About past and present (2015 - 2018) is the antecedent of Dearest Joseph, the first chapter of a trilogy that does not exist.
In order for a story to be told, an ending is necessary.
A passport photo slips out and starts a series of other images.
About past and present.
About hoped-for futures.
At the corner with a wine shop that was supposed to be open.
A dull intersection where her hologram now stands.
Beginning of walks between construction sites and roads with a high mortality rate.
She felt like she had never lived in Milan.
If she had said, “I was thinking of you,” it would not have been a coincidence. It was a constancy.
Did she hear her?
She called her.
She pronounced her name at a distance.
She spoke to her.
Did she hear her?
She does not distinguish dreams from thoughts.
The sky is the point of conjunction with those who are not there.
Looking at it is the only thing they continued to do together.
In different places and times.
Dialogue. Single act.
The story has already begun. Perhaps it is about an end.
They are about to say goodbye. Thank you.
Sitting on a bench, as if they wanted to push the moment away.
Few audience: a crooked light pole. A lone tree in the middle of the theater. A few passersby. Squares are stages.
Six hours of performance. Any audience would tilt to sleep; instead, the pole in the front row seems to straighten. The small tree is backlit by the natural bull’s eye which slowly wanes and makes everything red and yellow. A lazy autumn. The sky is clear blue, because the heart cannot see the smog.
Bodies tell each other everything by hugging, squeezing, smelling. There are no kisses, to protect themselves. Hands reach for each other.
Moods all decline: from joy, to drama. From distrust, to hope.
Location and duration are arbitrary. It can be uncomfortable, it can be endless.
For them it was brief and reassuring.
© serena guerra