(Scusate ma non lo traduco neanche morta. Non ho intenzione di affrontare il mio subconscio, soprattutto questo genere di subconscio, due volte.) It all started with the opening of the hunting season. The hills around my folks' house were suddenly overrun with hunters armed with rifles, and quite resembled the hills where I went horseriding years ago, and where, in real life, a hunter fired near the farm and my horse bolted and ran for the stables at a gallop, scaring me to death. Anyway there were really dozens of armed people and I ran among them yelling to go somewhere else, because there were my CATS around! They didn't even notice me. I think I was at risk of being shot myself. I was desperate, I screamed and wept, and I suspect I might have really done it in my sleep. Evening came. I was miserable, kept counting the cats and even had to work or study something, and of course I was late. This part is confused, I only know that it was Saturday and we usually go to Mass. But the roads were not the same, they were all dark, and my dad for some reason dropped me in the middle of nowhere and I had to reach the church on foot, walking along bottomless chasms. At last I got there and now it gets foggy again, but I'm sure it was all one dream, even though I know I kept tossing and turning. It probably was the usual church of my dreams, beautiful, mysterious and totally baffling, and somehow dawn came. So I thought I'd had a walk by the seaside (of course, in the Piedmont foothills) and then go see Rome, which was within walking distance (as everyone knows). In Rome there was a concert where lots of personalities had been invited. At first I was with friends and we were exiting a bar where surely something happened I don't remember. But there was a blond girl who kept acting like she was queen of the world. Looking back on it she wasn't that bad, but she suddenly said something offensive to me, I don't remember what. So I shot back at her: "What do you think, you're the only one who has got it, or even has two?" Now, I'm sure in real life I said something like it to a girl who later became my friend and I was quite ashamed of what I'd said, but damned if I can remember who. It had something to do with a Sticcon, maybe the very one in Rome. Anyway we sit in front of the stage, but I just can't stand being near the girl and vice versa (more yelling and crying, I think), so I get up and start wandering around. The place is like this: it's a sort of city square, with monuments all around, with the stage at one end, in front of it the stalls where my friends are seated, and at the back of the stalls the bleachers for the personalities (though normally is the other way around). The concert hasn't begun yet and I wander near the stage. A guy I've never seen, with close-cropped grey curly hair and a young face is sitting on the floor in front of it and playing "Crockett's Theme" on his guitar. I suddenly realize it's Jan Hammer, who in real life looks nothing like that. I'm thrilled and I want his autograph, but I have nothing to sign except a Tolkien book. I manage to find a mostly empty page and he signs it with a flourish. Cool. The same happens when a former F1 pilot (whom I've never seen in my life either) wanders by to listen to Hammer. The concert starts, part on the stage and part in the space in front of it, and at one point the Blasphemy Guy arrives. He's a singer known for a song when he repeatedly curses the name of God. (If some of you are wondering, he's tall and thin with curly hair.) He starts the song and it's really offensive. I'm frozen for a moment, then a girl next to me, equally shocked, starts yelling at him, and I join her. He doesn't care. By now I'm fed up with the concert. I walk towards the bleachers and there, in the left-hand corner, is the AC Milan team, jumping and celebrating, totally uncaring of the concert. I clearly notice Maldini. I hope to see Inzaghi, and at this point I'm quite keen to sneak into the personalities' zone, even though I'd need a special ticket I don't have. I see a player jumping up on the bleachers to join his comrades, and for a moment he looks like Inzaghi, complaining about his crooked legs (as if), but it's not him; anyway our eyes meet and I find the courage to ask him to help me get inside. He says yes, and at this point I take off my red shoes (go figure), put them neatly on the edge of the bleachers and jump up with him. I wander for a bit among famous faces and reach the higher tier of the bleachers, which is connected to the terrace of a palace. I walk on the terrace, and there I find a young Bruce Springsteen, suntanning. I've never been attracted to Springsteen, I just love his music, but in the dream I sit next to him and we chat and get the sun, and I find myself glued to him: we're both wearing shorts and a sleeveless top (black top for me), and our naked knees and shoulders keep touching. There might even be a kiss, then he casually drapes his arm around my shoulder and absently cups my right breast! I draw the line at that (hell, he's not Inzaghi) and leave him there. I go inside the palace, that must be a hotel. Inside it's quite modern, and in the grey corridories I come face to face with Berlusconi. This is a great occasion to do what I've written some posts below, express to him directly my criticism and my suggestions! He's as annoying as in real life: he treats me kindly but answers my every question with a joke. But I'm not giving up. I follow him out on another terrace where they are supposed to listen to the concert. Chairs are lined out. He sits down, and I crouch beside him and say: "You should really work with the opposition, for example him, who is a nice guy!" I point at Rutelli, sitting in front of him. My duty done, I go back down to get my red shoes back. There they are, waiting for me on the edge of the now-empty bleachers. Things I've learned from this dream: 1. Never eat again scamorza, wurstel and beans before bed. 2. Politics are bad for me. Never think about it again. 3. My Nordic comforter is a blessing: after all this, this morning it was right in its place, still well tucked under. |