E poi c'è la posta.
Vecchie lettere ingiallite, scritte con inchiostro e pennino, macchiate di lacrime e di pioggia, buste che contengono fiori secchi, ciocche di capelli, versi d'amore; cartoline dei tempi andati da cui occhieggiano belle signore in abito lungo e parasole, bambini e pulcini, cestini di uova...
Io adoro la vecchia posta!!!
Per pochi spiccioli, mi porto a casa lettere di persone che non conosco, che hanno vissuto le loro vite quando io ancora non esistevo, e continuano a vivere tra le righe delle loro lettere...
Ho riprodotto varie volte la mia scatola di vecchia posta, senza mai riuscire ad intrappolare l'essenza misteriosa racchiusa nella carta...
***
Many times I have already confessed my fetish side, which leads me to wander, as in trans, in flea markets, looking for little treasures that belonged to someone far away in time and space, yet close to me through an object: a rusty key, a pair of glasses, an old stained tablecloth, a chipped tea cup, a spoon twisted, a crumpled book.
And then there's the mail.
Old yellowed letters, written with pen and ink, stained with tears and rain, envelopes that contain dried flowers, locks of hair, love poems, postcards of yesteryear which ogle beautiful ladies in long dresses and parasols, children and chickens , baskets of eggs ...
I adore the old post!
For a few pennies, I take home letters from people who do not know, who have lived their lives when I still did not exist, and continue to live between the lines of their letters ...
I played many times my old mail box, without ever being able to trap the mysterious essence contained in the paper ...
And then there's the mail.
Old yellowed letters, written with pen and ink, stained with tears and rain, envelopes that contain dried flowers, locks of hair, love poems, postcards of yesteryear which ogle beautiful ladies in long dresses and parasols, children and chickens , baskets of eggs ...
I adore the old post!
For a few pennies, I take home letters from people who do not know, who have lived their lives when I still did not exist, and continue to live between the lines of their letters ...
I played many times my old mail box, without ever being able to trap the mysterious essence contained in the paper ...
Abbraccio tutti con grandissimo affetto: siete gli unici amici a cui io possa confidare i miei segreti con la certezza di essere compresa (almeno quando si tratta di scatole in miniatura che spuntano da sotto un letto...)
***
This first, gray autumn Sunday, drawing to a close.
I embrace you all with great affection: you're the only friends to whom I can confide my secrets with the certainty of being understood (at least when it comes to miniature boxes that pop up from under a bed ...)




