A simple plan: fill a notebook with words, develop a simple story. The word is useless, it surrenders before being erected, it fears its own form: a child who, upon discovering that he is going to grow up and will be a man, begins to run around the block (I say apple in cadastral terms) waiting with that. not to become a man. Somewhat vain, the sketched story is a story even if it is not finished: the clay giant is giant from the sketch, even before reality. Round and round just to count in different ways the form of expectation of a state of the soul. Nothing more useless twists, words piled up on words to say nothing: screaming and screaming louder and louder for the simple effect of canceling the message of what was shouted; exaggerating the manners to make it his joke. So the message there, somewhere, hidden.
I start now from sad endings. Seated the figure of a man still without name or history waits for something to change without really knowing what.
Tired perhaps of all that, the amount of ungovernable in life, inexhaustible and blind battle, he, already the Writer, sitting - I say - expects something to change without knowing exactly what. It is undertaken with a word
House
write and that word has its own light. It's a house, he thinks, and feels like blue in the blood. And a tickle. After a while it occurs to him: “House means that there are people. And if there are people in the house, surely there will also be other people outside the house. Among all those people it is obvious that some relationship will be established. Suppose there is only one person in the house. Surely the house belongs to that person, which is not a redundancy, because what I mean is that each object, each space in the house will be marked by the presence of that person, in such a way that if I lift the ashtray the ashtray will be able to tell me something about that person. " He shakes his head, has a glass of water. The Writer feels that the story is born, that there is already a character that inhabits the house. Keep thinking: “The house will have the shape that its owner gives it. It will have the comforts that person wants to have ”, and the house begins to take shape, it molds itself to history. And the Writer, who already knows what the house is like, writes: The house is on Mendoza Street ...
The house is located on Mendoza street, it is on the second lot from the corner starting from Almafuerte street. Observing the cadastral file of the block, whoever wishes it can find out that the front faces northeast, that is, it has the sun tomorrow. The house is not very old, it will be about 25 years old, it was built with traditional materials. The construction was removed about three meters from the municipal line. In the front there is an intimate little garden, some flowerpots; on the side closest to Almafuerte street there is a pergola under which the owner of the property usually parks his vehicle; Next to the entrance door (which is located in the very middle of the field) there is always a broom, which is used to sweep the little garden.
Without still entering the property, we could well deduce that it is a middle-class family (and this is a truism, since the neighborhood where the house is a middle-class neighborhood). We would also deduce that the whole family is active (this because never an old man sitting on the sidewalk drinking mate, never a child playing). If this is a novel - and excuse me for this poetic slip - we would imagine a boring family: nothing could happen, they would always be very busy, no one would know too much about anyone, hardly if they would eat together on Sundays. But - it is known - this is not a novel.
