven of my colleagues, the baker at the corner, two wolf-dogs and an ironed club, forethinking at the wonderful, wonderful plays we’ll do together with that tremendous porkoness of my wife, we all found her hanging from the neck from the bathroom door, after ingurgitating two bottles of Old Romagna and one of muriatic acid, having opened her pulse-veins with a pantaloon-zip and attempted to distorch her right leg making fall on it the last twentysix volumes of the Threedogs Encyclopedia. And all believing in goodfaith her most faithful, respectful, loving husband was becamed a homosexual!


THE BARBON MAN, without thinking. What a horror.


THE LANLORD. Oh, I’m so grateful of your comprehension! How kind of you to recognize how dangerous your paraxitic connection can be for an otherwise inexcutable matrimonial situation! You have to imagine, just yesterday in the evening I was returning, beyond my all-excited most-endowed horny piggy friends, with a liquid sum of 150.000 euros from the last commercial operation – I’m specialised in piramid-like truffs, above all I damage oldies and handycappates –, a sum that would give hoxygen and peace to a periclitant home situation – with the new crisis we found ourselves with only seven hundred thousend euros on the count – and I was thinking: O my wife, we have to feast, after so many hunger & misery; at last stratchonness, with its dreadful phantoms (poor-hospitals, antichamber from some politic man, papers and papers to vidimate in order to obtain liquidity from money-prestors) is over! And I was fancing to cover her body with money, champagne, Extra-old Romagna, floods of piss, ear-flegm and the contenute of the cassonett – very heavy to carry on the stairs – at the corner, when I found her in this dispitingly state. Our disappointment was enormous, and we tried in vain to reanimate her beginning the program from a quintuple penetration (the chaise d’amour, the minimalistic lamp, a rolled-on carpet, the baker and one of the wolf-dogs): she was almost senseless, and murmurated: “Bring your filthy hands off from my body, you disgust me… Twee and ribbon-setted-up sissy… Perfumed sodomite, unbeareble sinner… Call for the parrot… I have to be purified from your devilish touch… Your sticky gay fingers… Far from me… Go away… In nowmyneh patrees…”. The evening get to the mountain, do you know? I was so frustrated, and my friends would beat me for the defaillance. I had to pay some money and to undercome to some of the most insupportable practices I never could imagine: and my wife was watching at it! The baker cast a fifty-centimeters tongue in my throat, and I was covered with some violence from each one of my colleagues, with the two wolf-dogs barking and spittifully pissing on me, and my wife, fainting, that repeated: “Oh, do you see it, that you are a bottom?… Yes, yes, give him a beautiful sgroopholatine…”. We had all two to be recoverated at Mary Victoria Hospital, where they disintoxicated my wife and resetted my poor ass; and the worst was that I wasn’t washing myself for weeks, because Ornella for her fifty-fifth birthday was wanting for lots of smegm – and doctors and inphermeers were continuously making nasty remarks, like: “So, you finished to make your merdous plays with that scrophe!”, and: “Annusate how this pork stinks! When you washed yourself the last time? The past year, piece of shit?”, scratching off all my smegm with some rampons, and throwing it away. I could say I was ruined by your vice, do you know? So, you are not old, you are in the midst of a street, and it could happen, but you can bring back in hand your life, making guesses, pretending you to be an Enel agent and robbing old ladies of the social pension, and things like that. I am man of world, I can all understand, but why, why, why, my lad, don’t you love the phyke?


THE BARBON MAN completely upset. … don’t know…


THE LANLORD, posing a hand, fatherly, on the Barbon Man’s shoulder. Sonny, don’t be offended, I could be commodly your father, or an uncle, if you want. Please, avoid depressing thinking, open your mind to the feminine sex, have some good & sane trombate from time to time, even with whores and transvestites, but, for your good, don’t give more a look tho males: it is devasting for your health, people would regard to you as a sphygate and not one good girl would marry you in centuries. And, above all, freeing yourself from your disgusting vice, you’ll never make damage to someone other – like me, for instance. Don’t worry. So, take this five euros. I’m very sorry I can’t give you more, but you know, there’s the crisis, and we all have to pay attention. Only don’t give them to some old faggot in order to have your mink sucked!


THE BARBON MAN, mechanically. … I swear… thank you…


THE LANLORD, allontanating. Be sage, I recommend myself. Think about I said you. One of these evenings I could bring up to my wife, it will be very amusing! She loves fresh flesh! Up with life, dear! Download your e-mails, now. By, dear.


THE BARBON MAN, alone, with dreamy voice. … yes… one of these evenings…


The Barbon Man closes his netbook, reposes it in his purse, takes it on his shoulder and goes to vomit sommessely in a bush.

364. Dàjalog II.

13 Ott

The tippy-tappy machine.

In Fulginton Street, in the corridor. The Barbon Man, appuyed on the surface of a horizontal armadium, containing dirty plaids, property of the Common of Turin, is reading some free newspapers, from time to time attempting to resolve the sudoku puzzle.

A Cat, coming in from the little window, plops down on the free newspapers, and searches to bite Barbon Man’s pen.

The Depressing Man, an old tippy-tappy machine in his hands, approaches shily smiling.


THE BARBON MAN lifting his eyes to heaven, but unpercepted. How d’ye do, dear. Are you feeling a little bit better, this evening?

THE DEPRESSING MAN loosing immediatly his shy smile. So I wouldn’t say.

THE BARBON MAN, with an effort to smile. Come on, my friend, what are you carrying on?

THE DEPRESSING MAN rebegins to smile, but very palely. Look, do you know what is for?

THE BARBON MAN, illuminating. Oh, yes. Of course! I know tippy-tappy machines a lot of well. Where did you find it?

THE DEPRESSING MAN. At Palace Gate. I always go to that cimicious market in order to rasp on all the old mess they, very reasonably, throw away. I found a caffeteer, too, but one of the vendors popped on it, in order to let me not rasp it on, & carry it with me. What a s.o.b., isn’t it?

THE BARBON MAN, seeing the Depressing Man is on the brow of weeping, hastily says: Oh, yes, what a great bastard. Does it works? Hey, Cat!

The Cat stops biting the Barbon Man’s pen, & looks toward him.

Did you see this? A tippy-tappy machine!

The Cat runs toward the tippy-tappy machine, casting himself in it, entirely.

The Barbon Man & the Depressing Man laugh together.

THE BARBON MAN. Tee-hee, I was guessing he would adore it!

THE DEPRESSING MAN. Tee-hee, listen what a casin he makes herein!



The Cat exit from the tippy-tappy machine, with a magnificent panache on his head, & the mantle tweely adorned with flowers & red peppers. He makes some day-filay, fishing for compliments.

THE BARBON MAN. Yes, of course, you are beautiful.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. Very elegant indeed.

The Cat exit from the little window. Few seconds after horrid meeowing is heard.

THE BARBON MAN, rassuratingly. Some admirer. So, put your tippy-tappy machine here on.

The Depressing Man puts the tippy-tappy machine on the surface indicated.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. I’m undecided. What could we do?

THE BARBON MAN. With risk to sound banal, this evening I hadn’t any coffee, yet.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. How I told you, that broken-in-ass vendor popped on the…

THE BARBON MAN, shaking his head. Okay, but we don’t need it at all. Don’t worry.

He pulls a button on the tippy-tappy machine. Coffee begins to mount with the recognizable & well-known gurgling sound. Grateful odour swift ascends. The Barbon Man & the Depressing Man attends the coffee is completely mounted lustly annusating the ambient air.

THE BARBON MAN. What a marvel.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. I didn’t know it was able to do such things!

THE BARBON MAN. Such things? It does make coffee, it’s only that.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. Perhaps we need two cups?

THE BARBON MAN. Never mind, the cups are incorporated.

THE DEPRESSING MAN, as remembering, slapping his front. Oh, it has to be bitter, let me take some sugar…

THE BARBON MAN. Not even in dream! Please, dear, be calm, relax, give peace to your soul, don’t excite, set your mind at rest; & – please – don’t begin to pester me so, cullion-destroying as usual. The tippy-tappy machine is commanded to put abundant sugar in every cup of coffee it makes. The tippy-tappy machine does know, the tippy-tappy machine does make. Let it work.

Two cups of coffee come forth. The Barbon Man and the Depressing Man take a cup per head & start drinking. They ptoo off the coffee.

THE BARBON MAN. I like coffee with tons of sugar in, stupid machine! This is defectuous. It was expectable from a dirty catorch rasped on from the mess & the filth at Palace Gate!

THE DEPRESSING MAN. Bitter as hell! This I expected from using the machine for a performance it’s not called to give! I wonder if it’s working again! Coffee-powder is exitial for the engranagges, it would cast itself in every hole, inibiting…

The Barbon Man grasp him for the neck.

THE BARBON MAN. It’s not my fault, okay? Say: It’s not your fault.

THE DEPRESSING MAN, gasping. … It’s… not my… fault…

THE BARBON MAN, letting him go. Okay, so I’m sure of your bonafide. But I think the tippy-tappy machine is irrimediably broken.


THE BARBON MAN. Because one of its easier functions is properly making coffee.

THE DEPRESSING MAN. Yes, but coffee is not good. Perhaps there’s a waste. But I think he can do some beautiful music.

The Barbon Man makes a face like this.

THE BARBON MAN. Music? Do you call music the sound of a tippy-tappy machine? I don’t like the music of the tippy-tappy machines. It is twee.

THE DEPRESSING MAN with weep in his voice, stubbornly shaking the head. It’s not twee! It’s sweet; that’different.

He pulls a button on the tippy-tappy machine, that begins to give forth the typical twee sounds of the tippy-tappy machines.

THE DEPRESSING MAN, taking the tippy-tappy machine with two hands, as to embrace it, whispering. Don’t you hear how beautiful? I was used to listen at the tippy-tappy machine, at home, each day, for the greatest part of the day. My granny made some light coffee, with a machine appositly constructed, and brought it on a vassor with a little slice of pizza with artichokes, the little birds were singing in their cages, the sun was often shining, the wind was softly spiring, the wild waves were always saying something… How I complain my little home. It was in the bidonville of Il Cairo, do you know? Little obnoxius children were every moment in chase of some little pet, cat, or dog, & were used to kill them with stones, clubs, or half-spingards. When the butin was of at least of five or six dogs or little black people, we were used to come in the little square, & have a wonderful barbecue.

The Barbon Man looks at him with disgust, seeing he’s starting to weep.

They had some cocaine in change, & my sweet granny was used to offer tea & haschisch to all. At evening, often, we were used to run to the hanging of some homosexual. Granny was usually profiting to beg for us between the populace distracted by the beautiful, beautiful show, from time to time stealing clocks & purses. Ah, my sweet, sweet granny. Every morning at five she was awaken, & runned forth to steal some bread for our humble desk.

The Depressing Man weeps now openly.

& all my life had this precious companion, the tippy-tappy machine, with its irresistible, sentimental music. Do you hear? … Ti-ri-ri… Oh, I wasn’t used to request something too much hard from it. Granny was expected to wash our dirty linen, and the sun to dry it. But for the days of rain, when we called our neighbour Giovanna, that was paid with a certain number of blisters of propoli-paste for badbreath, for puffing on it. The tippy tappy machine was scanding every moment of my jolly day. At evening

The Depressing Man weeps now desperatly

I was used to go to the Great Ringlike Link, where finally I was allowed to re-embrace all my friends… At any moment, with my faithful tippy-tappy machine under my arm… Granny was expecting me till the morning… Oh granny, granny, where are you now?

The Depressing Man takes his head in his hands, sobbing loosingly.

The Barbon Man, a little bit uncertain on his legs, goes toward the loo.

357. Dàjalog.

1 Ott

After this.

The Barbon Man and the Toxic Man meet in Streetlet Street.

The Toxic Man has a bottle of beer posed near and an unlighted cigarette cast between two fingers of his right hand. He indeed does see the Barbon Man and smiles to him.

THE TOXIC MAN. I guess you came to ask me about the five euros I’m indebted with with you, no?

THE BARBON MAN. No, of course not. I came because I feel very near to you, especially this evening.

THE TOXIC MAN seems upset. Why?

THE BARBON MAN. Because I’m sad.

THE TOXIC MAN. Have you money?

THE BARBON MAN. Never more. How do you think I should have money?

THE TOXIC MAN. I did’nt understand you question.

THE BARBON MAN. Nor I. Can I sit by you on this beautiful pankeen?

THE TOXIC MAN. Of course you can; and you may, too.

The Barbon Man sits by the Toxic Man on the beautiful pankeen (the best one of the passeggiate).

THE TOXIC MAN continues to say: You know, it’s so touching to come back to my pankeen, every evening, and find your humid, silly pair of eyes fixing me such sentimentally. I think you are a holy hand for my heart, and I would love hearing you saying me: I love you. Please, take a cigarette.

THE BARBON MAN. No, thanks so much. It’s so wasted on me. I always carry with me my own packet of tobacco.

The Barbon Man shows the packet of his own tobacco.

THE TOXIC MAN. This probably is an offense. Probably I’m compelled to introduce my knife to your bowels. And I hate your tobacco, it stinks.

THE BARBON MAN. Would you roll up one or two cigarettes with my tobacco? You’re welcome.

THE TOXIC MAN. Thank you very much indeed, I’ll roll up three or five cigarettes, because of this night, that’s very long to pass.

The Barbon Man gives the purse to the Toxic Man, and this last begins to roll up some cigarettes with the stinking tobacco.

THE TOXIC MAN not looking at the other, and seguitating to roll up his stinking cigarettes. Please kiss me. Make a tentative, at least.

THE BARBON MAN up on his feet, improvisely. No, don’t I want.

THE TOXIC MAN. I feel relaxing to stay by you, sitting on these pankeen. When you stay up on your feet I think I could kill you.

He trays his own dangerous knife from his pocket, he opens it and he shows it to the Barbon Man.

THE TOXIC MAN insists: Say me I love you.


THE TOXIC MAN. Have a little boccade of beer.

The Barbon Man afferrates the bottle of beer, and he drinks two or three boccades.

THE TOXIC MAN, attempting to stop him. You are a real fucking sticky hopeless Barbon! Don’t drink it all, you bastard!

THE BARBON MAN stops to drink for a second, just to say. Love you so much, my friend,

and reprends to drink.

THE TOXIC MAN. Give me a kiss.

The Barbon Man makes the gesture to kiss most passionately the Toxic Man. The Toxic Man trays the dangerous knife from his pocket, affers the head of the Barbon Man, stringes his neck with the fore-arm and appropinquates the point of the dangerous knife to the Barbon’s Man nose, that squirrels, non-obstant suffocating.

THE TOXIC MAN. How dare you, inverted scoundrel? What do you want from me? Do you want your skeefous five euros, isn’t it?

THE BARBON MAN, arriving to sporge a hand, half-squirreling, half-suffocating, half-begging. Yes, please.

At this moment a not so young subproletarian couple runs in, quarreling about who knows what; she’s fat, with sconvoulted hair, and roteates a little purse, attempting to give it fortly on her boyfriend’s head. Her boyfriend carries a chair, with a cat on it, and searches to make the cat attack the woman screaming, and contemporanely to give the chair on her head, with particular hate. The two yell some not easily comprensible sentences (“… M’hai inculato la dose, cornuto!!… ” “… Te ne approfitti perché sono moribondo, puttana!!”) and vanish quite rapidly in lontanance. Vanishing, the chair scrickiolates; the cat meeowes.

The Toxic Man and the Barbon Man have rested to see what was coming up. The Toxic Man ceased to strangolate the Barbon Man.

THE BARBON MAN, with weep in his voice. I don’t believe in love.

THE TOXIC MAN, stending himself on the pankeen. I feel so tired. Say me goodnight.

THE BARBON MAN. Goodnight, my friend.

THE TOXIC MAN, traying two or three packets of stinking tobacco from his pocket. Please, have one.

THE BARBON MAN, taking. Oh, thank you so much. But… er…


THE BARBON MAN. I lack of carteens.

THE TOXIC MAN. Papers, isn’t it?


THE TOXIC MAN allongating him two boxes of carteens. Have them.

THE BARBON MAN. Here, tomorrow evening.

THE TOXIC MAN. See you, my friend.

The Barbon Man allontanates. The Toxic Man falls asleep in a crash.

266. Dialoghi (un programma per l’immediato futuro).

16 Giu

Facciamo un programmino per quella che, auspico, sarà la new wave del blog – e poi sia quello che sia.

Del tutto inaspettatamente Remo Bassini e, come vengo or ora a sapere qui, anche Giuditta Russo hanno dato la loro disponibilità a rispondere ad alcune domande – insomma, a fare una specie di intervista. Quanto al pomposo nome di intervista, ma chi passa di qui già lo sa, nessuno dovrebbe aspettarsi nulla di particolarmente ortodosso; non essendo io un giornalista, né intendendo essere, nemmeno nella fattispecie di queste (intanto due, e tutte da fare) conversazioni. Lo scopo saliente di questa novità è strappare il blog alla mora dei solipsismi, e cambiarne la prospettiva, dall’ombelico della coscienza malata dello scrivente a qualche più aprica specola: essendo questo, anche questi dialoghi saranno da considerare essenzialmente, appunto, come dialoghi, senza limiti di tempo & spazio per quanto riguarda e le domande (ma non sono la Fallaci, nessuno si allarmi), e, in specialissimo modo, le risposte; quanto a queste ultime, senza limiti, dico, senza pretendere che, considerati soprattutto i numerosi e severi impegni dei due personaggj, esse siano estese quanto forse ci piacerebbe.

Dal momento che anch’io, dialoghi a parte, ho, se non severi impegni – ma avrei anche quelli -, severissime limitazioni di tempo e spazio, penso nel frattempo di preparare le domande da porre a Remo Bassini entro lunedì prossimo, giorno 22 giugno; e quelle a Giuditta Russo entro il lunedì seguente, giorno 29. Che poi Giuditta Russo trovi modo di rispondere ai quèsiti in tempi strettissimi, facendo graziosamente pervenire le risposte a noi lettori prima di quando sarà possibile a Bassini, o viceversa, è cosa che non posso predeterminare; ma due testi non sono cosa difficile da gestire e scaglionare nel tempo. Altro è se nel frattempo arriveranno altre adesioni (tra cui Quella da me sospirata, di cui più oltre), ciò che imporrà l’adozione, suppongo, di una cadenza regolare e abbastanza larga, poniamo settimanale, in modo da non intasare il blog e da permettere a ciascuna intervista di essere assorbita e assimilata in pieno dall’attento lettore.

Suppongo che l’indirizzo mail fornito da Giuditta Russo sia quello a cui dovrei – dati i programmi, tra due settimane – inviare le domande; quello di Bassini lo conosco; il mio, ad ogni buon conto, è


Rimane il cruccio, a fronte delle due entusiastiche adesioni, per le quali mi protesto nuovamente (ma lo farò anche oltre, e in più occasioni) indefinitamente grato, del sepolcrale silenzio che invece continua a custodire gelosamente, avvolgendola, la figura un tempo così vistosa di Sonia Cassiani; la quale tace sul suo sito morto ormai da anni, tace sui canali nazionali e locali (tanto la tivvù non ce l’ho), e tace anche su queste modeste pagine.

Sono molti i motivi per cui amerei che aderisse, e avrei modo di esporli via via tutti a mano a mano che soddisfacessi le curiosità mie e di qualche altro col porle qualche domanda, ottenendo qualche risposta. Sempre considerando il fatto che questa sede, del tutto informale a malgrado delle sfoggiature sintattiche dell’owner, non può essere in alcun modo equiparata alla pagina di un giornale, o ad uno studio televisivo: non sono, né sarebbero mai potuti essere, l’atmosfera vitale di chi scrive, che di quel mondo ignora tutto.

Per dissipare ogni sospetto circa le mie reali intenzioni, e per mostrare che stile intendo far mio nell’intrecciare questi dialoghi, dove non bastasse l’esempio fornito dagl’illustri adesori, potrei inviare alla Cassiani, privatamente, una serie di domande, da me preparate nel frattempo; oppure metterle qui sopra, in pubblico, come Repubblica con Berlusconi, ma appunto questo appariscente presupposto rischia di dare tutt’un altro senso, e non voluto, ad un’operazione che imprendo per motivi svariatissimi, ma non certo per mettere la gente con le spalle al muro.

Insomma, il mio indirizzo mail l’ho messo.

Nella speranza di un segno di vita, di un sussulto, uno spasmo – suo, e non di qualcuno dei suoi supporters; o magari, quantomeno, di qualche supporter abbastanza informato su lei da poterne reggere la parte per il tempo di un’intervista -, e nuovamente ringraziando Giuditta Russo e Remo Bassini per la cortesia, auguro a tutti una bonissima giornata; & a risentirci.