early July, but the road is deserted and the traffic lights is black
much alive. I had other things to think, I still have other things to think, despite all have something prompted me to write.
are not enough words to describe a tragedy. You read in the newspapers, you see the news, but they are information offices, even when dealing with the life history of an individual.
will this time I tried other things, because I myself was in a sense this. Why are Viareggio.
I remember this time through the moving words of Giampaolo Simi, Viareggio like me, who was present at the disaster. It 's another means of information, more personal, closer, less detached.
Words are not enough, it is true, but its been stronger ones.
I remember this time in the future, with witnesses, with a comic, because the wound will remain indelible in Viareggio forever. That blaze red rose in the sky and saw all that, unaware that what happened was the end of the world. We could only watch from afar.
are in mourning for Viareggio.
early July, but the road is deserted and the traffic light is black and dissolved, it seems a bit of stick of licorice ice that was strong so many summers ago. Begins in July, but the great heat has erased all signs of summer. And the molten plastic makes the already decrepit breathtaking bikini model on a panel nearby. In the midst of a small group, a boy tells wide-eyed. He woke up suddenly and grabbed two knives from the drawer.
It seemed that someone was trying to knock down the door to his shoulder. It decreased with bated breath, he opened with his knife ready, but there was nobody in the street. The shock wave is a faceless aggressor, which in extreme cases can suck away the clothes from the skin and flesh from the bones. A hundred yards from the wagons derailed nor, to the Public Service Cross Green Wave shock seems to have caused a typhoon. Aluminum and steel were folded like cardboard, glass to smithereens like after a barrage, devastated local volunteers, a couple of ambulances crooked, like chewed in half by a half-hearted monster.
Monsters. Someone else said that he was to the cinema to see "Transformers", the damage in a room just a few meters as the crow flies from the explosion. Power of surround sound, has reached the end of the movie without noticing anything. When he came out he may have thought, seeing the sky lit up in days, not to be really out of the film. Hallucination. Maybe. A friend of mine who
lives in the Dock, the sudden thought that some mysterious (as completely normal, he tells me) full night of shooting with a pistol in Pinewood had passed to explosives. They're unpredictable, awful and insidious ways in which you try to absorb, despite everything, an unexpected tragedy in the dangers of our imagination or in small absurdities of daily life. But then he will throw us out of bed one evening in early summer, it churns out from our homes and forces us to surrender.
In the entrance of the Green Cross, a chair, there is a motorcycle helmet covered with blisters and crusts brown. It is there for tonight, no one touch, no one moves. Below, blackened rags of a leather jacket. The girl who wore them have seen running in the streets, engulfed in flames.
show me the sign on the tarmac where they have "turned off". They do not say saved, but "off". Perhaps for good luck, may be from the merciless concrete that sets us apart forever. Perhaps because the tragedies of violence recedes so we human beings to the status of physical objects, more or less fireproof material, more or less resistant. Try not to think about it, but after certain scenes, you can not do.
It freezes at the thought. Although it is starting in July. Freezes to see, from above, the scenario of the derailed train Iraqi.
But the truth because I understand after a few seconds. Why do not I write and maybe even think, but why does his bills: the train is derailed in the middle of where the beam track is wider. I walk the path back to memory: the station and the buildings of Piazza Dante, the narrowing of what was formerly called the level crossing of Rondinella, power plant, the new supermarket, the condominiums at a stone's throw from both sides, the bridge Barson and the new residential area west dell'Aurelia. Freezes to think of all the people sleeping in beds, quiet on the sofas on the terraces or in the cool, touch in the night by fourteen tanks of LPG, with their axes ready to give a moment to another. On the one moment to another.
The Viareggio railway has always been a physical and mental borders, up to thirty years ago surrounded the city itself sharply from the hinterland. Now you know which goes through the dense, pulsating heart. Monday night will also mark a pain imprinted with fire.
