I wasn’t in Rome.
Pretty far from it.
I felt the rage.
The rage took a particular, peculiar shape like in an early David Cronenberg’s movie.
I didn’t care about indignados, black blocs or policemen.
Violence is violence, period.
I did care about the rage.
I could touch it, taste it, even miles from Rome.
Rage is everywhere in Italy.
Maybe this ain’t right.
But too many people keep repeating, oh, this just ain’t right, and they’re the pits.
They’re the real killers, the real corruptors, the real culprits.
So, who you’re gonna listen to?
You can become an hermit.
You can write.
You can fight.
Maybe that’s all the same thing, no difference at all.
A writer can write.
A fighter can fight.
An hermit can think and thinking is a rare currency these days.
Aren’t you feeling the same?
Aren’t you just trying to survive?
Turin, Italy, 10/20/2012
(for my mom and dad, who love this country and now are just peeved, lost, ashamed)