Six Months

So, it seems that I am improving again. Six months ago I came back from Argentina, where I spent the boreal winter. I felt better there, as I usually do during summer, in Italy. Feeling better means being able to think, to read, to do calculations, to draw. To exist, in one word. And also to move around a bit, which is not truly relevant for me, though.

I came back to Italy at the end of March (blog post), sure that I would have had other months of improvement ahead of me, given that we were at the beginning of Spring. But it hasn’t been the case, I got worse: For six months I haven’t thought, and I have been living horizontally, in silence. There were days in which it seemed that I was starting to improve (like when I recorded this video), but then it didn’t last. I can’t remember these six months, in my subjective time they sum up to a week or less.

Not sure why it happened: perhaps the 48 hours of the chaotic journey back to Italy damaged me so badly that it took half a year for me to regain the status quo ante, or maybe the strange flu I got in March, while in Argentina, made the disease worse. In the life of an ordinary person, this would be a rather exceptional episode, for me it is the rule: the improvements are the rare exception. I have lived like that since I was 20.

And now, because I usually get worse at the end of September, I know that I am about to start my descend to Hell again. And this time I can’t move to the austral hemisphere, because of the pandemic. So what am I supposed to do in the few days of life I have left? I’ll do what I have always wanted to do: applied maths and drawing, with only very short term goals. Something that I can finish.

I share these private vicissitudes only because I think that it is important to let the world know about this struggle. It seems unlikely that I can discover the reason why this curse has stricken my life, but I will continue studying this phenomenon: most of what I study, when I can, is about new tools to apply to my own biology.

The indiscreete rotation

The world must be wonderful, beyond the muffled atmosphere of these rooms and the obstinate curtain of encephalopathy; now that Autumn is still a harmless chrysalis, an apparently unlikely threat, while the industriousness of men swarms again, in search of untouched paths.

The Autumn of intellectual and material adventures, of encounters and discoveries, remains an unfulfilled promise, which I nevertheless do not give up on cultivating. Because I don’t know if Ulysses kissed his stony Ithaca during this season, but I like to think so.

I am perpetually mocked by the indiscreet rotation of the wall clock, which turns on the spot; while Rilke’s panther remains trapped in my chest.