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À rebours

D. told me that, for a band project, the best thing is to set out planning stuff backwards, with the final goal as a starting point.

Naturally, this generated some fantastic reveries in a split second:
– of me, reading the title of my novel/script in the R2 section of La Repubblica, on a Saturday;
– of me, holding hands with a publisher in his best Durban’s smile;
– of me, editing thanks and dedications on page 3.

And then I thought (I was driving on the motorway with my mind roaming in circles) that 99% of the people who came to my mind when I thought of the words “all my love and thanks go to…” were exactly the ones who have actually prevented me from doing anything. Mother’s perfectionism (“Whatever you do, be always the best, my love”), father’s systematic pick-axing (“You’ve been drawing flowers on the margins of your exercise books…” – followed by a terrible 5-hour-long silence), friends’ secret malice, ex partners’ jealousy, and so on.

In this topsy-turvy universe where things done at the end come first, here are my thanks for something that doesn’t exist.

All my love and thanks go to: D. for his unending and unbending love and support; my stepfather and stepmother, for loving me for free and loving me always, for no reason whatsoever; my brother, for enduring my bad character all these years; to old and new friends; and to all those fundamental presences in my life who, for death or distance, are no longer here, like mother, who taught me to draw and to shun embarrassment, and father, who lives far away, and who prevented me from drawing flowers in my exercise books and tried to bend me so that I could be exactly what he wanted me to be, and to all the other people who’ve made my life miserable, and rich, and happy, and to whom I couldn’t help thinking about when the word “thanks” came into my mind. I should think that the best thing I’ve learnt is how to ignore you.

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