Your words, clear and clear in appearance, stun me. Maybe I'm the one who heard wrong, maybe you really said it, but I still can't believe it. I finally find the courage to ask you to repeat. "Four weeks" is the answer that, immediately, materializes on my temple like sweat that slides along the entire length of my profile, up to the neck, exhausting itself on the collar of my khaki shirt. You look down, but you look happy.
Now, listen to me because I'm not capable of being as good as you, smiling from the other end of the table, and not brave enough to repeat myself. Turn off. Put out the spark that burns in your belly, which in another eight months will ignite the projects we had of our lives reducing them to miserable ashes. Drown her in the bitter tears of a mother's ghost, let her not follow into this world. It is not to sadden you or to extinguish your hopes, but for your own good. "Mom" and "Dad" are not the nicknames for us, moody and distracted, who barely make ends meet. Would you say that my son could ever feel loved in my calloused hands and your soiled with paint? Would you say that his eyes are the same blue as your oil paints and his voice resembles the notes of my guitar? Would you ever say that we could be up to the task entrusted to us? I tremble for another split second when I realize I've already called him my son. I realize that I love him, out of nowhere, that I have given him a role in our future. Just as I would like to be able to see if it is as I imagined it, if it will derive order from chance, if it will make knowledge of our inexperience and of its own life as art, if light will flow from an incendiary spark.
"We will have a baby," I say in a faint voice that dies in my throat, suppressed by emotion.
My mother cut my hair and made me wear pants because I always got sick and couldn’t wear skirts, I just had to sit on the floor and play to get a fever of 40. I was a tomboy, who listened to music from the 50s and 60s and wrote a lot of strange stories… I was not used to fairy tales and it was better that way, growing up I realized that I would never be a fairy. I’m not good at making myself loved, I’m not lovable, I’m better at unleashing a grudge. I wanted to be a fairy, but I was born a witch, strange and without sequins. I’m not looking for someone who loves me, someone to show all my bizarre ideas, the ones I cultivate in the evening on the terrace of my house, while I enjoy a sunset and caress my cats. I made space many times in my habits to welcome someone, but I realized that I was never welcome in their habits. I wished I could have been a fairy and do spells for myself too… I worked on my edges while taking care of the bruises they left on me. I too fell silent in front of their silences, their walls, and yet I tried to climb over, as a tomboy I could do it. I tried and I failed: they left me out and I stayed out. I would have liked to be a fairy, but I’m just a girl, with edges and oddities that have become accustomed by now … And whoever gets used to certain loneliness survives.
My mother told me that I filled the house with stones, shells, feathers, dead insects found around, dried lizards, beetles, … I could be a naturalist but I didn’t like it. I found those things and thought them beautiful and put them in boxes and our salon looked like a museum. My mother prefers knick-knacks and porcelain objects. She wanted me to paint pictures for the living room and she wanted them dark. It was always an argument with her because she didn’t like what I did. She wanted “still lifes” but I painted living things. Then I put the rolled up painted fabrics, sometimes I threw them away, when he criticized me and made me angry. I threw a lot of things that I kept in my room. I then took some of them to my house afterwards. But then I burned it all because they were bad memories of anger experienced because of him. When I was sick I painted. It wasn’t therapeutic. After that I felt drained and weak. My energy was all gone into the painted canvas.
The thing I hate most is crying, which attacks you when you least expect it. You’re there doing something and suddenly your eyes are shiny again, what the hell, and you don’t understand how it happened. And the last thing you want is for someone to notice, because a second later they come to cuddle and chirp, and they want me to talk, and I’m really not into it. I close in on myself. I often get nervous and I take it out on myself a lot, because if my heart is shattered in one way or another it is also my fault. Thoughts crowd into your head, questions pile up, how do you try to answer one, no ten more pop up, it’s terribly hot, you can’t sleep, you are hoping for something unexpected but that won’t happen, as he opened his mouth to say one something, maybe even joking, all ready to judge and reproach you as soon as they have the opportunity, is a chain that will never end and that no one is able to break it. they are said and and tries to get by with the judgment of others. There would be so many more things to say but it would hurt both me and you too much.I thought about leaving. Not to say anything to anyone, go to the station and take the first train. Escape without a trace, abandon everything and everyone. I wasn’t going to tell anyone where I was going, not even my mother. They would never find me again. I had a best friend of those who from one moment to the next they find themselves sharing everything, of those who then, growing up, at any moment disappear and you ask yourself: “Why?”. And she told me to stay good, she told me that there were no more people like me. But he was corrupt and felt dirty. Then I had little kittens as friends, and there were four of them like the Musketeers but I didn’t call them after them. Then one of them died, Trinity, strangled by a rope taken by the dog to play. The great walnut welcomed his sweet little soul. I will not forget msi her little mouse face. She was too young to die. I too was too young to die but he killed me anyway.– Mom, I’m going out. -At this time? It’s three o’clock, where you think you’re going. – Don’t worry, I’m going to a friend’s house. Put something on, take your headphones and close the door. And where are you going now? You don’t know it, yet you walk aimlessly. Play the first song, bright eyes. Put the second, a tear. The third, you need to sit down, because standing up you can’t stand. And it hurts so bad, it destroys. Yet no one sees it, no one hears it, only you. Such a devastating thing for you, but indifferent to others. You get up, walk a bit. The tears are gone now, or so you think. A thousand thoughts go through your head. You look at the phone, no text, no call. Nobody cares about you, where you are from, if you are okay, despite everything. Nothing. You’re looking for a place to go, but you really just want a couple of arms to stay between. But you are alone, alone and devastated.
Yesterday Virginia asked me: “Dad, but if you and your mother break up, who is it who has two daughters and who one?” I was in the kitchen slicing onions, the question took me by surprise. “In what sense, Virginia?” I said. “We are three sisters”, she said, “you can’t divide the third sister in half!” I felt like laughing. I was going to answer her: “Don’t worry, love, Mom and I will never break up”, but I didn’t want to lie to her, because I know that every relationship is made up every day, and the biggest wrong you can do to yourself, and to others, it is just that to believe you invincible. “Virginia”, I said, “if by chance my mother and I parted ways one day we would see you all three, a little bit me and a little mom, don’t worry.” “But in Mrs. Doubtfire the dad saw only the children Saturday, ”he said. “Virginia, sometimes when two parents break up things can happen,” I said. “Maybe they didn’t break up well, but arguing. But Mom and I have always agreed that, even if we break up, you will always come first. You have I got it? Always.” He stared at me in silence. “Dad,” he said suddenly. “But can love end?” I thought for a moment before replying. “Love doesn’t end,” I said, “it’s people who change.” “People?” He said. “Virginia,” I said, “adults grow up too, you know? You are now a big girl, seven years ago you were a little girl. It works a little like that for moms and dads too. When I met my mother I was a different person, she was too. The important thing, when two people love each other, is to be able to change together or respect each other’s changes. Parents, with their children, do just that thing there, but sometimes they can’t. It is for this reason that love for children is the only one that never ends. “But you,” she said, “when you met Mom, how did you know it was Mom?” I didn’t understand, “I said. “How did you know you wanted to love her?” He said. “Ah, that,” I said. “I figured it out after about ten minutes. “And from what?” He said. “When we first met, she pulled her hair up behind her neck, over her head, and pulled up a bun without even a rubber band, just knotting it,” I said. “So what?” He said. “And then I realized that she desperately needed a rubber band,” I said. “And I her hair.” “And you had it, the rubber band?” He said. “No,” I said, “but when Mom found out, she already loved me.” “Dad!” She said, “but then you cheated her.” “Maybe a little bit,” I said, “but the point is, Mom was the first one who ever made me want to look for a rubber band, you know what I mean?” He looked at me for a few seconds. “Here daddy,” she told me, pulling off the elastic that was holding up her hair. “So you and mom don’t break up.” She laughed, luckily I was slicing the onions.
“No mom, I don’t have the boy, I would like to have it but I don’t. And do you know why? Because today mom different things are in fashion, long hair and short skirts, light tips and red mouth, flat stomach and protruding breasts, small physique and full lips are in fashion. Today mom uses different things, you no longer buy espadrilles for 5 euros, today you wear Dr Martens and Napapijri, which you have to lease to compare them. Today bars and milkshakes are no longer taken in bars, today they drink beer and vodka, just to help balance on vertiginous heels, the new Jeffrey Campbells. And today there is no longer even a curfew, you stay outside directly until the next morning and pretend to stop and watch the sunrise, which in reality nobody cares. So no mom, I don’t have a boyfriend, simply because I’m not all this, I’m not thin enough, and I can’t afford the miniskirts, the Dr Martens are uncomfortable for me and the sunrise I would start photographing her every day, especially at the sea. I am for the loves of the past, the guys who court you and even open the door for you, I am for the kisses given spontaneously in a place that is only ours, and not for a drunk boy, whom I will never see again, in the midst of a dance floor, just for the sake of being able to brag about it the next morning, I keep my story to myself. I don’t want a relationship today, where to know if you are together or not, just look at the status of a social network, because kisses don’t count for anything anymore. I want a relationship from yesterday, made up of letters and I love you whispered, made up of moments that remain. I don’t have a boyfriend, mom, because I haven’t found someone who wants what I want yet.I admire boyfriends who, despite being such, do not give up on anything. Who said that two boyfriends have to give up a night at the disco? Who said they can’t go out without each other? Who said they can’t get drunk together or spend long nights with friends? Love is not rejection, it is not prison or feeling suffocated. Those kinds of love get tired and eventually come to an end. If I ever find the love of my life one day, I want it to be exactly like that. Love without laws and without fear of not being able to be together with someone you love to live as I love. If I don’t find such a love, I’m ready to be alone all my life.“I know, I know that sometimes you still think of me. That obsessions never completely go away, and that we were a full-blown obsession. I know that every now and then, while you look at it, I come back to you. every now and then, while you sleep in it embraced, you still dream of me. Sometimes she will have asked you about us: ‘why?’ ‘didn’t you love her?’ and you will have answered her with the air of someone who gives a shit ‘no, I didn’t love her, for me you are love.’ And she will have believed it, because she doesn’t know, she can’t even imagine. that we were so much, but so much, that together we hurt each other. That’s why you are now with her and not with me. Don’t worry, anyway. It will never go away. It is the condemnation of those who find love and let it escape. “
Educating men. The problem is that women who bring up their children are often anaffective, natcisist, ambivalent and selfish. In recent times in many families the woman is an example of unbridled materialism, hunger for success and extreme narcissism. Many children are literally abandoned to their grandparents or uncles because the young parents are busy in their hectic life on social media. Mothers who are divided between videos on instagram and tik tok, sitting in beauty centers and running for shopping. Fathers glued to chats where they sneak up on half-naked girls, looking for the most daring encounters. So what can children receive from these individuals taken only by themselves and their selfish desires? They do not receive any affection and therefore as soon as they find someone to attach themselves to they become possessive and obsessive. Because for them that woman becomes the center of their world that has been empty. And when the woman becomes aware of such oppressive feelings, it is too late. And if by chance he tries to leave the man, he will take revenge in a negative way. So these men who grew up with absent mothers become too present and pressing. Mothers themselves create these insensitive monsters. Mothers themselves no longer know how to educate their children because they are busy advertising themselves. And the cases of femicides increase because there are so many children who grow up mistreated and rejected by narcissistic mothers. What have women become? Materialistic and obsessed with success. Unfortunately, the cause of a bad education of males is the women themselves. 😟
Growing up with an always sad mother. With a woman who sacrificed her job to raise two daughters. How many women sacrifice their careers because husbands don’t want them to neglect their children? Growing up with a mother who little by little no longer laughs, no longer sings, does not want to go out, becomes antisocial, changes character. A father who commands with money, with greed, with control over everything from clothes to food. And he has the power to say yes or no. A mother who is stripped of her worth, humiliated because she stays at home and was forced to choose to be close to her daughters. A woman finished, emptied, become unhappy. This was my mother. Destroyed by a man who wanted her only for himself and always at home. Instead she was a very good stylist, she had a lot of creativity and imagination, she taught me so many things. But then it got bad because of my dad. A woman should never be hindered by a husband or life partner or boyfriend.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 