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That house is not a hotel and ducks

It 's a hot afternoon in the wind country. Bathers season embracing the sun on the beach. Blue is as generous as the breast of a nurse, and a bustle of footprints in the sand in order to remove the last drawn north.

Col background tune from the sea, walking in the woods, over a green needle sticks and broken, and under the skin flushed and smelling of suntan swimsuit again. At one time there were more to color the hedges, wildlife refuges and keepers of the dream of knights ready to rescue unfortunate princesses from the snares of evil witches.

I make my way between severed trunks carrying babies in strollers and drowsiness. In the distance a baroque piano notes Brush on rough bark of pine trees. And 'Bach. I approach. One step and are still in front of the house. The windows are wide open, a veranda retro glimpse of an interior of objects and antique furniture. On the walls pictures of family and historical photos. Old dark wood furniture, lace beliefs, ceramic stoves and a red geraniums contrasting the white walls. E 'La Villa , haven for tourists and the secret garden of my rough days.

House by the sea to an ancient family from Ferrara, who in the fifties became a boarding house for travelers, The Villa is my place of magic and seaport dock where to catch his breath.

At Villa Giorgio lives, sixty or more, the son of a beautiful woman in her nineties, famous for crossing the Adriatic on water skis, and a charming actor in soap operas that distilled essence of wild flowers and drove a sports car with an ancient plate.

George writes, paints his girlfriend and goes to heaven and sea. He has a wife, beautiful children that no longer exists and is a repository of all memories of the place. As a young girl going beyond the gate for a peek at life full of adventure. At Villa's always something happening. At Villa there was always someone. In the evening, sitting in the living stone, you could hear fantastic stories of those years that we do not have belonged. There I met dragons and empresses, kings and courtesans.

Sometimes, parties of good music and heavy alcohol mixtures made us feel like old sea dogs back from a long journey. At the end of the evening I watched with envy the guests climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. Accommodations at the Villa I really would have liked. I dreamed to spend the night with a prince, but I was told early on that the last had gone with Snow White.

Within the porch. A fragrance of wisteria and clothes hanging replaces the smell of resin and undergrowth. I follow the trail of smoke from a burning cigarette. Is anybody. If you are lucky you have something to tell.

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"Talking about music is like dancing about architecture," said Frank Zappa. But enough words to talk about music and dancing, I think.

E 'evening of jazz at the brewery in Bologna. Organizing concerts takes me to live as a local place of applause and the paying public. Every Tuesday is "behind the scenes" that falls to me, the lighting of that starter who sketched the fabric of every live performance.

Four instruments sit on the stage. First you place the battery, brass plates that meet the whipping of two magic wands. Then the piano keys in a dark suit arm a fellow dressed in white. In the background stands up bass, violin strings grew, while a trombone hole silence, singing an aria from overseas.

they are! A quartet of thoroughbreds of the swinging jazz sounds that blend in to the rhythm of bebop.

Tonight I have no appointments, no one to talk to journalists and while I think of becoming public and travel notes, comes forward, punctual as the dawn of a day you would not want the first incident.

Ready Lucia? I am the engineer. "

" The guys are already here. "Reassured him.

"I I'll be there! "Replica him. Communicate

four musicians who live there will be a sound engineer is like removing the safety net in an acrobat before double somersault.

with confidence and I get closer to the mixer with air expert.

"Are you the engineer?" Asks the pianist.

"Yes", I ment.

If I were in front of the panel of a Boeing 747 would be more relaxed and with a little effort I could find the autopilot and fly.

The evening begins.

"Lighten the sound of the trombone!" Suggests the bass player.

I watch the lights flashing and a sense of helplessness I repaint the face. Before me, an endless series of buttons, levers and knobs are arranged in a policy that completely ignores. Move the first lever and raise the overall volume of the speakers. A sound of thunder fills the peaceful public chat at the tables. The silence reproaches me first, then follows the glances of the drummer and I see only his wand raised.

"Lighten the trombone!" Insists bassist.

My eyes follow the input cable that connects the microphone to the mixer and restricts my action buttons relating to it. There are eight. What will be the light color?

The Eyes of the Bassist I beg.

I turn secure the first. No effect.

The bassist insists.

The second button is red. Instinctively not touch him but I break the deadlock. The only relief and response part of a warning whistle that pierces even the thought.

E 'panic.

'm like a blind man driving in rush hour traffic.

The third button is grayed out, reassuring. We tried again and remain in apnea to capture even the slightest variation. Rotates clockwise while I still can not breathe and the sound of the trombone began to emerge from the tunnel that had intubated. Here is the light color, I think. Bassist smiles. Listening to that tune which has regained enamel and those highs that were missing.

The tension dissolves, I resume breathing.

"Bury me along with the last artist, because my life would be useless without them," wrote one day, but I know that if this continues, will have to bury me first.

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POPPIES SOUNDS NIGHT WITHOUT EXAMS

's dark. Go for a walk. The music of the last concert I chase through the streets of downtown. I am sad note. A blend of melodies of the past that are vented from the red stones of medieval architecture that is disappearing. I reach. I hear him as the expert hands of an old lover who no longer want. Singing voice controlled. Redness on the skin of a sun that I was slapped once again. I follow the familiar walk these streets, recalling the dangers and know how to find the beauty.

are being the basket in front of a decaying building that once I look at the sundial chanting my days as a student away from home. I lived three years in that house. I look at the lighted windows. Someone changed the curtains. In that room I slept with her, the friend of the heart. What you put my clothes. The one who lent me his pants. Sleepless nights preparing for exams. Friends' parties and drunken that melted on the steps of an apartment colored. And a cat, daughter of instinct and a mother of unborn puppies.

keep looking at the lighted windows. A ghost moves its shadow across the room. Those who live where I live?

I approach the door. The bells are the same. Brass and stained plywood off-white labels from old and new names. Mrs. blackberry, tan in all seasons, still lives here. One day she broke the TV. A roar that I had never heard. The astronomer on the top floor but no more. Too bad, it was nice.

My name has been replaced by another, shorter, unknown. And 'what happens after a farewell, I think. The passage of a witness. A name is cleared, another takes its place.

's just a house! I repeat. Four walls of clay. Plaster and paint. And I love moving. What is this sadness?

The massive wooden door show the same signs of the time. A deep incision of the day came that the thieves, small scars drawn from the keys of eager hands and a slot where it continues to shelter the same spider as I feared.

What aspect? What I seek?

I see me open the windows. Greeting the custodian of the building opposite. Open the drawer of a cabinet painted pink and still wear the white shirt that I liked so much. I would start there, where everything was still whole.

I look at the window. The changing light of a television set marks the rhythm of the last commercial. E 'over the carousel, I think. Maybe it's better to go to sleep.

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BORN FREE

I was born on Good Friday. I can not be haunted, I assured my mother. Not by wizards and sorcerers. But do not serve colored potions and concoctions to chain a mind. Some prisons have opened the gates. Large windows overlooking the distant worlds to see and do not touch, as if they were bare wires of an electrical connection. Others have the taste of chocolate.

I've heard a lot about freedom. They spoke of the songs of the seventies. Emerged from the pages of a literature that has interwoven stories about the streets and deluded generations of dreamers without a passport. He spoke of my cousin leaving for India in search of a foreign spirituality.

I saw painted on t-shirts. Drawn to the bright background of a canvas without an author.

I learned from my grandfather's independence. He always said that if he ate a peach off the tree, alone, in a sunny afternoon, it was not summer. A result, his freedom. As the Sunday of my thirteen years. As an afternoon spent with Clara.

Sparkling Criminal Romagna, riding his legendary 193 horsepower, Clara is a longtime friend of my days in the sun.

We Milano Marittima, the heart of the glamorous Riviera. For years I walked in that living room that smells of sea and perfumes. A blonde on top of the heel leads to walk the last fragrance by Kenzo. The man with green eyes is certainly Azzaro. Roccobarocco evaporates from the wrists of a girl with long dark hair and Clarins surrounds the neck of an old lady who feels his thirties. Clara and I are in the window, sitting at a coffee in the company of two drinks a toast to her birthday. Beside us, the trunk of an old pine penetrates the ceiling and leaves as large outdoor umbrella evergreen needles that protect the voice of nature.

Clara has always been the trusted custodian of my deepest secrets and authentic stir up all of my dreams. As we file past mouths silicon in alligator shoes and men, their faces drawn, we find the cards and we are confident to the last thought drinking French wine. At the table, a pair of glasses while you empty the ashtray vice forgives, accepting one after the other ones from that time did not smoke cigarettes. Let us from laughter to tears that fall like little girls playing back and tears to laughter, while pensioners take a walk with her hair dyed the opportunism of twentysomethings asunder and one after the other go see my old classmates more and more fat and better clothes. The hours pass us back on our ramblings part of the serenity that we carry with us in the years of catamarans off when the tan is never enough. These were the years of the sand in the pages of a book exam.

Our words fade as the finale of a music note. The wine is finished. The time available to us expired. You must return to his child. While I go back into the Easter egg, but just look at my face to know that I would have never wanted to enter.