In Other Rooms, Other Weapons (a novel)

The Man in the Long Coat

I sat in the undersized chair, notebook on my knee, surly pain developing in my upper back. I couldn’t complain, it was a kindergarten after all, and all the chairs were similar, the teacher’s included. There was nobody else around, even the janitor went home after having shown me how to lock the door on my way out. The staff was submissive enough, and one of them apologized for having made me wait for so long. I hadn’t waited for long, but I accepted their apologies with a dismissive wave of the hand.

The kid started crying when he was told he had to stay behind after class. He perceived it as a form of punishment. I tried my best to reassure him, while he was sobbing uncontrollably, that it wasn’t a punishment. I simply wanted to talk to him about matters from his past.

The school headmaster had indeed warned me that this was one sensitive kid, prone to crying every time he felt he was being singled out for something he wouldn’t even think of doing. I sympathized with the kid on that, because I, too, often suffered from such fits of paranoia. The headmaster did not seem to understand the meaning of my statement and instead smiled awkwardly. I knew such people. This man had probably never left the village, and probably could not even recognize the Empire State Building when shown a picture of it taken from an unrecognizable angle. Mental illness was probably as bizarre to him as a pair of human kidneys drying in the sun. But then again I was at his disposal, and I couldn’t deny the awkwardness of the situation. I was a tall man in my late twenties wearing a long coat and a black hat, and I wanted to see a kid who had absolutely no idea what I wanted from him.

When I asked the question about the woods and the older boys again, the kid became defensive. That caught me off guard. He raised the tone of his voice and moved his arms frantically. He was clearly trying to mime an older member of his family, most likely the mother. But I could see through it anyway, I didn’t feel threatened, he was still a kid, and I was the adult in the room.

‘Why are you here?’ The kid almost jumped from the chair. ‘What is it that you want from me? Just leave me alone. I’m going to tell my father about this, and he’s going to come and talk to you.’

I’m here to tell you about strings vibrating underwater.

I tried to reassure him again by telling him who I was and what I was doing there. I told him about the investigation I had undertaken, I told him about my research and the fact that his case might provide useful information. He smiled then as if to say that yes, he probably had some helpful information, something the other kids didn’t have. Most likely that made him feel special, and so he relaxed a bit. He started talking again about the Russians and the stories his grandfather told him about the war. I jotted down all of that, and he slowed down every time I showed signs that I wanted to write something down. He obviously thought I had picked him out from the other kids because somebody told him he was a genius of some sort. I didn’t want to break the spell because not only would he not understand that it was only a spell, but he would also refuse to talk further. I tried steering the discussion back to the woods and the older boys. He told me he was ashamed of talking about it. ‘There’s no shame in talking about that,’ I told him, ‘I’m going to write a book about it, and you’re going to be in it.’ That seemed to satisfy him beyond recognition. His face got lost suddenly, became the flicker of a mask as if he was trying to settle on the kind of look he needed for that moment.

They were his brother’s friends, not his, he didn’t have any friends, he didn’t say why so I pressed him for it. I knew the answer, of course, but I was also trying to lower his defenses by making him feel small, humiliate him. The kid was obviously overweight, and his parents had been overly protective about it. Don’t let the kid suffer, he’ll have the rest of his life to suffer, just don’t let him suffer now, right? I bet that was the philosophy behind it. The kid’s relationship with food must have been out of control: irregular meals, overcompensation, lack of control, hence lack of taste when it came to food, no idea about nutrition, just a whole lot of inherited ideas about food and how a person should look like. And the parents had also probably inherited the notion that people are going to accept the kid the way he was.

‘The other kids don’t like me,’ he told me after brooding over it for a while, ‘they make fun of me, and I don’t like it. They just run away, they don’t want to play with me.’

‘Why is that? Do they feel threatened by you?’

‘Because I can’t play their games and also because they’re stupid.’

‘And you’re not stupid.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, ‘I read books, I read books every day.’

I had, in fact, checked the kid’s library card and noted that he took a lot of books home, but they were returned the very next day when other books were taken on loan, which most likely meant he didn’t read them till the end. I mean, this kid could not have read Crime and Punishment in a single afternoon. He seemed content that I knew of his readings and so I pressed him to tell me about Crime and Punishment. As I expected, he told me the beginning of it then got lost and told me he had forgotten the details. That was a book he had read just a few days before our encounter. I asked him if he knew anything about Dostoevsky. He didn’t. He had simply read Crime and Punishment, and that was the end of it. I told him I thought he was lying and he swore that he had, in fact, read the book. He was obviously lying, but I went back to the episode with the older boys.

‘What were you doing out there, you and the other boys, in the woods on that Sunday afternoon?’

He told me about the schoolteacher, who had these grandchildren living in the city. Every once in a while, the schoolteacher would come to visit and bring the grandchildren as well. They were a couple years older than him and when they were all alone in the woods just behind the house discussions obviously deviated towards sex and what adults did in bed. They were hiding in the tall grass when the kid turned face down and told the others he was going to stay like that. He even pulled his pants down, showing his ass to the other kids. One of them stuck a twig in the kid’s ass. I asked the kid whether the twig penetrated him, and he denied it, saying it was only playful.

I told him to continue, and that’s when I saw what could have made the other kids avoid him. It was his effeminacy and the excessive way he tried to look small in a body that refuted minuteness. If ever I could even begin to believe in the separation between body and soul, he would be a good case study. Inside him, something else moved, which was what he seemed to hold onto with naive keenness.

The kid couldn’t remember the transitions, his memory just wasn’t good with that. In his mind, his life was a series of sudden screams, moments painted in intense colors, oversaturated, excessive structure, contrast turned to extreme degrees. Each memory was a construction made of human bodies. So the next thing he knows he’s part of an orgy in which, by turns, he is a newborn and a mother being fucked by a nasty husband who just came home from work and brought green leaves instead of green dollars. No penetration was involved, the kid assured me, but they did wave their little dicks in the air and mimed penetration. He described the place where it all happened accurately. I wrote some of the details down in my notebook. There’s a small puddle next to the place where it happened, and it is surrounded by thick greenery. He clearly recalls the smell of musk and then the smell of shit because one of them had taken a dump afterward simply because he wanted to show the others how shit can sometimes come out with blood on it. The demonstration was successful apparently. He also recalls the leaves that the other kid used to wipe his ass.

Clearly, I was disgusted by the whole story and didn’t make any effort to hide my disgust, so the kid grew silent. I asked him if they had, at least, washed their hands afterward. He couldn’t recall any such detail, but then he told me about the crab apples they used to eat in the woods and the green leaves that had the taste of lemon, so I realized that personal hygiene wasn’t one of their strong points of the people in the village.

‘Why did you pull your pants down there in the woods?’

‘I don’t know,’ the kid told me, ‘I just felt like it.’

‘You felt like offering them your body on a platter, just like that.’

He didn’t seem to understand but nodded anyway.

‘And were there other moments such as these?’

He told me there had been plenty of moments. The same thing happened with a cousin of his who used to come to play. And again he gave up his body to this other boy who was still too young to have an erection.

‘Why did you do it? What was the purpose of it?’

‘We were just playing, the kid said, nothing more to it. We wanted to be adults, wanted to see what it was like to have sex.’

The moaning of adults must have been fascinating for them, the guttural ululation, the intertwined bodies, the sweat, they were curious about what happened between their legs. They must have seen it in the movies on TV, they must have overheard adults talking about it or even doing it. These people gathered together during the winter and slept in the same room, sometimes sharing the same bed to save on the wood used for the heating. Younger parents always got the advantage of having a place all their own for specific reasons, of course, while the other members of the family were crowded in the same room.

‘What was the thing that you enjoyed most about it?’

I don’t recall exactly how the kid told it, I must have written down the thing mechanically because the sentence sounds too elaborate to have been uttered by a kid his age. He told me that he liked the warmth of the other boy’s body on top of him, the weight of the body pressing him down against the floor.

‘You didn’t do it on the bed?’

Never on the bed apparently. The bed was like a sacred space that could not be disturbed with such trivial matters. It wasn’t an empty floor, of course, there were thick covers placed on the floor where the parents used to nap after lunch.

‘Did that happen often?’

Often enough, and he was never the one to initiate the situation. It was always the other one, who appeared surreptitiously and without warning when nobody was around. I tried to imagine the reach of the hand and the touch that then led to the rest. I wondered how that must have felt. An arm reaching across an unperceived chasm? What sort of satisfaction were they hoping to receive at the end of everything?

The kid then told me about the other guys, a different group of friends who did the same things with him. He was always the one at the bottom, and in his presence, the others felt like asserting their alpha masculinity. It was the same scenario over and over again: the husband coming home from work, tired, bringing green leaves that stood for money, hoping to have a good fuck with the wife who was always waiting at home. No penetration was involved. It was the performance of those roles that gratified them since there was no orgasm at the end. I thought of the games children usually play when they have used up all of the resources of their imagination. It’s always the ‘family game’ that comes up next, a sort of effigy of family life minus the issues because, at that age, family issues are ever taken care of by the adults. The children are part of the decision, but their own opinion is never really taken into consideration except as a side note. And the fake parents in the children’s games are performing similar roles, but they never get as far as sex. But then again the games also respected gender differences, the mother was always a girl, and sex with a girl was just too real to be performed in a game. What was it then that made those boys perceive this kid as a woman?

I then realized that I had been talking with the kid for too long, and he was getting visibly uncomfortable. He was also hungry. And so I told him that he could go home because it was getting late and his mother must have been expecting him for a while. He put his coat on, which seemed about two sizes too big for him though it was rather new, and put his bag over the shoulder, his belly awkwardly protruding against the bag making it stand up. For a moment he resembled a mentally retarded kid. I did not say anything because I was waiting for him to go out so I could see the way he walked. I was hoping to get a clue of some sort, something that could help me elucidate the mystery of this kid. What made him so vulnerable and, most of all, what made him so socially awkward? He went out, and I could see the tip of his hat just below the window. A woman was waiting for him at the gate.

Robb’s Last Tape (Take Seventeen)


Let’s start with anxiety, a name whose vibration makes me cringe: it begins with a deep tremor in the chest cut short by a glottal stop, which then explodes into an electric shock, and ends in a condescending cry. The sound of it is ominous, the way Pavlov’s bell must have sounded to his dogs: a harbinger of an alteration in the fabric of things.

It arrives akin to an unexpected guest. It sneaks up on you, which makes it even more odious; it rains on your parade, it precipitates things, it makes you lose patience. You might be on your friend’s couch, watching a movie, enjoying yourself, and then feel a sense of impending doom creeping on you. Anxiety is the ominous lump in the armpit of reality.

Around you, everything turns to paper, and you’re afraid of touching things because you fear they might be props. They are props, true, but in a narrative that is not meant to deceive. You stop distinguishing colors and textures as if they no longer interest you. When people speak, their words do not register. Their sound expands to monstrous proportions, alter beyond recognition.

So you begin to go through a list of things that are supposed to help you.

Name five things you can see: the faces of my fellow commuters early in the morning, moving to the rhythm of their broken dreams. The train is packed, and although the air conditioning is on, hot air sticks to the back of my throat as if I’m hiding under the covers. My heart is racing, and my breath feels uneven, struggling to catch up. My chest is collapsing in on itself.

Focus on your breathing, feel the air going up your nostrils, become aware of the swirl it makes at the back of your throat.

I imagine myself fainting, their worried faces looking down on me, asking me whether I had had anything to eat and I make a list, ashamed of this quasi-confession. A banana, yogurt, cereals. They disapprove of it, they nod at each other akin to priests who have seen immorality unfurl. What else can you see? The guy in front of me is wearing one of those orange vests, and he hasn’t shaved in two days, and I bet he doesn’t worry about fainting. I see him coming in through the door. ‘Honey, I’m home!’ [canned laughter and applause] There’s a backpack on the luggage rack above the guy; it reminds me of childhood and vomiting on road trips.

I feel like throwing up, light beams hanging down from the ceiling like icicles. We’re almost there, I tell myself, just one more stop and everything will be excellent. Something else I see and don’t see: the outline of your face against the pillow in the moonlight coming through the window.

Do I count from one to five or the other way around?

Name four things you can touch: there’s the blue handle on the door of the toilet, the one that looks thick and sturdy as if it’s made to be used as a weapon in a post-apocalyptic scenario. The god in the machine at the end of a movie. That guy’s ass doesn’t count because I can’t touch it. When you’re panicking humor can be refreshing. The red handle of the emergency brake. ‘Abuse will be punished.’ I’m going to faint now, please pull the red handle and call an ambulance, my mother will rush from work when she hears the news that her son suffered a stroke on the morning train on his way to university. Are these enough or do I need more? Your beard, the one I’m touching while we kiss and I moan because there’s not much else to do.

Name three things you can hear: the woman next to me is complaining about something on the phone. ‘He’s an idiot,’ she says bluntly, ‘I don’t know what else to tell him.’

At what point in my life did I get scared of trains and people on trains?

Come on, we’ll get there in no time. This isn’t helping, please stop, I just want to get off this darn train. I’m a horse running down the train tracks. I lose count. I hear the valves of the air conditioning opening and closing above me. I’m inside the belly of a whale traveling underground.

Reality is made of video strips working in unison. I can see where the pieces meet. If I cram my fingers into them, I could open a portal to a new dimension, one where I’m happy and do not need to worry.

Name two things you can smell: I don’t know; I can’t do this, please stop. I want to express my hesitation but that “err” sound people make feels like a loss of control, like falling down in a dream. I can smell your sweat, the softener on your clothes.

And, finally, name one thing you can taste: the salty flavor of your tongue as it explores my mouth.

Moments later, I’m out of the train, the world around me loud, then silent and loud again like the back of a zebra, and I forget it ever came.

You see, I tell myself, it wasn’t that bad after all.


During my outdoor runs, there are moments when I become achingly aware of the weight of the world, and I begin to realize I’m stuck in a body that is, ultimately, inscrutable. This bundle of flesh and bones I carry around with me, which obstinately demands things and is open to temptation and addiction, will never fully reveal itself to me, which is akin to having a bag full of stuff I will never be able to know or use to their full potential.

The exertion of intense physical exercise also reveals how capricious the body can be. Every moment now it might throw a tantrum, object vehemently to something I want to do. My joints might give up at one point, but I can’t possibly know when. And that’s just the first item on a long list of likely ailments. I might develop some tumor, somewhere, and that will feel like an unexpected invasion and a betrayal on the part of the medical establishment. I might lose my hair at one point in the future, but there is no way to know when that will happen. My teeth will decay no matter what pro-expert toothpaste or mouthwash I use, or how many times I make an appointment with my dentist.

Every gesture meant to appease these tantrums or counteract these objections is a form of loitering in the neighborhood of old age, and each of those gestures is somewhat an acknowledgment of defeat. Small physical alterations compound like coins in a piggy bank. A crease here, a wrinkle there, a cluster of Fordyce spots on my upper lip. They all accrue like a crowd at a concert.

Albeit I’m confronted daily with approximations of how this mass of flesh will act in the future, the people around me serving as reminders of how the body develops a palate for autophagy, that reality never truly registers with me. I’m young, I might think, I have my whole life ahead of me. I can still develop healthy habits. There will come a time when a salad for dinner, and not a plate of pasta or a pizza, will seem like the natural choice at the end of a fatiguing day. I only need to get a grip on myself and eat mindfully, like all those highly successful people one encounters in self-help books.

Soon, I might tell myself ominously.

There’s so much potential for improvement hidden somewhere in the depths of my being. Lying dormant, waiting to be aroused, somewhere just behind the sternum, where anxieties cleave black holes that gnaw at my breath. Running reveals all this and more, it is the friction of change. Constructive abrasion. Then, I wake up one morning and notice that my skin sags in certain places or that a vein has decided to break free and blossom beneath the surface of the skin stretching between the talus and the calcaneus. My face, the bathroom mirror tells me in a passive-aggressive manner, has developed a rudimental form of memory, a frown permanently etched on my forehead, crow’s feet from all that squinting and smiling.

That’s all fine, the song goes, all those little imperfections unveil who you are. The secret is not to let rancor seep in, or see these symptoms of time passing as a form of treachery. Accept them, wear them with pride the way you (ought to) wear your heart, on your sleeve, and the others will unwittingly accept them as well. Besides, most of them can be hidden underneath a shirt: clothing flattens irregular forms, standardizes them, generates recognizable categories for us to inhabit. Tapered, slim, skinny, regular, loose, large, extra-large, and other variations. Clothes are the low-cost version of suburbia and area codes. They’re forms of creativity with sutures and hemlines, textured interfaces.

Some of those bodily imperfections will only be revealed in intimacy, which is always a form of exchange. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Meaningful intimacy requires time, which, to me at least, is not necessarily a whim, or a form of procrastination that betrays prudeness or bashfulness, but rather a ritual of preparation akin to tantric practices. Time precedes acceptance; it builds desire. In the flight or fight economy, the time we grant each other is the less aggressive form of the latter. “There’s no such thing as perfect,” a talking fish tells Courage, the pink dog from Cartoon Network’s Courage the Cowardly Dog Show, “you’re beautiful as you are Courage. With all your imperfections, you can do anything you want to do!”


“Anxiety is a bully. And like most bullies, the more you let it shove you around, the pushier it gets. […] Fundamentally, you can beat anxiety, like any bully, by standing up to it.” (Rhena Branch & Rob Willson, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for Dummies)


Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a professional runner, nor do I strive to become one. To be frank, everything I know about running is the result of a continuing trial-and-error thing that’s been going on for quite a while. I do read articles and books about running, and occasionally watch some of those YouTube videos, but I’ve never had someone coach me, and perhaps that’s a good thing. Long-distance running is one of those activities you go to on your own; you discover something with each step you take. I learn something new about running, and about how far I can push my body, every time I put on my trainers and press start on my workout app, and I don’t imagine this is going to end anytime soon.

And that’s okay.

Perhaps what I like most about running is its offer of mindful solitude. You are alone, yet always in the presence of something that isn’t usually there: the terror of an imaginary finish line you see yourself crossing, which also feels like controllable anxiety. Your sense of fatigue suddenly becomes urgent in a way that may be unknown to you. It will try to convince you to stop by telling you, repeatedly, that you’re a loser and there’s no sense in persevering. You’ll steadily worry about the future of your run, and obsess over how much there’s still to do. Each mistake, however insignificant, will feel like a proof of your inherent inability to perform such an activity. Or finish what you started. You’ll stumble, slip, hit obstacles, cuss, spit, blow your nose, sweat like a pig, get angry at those who see you coming but refuse to get out of your way. All these trivial things will occupy your mind, and that’s okay because you’ll still be running, and all of them will feel like the ground you’ve covered: flat, and already behind you.

Running turns time into space, which becomes meaty, viscous, dense. Doing the same track repeatedly enforces this transformation. You pick milestones that soon morph into markers of progress. The circularity mitigates whatever anxieties you might have. You revisit places that felt differently. I often look at the distances I’ve covered (I use Runtastic for every run) and see them as anxiety-trial-runs. I’m running with the fear of not being able to finish. Eyes turned inwardly, I see my failed relationships and count all those instances in which I felt unlovable and alone. And they all come and go because running forces you to move away, literally, from everything. You don’t tiptoe around your fears, you face them, head-on, which is what anxiety doesn’t want you to do.

It wants you on your knees, begging for mercy, pining for relief.

Running suggests solitude, one that is free of rancor. I don’t need other people to be able to do it, and no special equipment is required except for a good pair of running shoes. I’ve tried doing it with others, but then I inevitably start comparing myself to them, and I fall out of step, I falter, lose my breath. Soon enough, it feels as if I’m failing them, denying the satisfaction of some elusive expectations they might have of me.

When I run alone, everything becomes porous, space is suddenly welcoming, distances expand, and contract, they become markers of success, not generators of exhaustion. My body carves its way through all this, uncovering layers, refuting hypotheses, and creating new ones. Air becomes functional once more, achingly so, as my lungs struggle for breath.

To be frank, I might have a slight aversion towards running with others because it feels as if I’m working against a threshold, and this might discourage me from putting on my trainers and going for a run in the first place. I did try it in the past, and the feeling is exquisite, especially when you all get to reap the benefits of a good workout, but I also feel like I need to entertain the other person, which can be a drag. Talking while running feels wastefully extravagant, akin to talking on the phone with a person who is in the next room.

The sounds of exertion: panting, hitting the ground, grunting, the accelerating heartbeat; they outline a vocabulary that commands attention. It is the lexicon of now-ness, reality’s firm grip on wandering thoughts. The mind might branch out; it is the rhythmic breath that brings it back to the ground, rooting it into the realities of the body. The side stitches, the numbing pain in the thighs, the thirst, they all claim dominion over your attention. Running doesn’t let you obsess over your thoughts, however dark they may be.

Running shouldn’t feel like a social activity. I dread the awkward silence, and I’m embarrassed by the fact that I sweat more than the average person. Really, at the end of a 10k, I’m drenched in sweat, my pants stick to my crotch and thighs, and at times it might seem as if I peed myself. Long runs also make my nipples bleed when I wear the wrong kind of t-shirt, and to some that might resemble gratuitous violence. Then there’s the question of tights, which, to the uninformed onlooker, might seem a form of excess, or a way of showing off.

When I’m running with somebody else, I can’t listen to music, and that is sometimes discouraging. Music is, after all, a form of companionship for the lonely. Some runners out there, namely the serious ones, say they don’t need music while running because it distracts them from the pleasure of the exercise. They listen to the beat of their footsteps, birds singing, the wind in the trees and all that. But when the beat drops in that Beyoncé song, my whole body goes fuck yeah I’m gonna crush this motherfucker, and I become a single lady at least for the duration of that song.

When Spotify introduced its running playlists, with music that matches your tempo, I was ecstatic because running suddenly felt like dancing, another activity that is both solitary and blatantly visible.

Sometimes, though, I pause the music and listen to the thrum of my heart the way medical students listen to sound recordings to train their ear for the broken beat, to distinguish the healthy from the defective. The sound of it is meaty, internal, and slightly detached, akin to the speech of an alien race, or the muffled slosh of wet ground. The echo of my footsteps early on a Sunday morning when there’s no one around is somewhat reassuring. Yes, I’m alone in this, but I’m digging my way out of this solitude the way a mole finds its way through the dirt. I’m moving to make that isolation sustainable, to make a living in this economy of the loner.

Running is the sullen travel companion. It’s always there, watching you, following you, yet it never attempts to lure you. It never says, ‘I told you so.’ At first glance, it seems unapproachable, disagreeable even, and it will reveal its secrets only if you strike up a conversation with it. From the outside, runners often remind me of Hopper’s Nighthawks, present but removed, always with their back at you, their sweaty faces a blur, their bodies emotion made flesh, eyes locked on some internal struggle that is invisible to us mortal onlookers. Somewhere deep inside them, hidden dialogue occurs: they’re silently bargaining with their bodies, the ground beneath their feet, the road, the trail, the air, the light. Then they’re gone akin to a saintly apparition.

‘Don’t mind me, just passing through.’


Humans evolved to become endurance runners, giving up speed for distance. Dogs can run fast, but they have to stop to cool down after a while, and they do that by sticking their tongues out. We can keep going because our bodies can thermoregulate through sweat and breathing, and in terms of energy consumption, running can be cheaper than walking. We ride the momentum, our legs acting as springs propelling us upward and forward, we jump and fall to the ground, working with gravity the way chemists mix substances to obtain something new.

Don’t mind me, just passing through.

“I’d observed pigs on treadmills for hundreds of hours and had never thought about this. So Dennis and I started talking about how, when these pigs ran, their heads bobbed every which way and how running humans are really adept at stabilizing their heads. We realized that there were special features in the human neck that enable us to keep our heads still. That gives us an evolutionary advantage because it helps us avoid falls and injuries. And this seemed like evidence of natural selection in our ability to run, an important factor in how we became hunters rather than just foragers and got access to richer foods, which fueled the evolution of our big brains.” (Daniel Lieberman, author of The Story of the Human Body)


I began running on a treadmill at the gym about five years ago at the extreme end of a homemade (that is, punishing) weight-loss program that verged on becoming an eating disorder. Most likely, it was that, or it was a dangerous combination of anorexia nervosa, bulimia, sheer madness, and a disregard for my body’s needs. I had reduced my calorie intake to the point where a cup of milk for breakfast and steamed broccoli for lunch felt as if I had indulged myself and needed to be punished by not eating anything else for the rest of the day. In time, the punishment began to feel reasonable, a form of atonement for all those years of gluttony. It felt like adulthood, a way to assume responsibility for how I looked.

I downloaded cooking apps on my iPad and saved tens of recipes. They were all for later, I would reassure myself. I watched videos of other people preparing food with the fascination one develops for a fetish. I couldn’t see their faces, but the way their hands moved while mixing ingredients betrayed a joy that was becoming increasingly extrinsic (and toxic) to me. Do these people know, I often wondered, how much harm food can inflict? Are they aware of how hard it is to shed the guilt that comes with it? I convinced myself that cooking was akin to treading on dangerous ground because through it, I would revert to my old habits of eating mindlessly. There was no way back at that point. I had closed all the doors behind me, measured my life in units, made hunger my friend.

I worked out at home twice a day, lifting weights and doing indoor cycling. Every day, I had to do more. Bigger weights, more reps, lengthier virtual tracks. I counted calories in my head obsessively and looked at cakes on Instagram before I went to bed to feel less hungry. Those who starved themselves became heroes who had the weight of Shakesperian characters. Soon, I would promise myself, all of this would be over, and I will have a slice of that chocolate cake. Just one more day of this. But then the next day, the vicious cycle began anew: I ate, felt guilty, and punished myself.

One apple for breakfast, salad for lunch, sunflower seeds for dinner. I felt my stomach expand and thought of myself as pathetic. I watched action-packed movies to waste time and keep my mind off food. Just keeping my back straight was exhausting. My legs went numb whenever I stood in one position for too long. Lively conversations, and even laughing, made me lightheaded. My grandparents warned my parents that something was off, and my dad kept asking me whether I wasn’t hungry. Looking at the food on the table suddenly felt like yearning for an expensive object I could not afford.

Grandma asked why I was doing that to myself. I told everyone I was doing it to get healthy, yet, secretly, I knew I wanted to be noticed for the right reasons. I wanted to be loved.

Hunger makes you increasingly aware of time. If there’s an organ in the body, or a pack of neurons in the brain, that unconsciously measure time in the background, hunger makes them work full-time. The longer I could go without food, the better I felt about myself. Throughout the day, I would have false starts: I painstakingly prepared the food, looked at it, had a bite, then served it to others. It wasn’t the food itself that I feared, it was how I would feel after I ate it that made me have second thoughts. I couldn’t bear the guilt of it because it was enervating.

Sought-for hunger makes reality acute. It engenders a yearning for sensations stronger than itself. I set objectives bigger than myself, made plans, went out with friends, worked for hours that seemed centuries. Throughout the day, keeping the mind busy by engaging in convoluted arguments became a top priority. I spent time in places where it was difficult to have access to food, and whenever I felt hungry, I reached for my cigarette pack. Coffee was a constant presence, it made me feel tight but shapeless, and it helped me muster forces that were becoming increasingly scarce and therefore, precious.

One more hour without food.

At the end of the day, I felt exhausted, and I blamed it on my lack of resolve. People I knew ate so little so why couldn’t I do the same? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about food? I watched others eat and experienced jealousy. Their ease with food felt like irony directed at me because I saw it as the ease of those who could do stuff I was only beginning to learn. At times, I felt superior because hunger gave me an extra load of lucidity. I wasn’t enjoying the food, I measured it, cut it into small pieces, adding the calories in my head.

I began to suspect eating was a competition of sorts, one in which the less you ate, the higher were your chances of winning. At parties, people were overly conscious of the things they ate. ‘No, I shouldn’t have that, I’m trying to lose weight. I only had a yogurt for lunch, and I feel fantastic.’ After major holidays such as Christmas, they went on diets, much akin to rituals of purification. They prepared for Easter lunch as if it was a battle. I distinctly recall a friend of mine posting a photo of him in running attire. The caption went along the lines of ‘I’m not afraid of you, Easter lunch.’ Everything revolved around food and eating. Walking on a tightrope felt suddenly more accessible, and I resented all that. This is my life now, I would tell myself.

Meals were an alien race, their heads grotesque, their tongues moist.

I fell asleep the moment I put my head on the pillow and woke up in the morning in the same position I had gone to sleep. I touched myself to feel my ribs and hip bones jutting out. My mouth was often bone dry because I knew that drinking water would show on the scale. I weighed myself compulsively, and when the numbers went down, I took it to be a sign of success. Every lost pound was a small victory in the big war against my body.

More often than not, I remember waking up and thinking there was no more joy left in the world, and I should do my best to get used to that. The constant hunger devouring me was no longer a form of longing for the next meal I would have, but rather a sort of disappointment that my body was so needy, that it had given up on trying to survive on the meager amount of nutrients I was giving it. I looked forward to Christmas and Easter because those were the only times I would let myself have a proper meal. I binged, of course, and felt sorry for myself. Then I swallowed laxatives to free myself from the weight of my guilt.


“Running also poses problems for head stabilization. Unlike quadrupeds, humans have vertically oriented necks that are less able to counteract the greater tendency of the head to pitch forward at foot strike during running than walking. Such inertial accelerations would be reduced in Homo relative to Australopithecus and Pan by a combination of decreased facial length and occipital projection behind the foramen magnum. In addition, the radius of the posterior semicircular canal is significantly larger in Homo than in Pan or Australopithecus, presumably increasing the sensitivity of sensory perception to head pitching in the sagittal plane, which is potentially much greater during running than walking.” (Dennis M. Bramble & Daniel Lieberman, “Endurance Running and the Evolution of Homo”)


In his panegyric to running, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami calls this heightened sense of body awareness “runner’s blues.” You start to have the feeling that all that hard work might never pay off, that there will come a time when your body will begin to break down, almost systematically, without asking for your permission.

Murakami experienced a version of it after finishing an ultramarathon (62 miles) in 1996. At one point, after completing about two-thirds of the race, he felt as if he had crossed a barrier beyond which his body transformed into a machine that no longer protested against pain and fatigue. His runs, he says, never felt the same afterward. It was as if something had switched inside him.

I’ve never done an ultramarathon or a marathon, but I can sympathize with what Murakami is saying. For weeks on end, a long run throughout which you push against the limits of your body can feel like a record that is hard to beat. Compared to a 27k race against yourself, which is the longest distance I’ve covered in a run at the time of writing this, a 7k can feel like child’s play. Long-distance running teaches you different forms of bargaining with your body, a kind of mental haggling you might never develop under different circumstances.

At times you think the only way forward is up. It doesn’t get easier, trainers often say, you only fight against it more efficiently. Muscles break and rebuild, they begin to remember how your race pace feels, your threshold pace, they engage in a concerted effort to help you get through that sprint. You get faster, your body starts using resources wisely, your breathing feels effortless, and all this gives you the sense that you’re in control of your body. You gain a deeper understanding of superiority, and you inevitably start judging those who might be sitting on their couch watching one more episode of that Netflix series.

Nothing can stop you now.

But then you wake up one morning and your left knee protests against even the most mundane of chores, such as taking a trip to the bathroom. The body can be an obstinate beast, it will take its time to show you the results of all that hard work. It will delay gratification. For months on end, even years, it will offer you only intimations of its internal battles: muscles will grow silently under your skin, fat will find its way out slowly, gradually, as if to test your patience. It’s akin to the promise of an afterlife free of distress or pain. It’s the delayed gratification that pushed Faust to make a deal with the devil.

Since running is such a holistic sport, because it requires both muscles and brains to work together, a glitch in either of those systems can prevent it from happening again. Even a minor injury can force you to stay on the bench for months on end. All the mental energy you otherwise would have put into running morphs into liquid admonition, which further fuels the runner’s blues.

When going for a run ceases to be a part of your physical and psychological routine getting back in the saddle can be an onerous task. In time, you’re left with a bitter aftertaste, the kind you feel when you’re nostalgic about old times. ‘I used to run,’ you think, ‘those were the good days!’ The miles stretched ahead of you like an invitation, and you accepted it, the way a thirsty man drinks the water coming from even the most insalubrious puddles. But then that empty stretch of road, ready to be yours, ceased to be so alluring.

In 2015, while I was staying in NYC and working on my Ph.D. thesis, I stopped running for more than three months because I hadn’t brought my running shoes with me. I had packed my stuff thinking that once I got to NY, I would unmistakably buy a pair and go on with my running routine. Little did I know that I wouldn’t be able to afford them once I paid rent and bought some food. It was incredibly frustrating to know that the only thing that was stopping me from covering those distances was a simple pair of shoes. Albeit there was a voice in my head telling me that if I really wanted to do it, nothing would stop me, not even the fact that I only had a pair of leather shoes with me, I still couldn’t do it.

A guy I had met on Tinder told me I could buy the shoes if I quit smoking, which I continued doing, passionately, despite the prohibitive price of cigarettes. It seemed as if I had made up my mind about not running, accepted it as a form of punishment. Buying a new pair of running shoes felt like a luxury that required a sacrifice I was unwilling to take.

To make up for the lack of exercise and burn those extra calories, I walked a lot around Central Park. I listened to audiobooks and podcasts. I paid excessive attention to what I ate. I became a vegetarian and made sure everyone knew it. But still, it felt as if I was robbed of something that I had claimed as mine. I envied the runners I saw doing their rounds in the park and imagined myself running alongside them, making up for all those miles I wasn’t covering.

If running often feels like lavish purposelessness, not doing it is akin to a refusal to participate in the world’s endeavor to change. It’s an admission of guilt and an acceptance of the consequences that stem from it. If there’s a god of running out there, you’re admitting to being a sinner.

Not running, even for brief periods, also invites doubt and constant worrying. I worry I might not be able to run again, or that my muscles will forget the moves, the amounts of fatigue they can tolerate, lower their threshold. Mentally, I imagine one of those life-bars that characters have in video games: you need to keep hitting something or collect tokens if you wish to progress. It makes you question your determination and ambitions if you happen to have any. You’re pathetic, you think, you always fall back on your old habits. Others can do it, but you can’t because you didn’t stretch enough, you skipped the warming up part, you didn’t listen to your trainer who told you that your body needs to recover after an intense training session.

Your anxiety returns, regal, its entourage of dark feelings in tow.

There’s the runner’s high as well, and though it is as elusive as the runner’s blues, it comes as quickly as it goes. This might be because we experience positive aspects of our lives as fleeting. Time flies when you’re having fun and seems static when you’re wallowing in pain. But I believe this is also because the runner’s high is ultimately an undefined state. You do not become suddenly aware of it and say to yourself ‘oh, there’s that runner’s high again, it’s a beautiful feeling, I will hold on to it for as long as I can.’ It comes, trust me, but it might come when you least expect it. You might be halfway through your run when it happens. You look up at the sky and whatever fatigue you might have been experiencing suddenly vanishes.

I get the goosebumps when it comes. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck go up in unison, and I feel as if I could go on for much longer. Yet, at times, I get those even when a song I like comes on during a run. So I never really know whether it actually is the coveted runner’s high. I also sometimes cry when it comes, which feels odd when you’re running because someone might see you. Tears well up in my eyes, and my vision gets blurry, and I feel like chocking. In those moments I cast my mind back to my failures, that is, to instances when my body failed me, to the times when I’ve been told that it isn’t good enough or it doesn’t correspond to the invisible standards of manhood.


“The scale in the bathroom sits partially on the bathmat. I move it to the hallway and set it on the wood for absolute accuracy. Zero. Give me zero. I was 92 yesterday.

“91. One o’clock. Some of that is urine weight.

“Soon, I will disappear into the wall.

“Soon, I will be light as gas.

“Just being awake burns calories. Just being awake brings me closer to you.

“To perfection.” (Sarah Gerard, Binary Star)


My earliest memory of body shame: my grandmother asking a mill worker to weigh me on a rusty scale they used for flour and wheat. I don’t recall what age I was, but I do remember staring at the ground when the man told grandma I was a small piglet.

They weighed us at school for statistical purposes. The PE teacher came in with a bathroom scale under one arm, the way one holds a ledger. One by one, we got up on that contraption and waited for it to settle, the numbers on it a truth one can’t deny.

The teacher wrote the figures on a sheet, and the students laughed. I was overweight once more, but the teacher approved because he, too, had a protruding belly and told everyone what a great kid I was and how much he would like to have me as his child.

Shame stays with you the way a scar does. I wear it in my bed every night I go to sleep, and it often wakes me up in the middle of the night. It’s akin to a subdued giggle, the inappropriate kind, the one that might occur at a funeral, or in class when you are little.

You push it down with your hands the way you push a muddy dog away from climbing into your lap. But still, it perseveres, doggedly, until you acknowledge it. Until you muster the force to wave it aside and see it for what it is: an inherited tool for self-harm.


“I want to be unique. I want to have a thigh gap.

“I want to see myself on television. I want other people to say they’ve seen me on television.

“When I’m on television, I want my body to look damn good.

“I want never to see the scale again.

“I need to be protected.

“I want to go whole days without looking in the mirror.

“I want not to own a mirror.

“I want to try on clothes at Macy’s, and see myself in three mirrors at one, and look good from every angle.


“I want them to stare at me.” (Sarah Gerard, Binary Star)


Running unveils your character the way it reveals your collarbones. It is the harbinger of your work ethic and, at least in my case, doing it regularly creates a discipline that seeps into all levels of my life. You start running, and you don’t give up. Despite the pain, despite the constant worrying, despite the heartbreak that threatens to open your chest. You run so as not to cry. Crying is for the weak. Boys don’t cry. It is that resilience to pain and discomfort that proves you can make it after all, even under other circumstances.

In 2017, while I was staying in Berlin and working on my Ph.D. thesis, I ran every day except for weekends. Being able to wake up early in the morning, while everybody else was still asleep, did not make me feel superior. Instead, it felt as if I was doing myself a favor, performing some act of kindness. Shopowners swept the sidewalks, washed them with water and soap, and all around me, there was the smell of fresh bread and freshly ground coffee. The runways of a former airport became my running ground. Every morning I would return to my room with the feeling that I had accomplished something already, and the day had only just begun.

Those days were also my most fertile in terms of writing and working on my thesis. Much like running, writing is about moving forward with each word. You do one more step, and then another until you get to the end. You write one word, and then another until you reach the end of the sentence, the paragraph, the page, the chapter, you get the picture. Both of them are chiefly about the accrual of units, and ultimately of meaning. Seeing those kilometers add up also gave me a confidence boost, each of them a small encouragement. The pages I wrote during those days also added up, and to my astonishment, by the end of that month, I had written just shy of seventy pages.

I also lost a lot of weight, I noticed it in the way my jeans sagged around my waist, and the way my parents looked at me when I returned home. I didn’t have the time to cook, so dinner was mostly crackers and blueberries. Though I felt as if I was overeating, the intense physical exercise and the grueling hours spent in the library drained me of all desire to expand physically.


For most of my life, I have been afraid of showing my body and did my best to cover it. Whenever I went to the seaside, which happened two or three times in my entire life, I would never take my shirt off, or, when I did, I would just close my eyes and pretend I was alone in the entire world. I turned the music up in my headphones so that I might not hear people comment on the inadequacy of my body.

I envied my brother’s ease with his body, a form of boyishness he carries to this day. He still has no qualms about taking his clothes off when the situation requires it. The same goes for all the men in my family, irrespective of their body size or shape. Men in the village where I grew up showed their bodies despite the overwhelming lack of abs or massive pecs. From the outside, they did not seem to question the adequacy of their bodies. None of the other people in the village seemed to do that. As long as you were a hardworking man, your body did not matter.

It was within this culture of acceptance that I grew up with the idea that I would be accepted by others no matter what. People made jokes about my weight, my man boobs, my round face, and head, but I recognized it as a form of communication, envy even. Everyone said I looked healthy, and I felt healthy. Those who had known my dad since his childhood told me that he had been chubby as well, but then he grew out of it. It was within this culture that I took my body artlessly.

Moving to the city during high school was emotionally traumatic. I got called names on the first day. A bunch of older kids laughed at me because I was wearing a leather vest and a short-sleeve shirt. I do realize now that it might have been a bit too much for early September when the sun was blazing hot, but I didn’t know better back then. I was the proverbial country boy moving to the big city. My response to all this name-calling went against that culture of acceptance. What did I do to them to deserve this? I hadn’t done anything to them, they didn’t even know me, but that was most likely their way of asserting their superiority, their place in the pecking order.

Years later, while reading Viet Thanh Nguyen’s novel The Sympathizer, I came across an eerily familiar passage, one that strongly reminded me of my childhood. “The only good thing about being fat,” the Crapulent Major tells the narrator, “besides the eating, is that everyone loves a fat man. Yes? Yes! People love to laugh at fat men and pity them, too. When I applied at that gas station, I was sweating even though I had walked just a couple of blocks. People look at a fat man sweating and they feel sorry for him, even if they feel a little contempt, too.” Perhaps those older kids in the schoolyard pitied me, or maybe they didn’t, I’ll never know, yet, nowadays, whenever I see an overweight person on the street I feel a pang in my chest because I know the ordeal they have to experience every day. I am familiar with the stares and the looks, and the giggle of high-schoolers, the finger-pointing, and the acrid jokes.

Once, while I was getting home from the university by bus, a group of high school students started giggling and talking among themselves. At first, I wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, but then I began to realize that they were, in fact, talking about me. “Look at him,” I overheard one of them saying, “he looks as if he’s retarded. Just look at his face.” I did not raise my head to look at them because I was ashamed, and perhaps I should have confronted them, but I could see them out of the corner of my eye, their faces blurry and directed at me.

When people ask me why I don’t want to teach English to high school students, I usually tell them I find it hard to connect with them, and that’s true, but only to a certain extent. I did practice teaching English to high school students and found it exhausting. They laughed at me and made snide comments about the sweater I was wearing, and one of them cupped his hands around his pecs to point out the volume of my chest. I just couldn’t maintain any authority over them, and there were times when I thought that I just wasn’t cut for teaching.

Going on road trips with my classmates in high school was as mentally grueling as waiting for a significant test result. I hid in the bathroom and behind curtains when I had to take off my shirt. While the others had no qualms about walking around naked and touching their genitals while the others watched, I went to the toilet just to change into my pajamas. Letting others see me brush my teeth made me feel ashamed. What if I wasn’t doing it well enough?

Albeit in the meantime, my body has gone through significant changes, and I have learned to work with it, I still carry that shame with me. Sleeping with other people is a tiring task, and most of the times I resort to old habits: I close my eyes and think I’m invisible, or that I’m somebody else. Knowing that I can’t be seen makes my body livable and desirable once more. My body, the empty signifier, malleable, and ready to acquire new meanings.


There was a point during my weight-loss period when people started noticing my eyes were blue. At the time, I did not pay attention to the remark because it sounded like the type of thing people said when they had some breath to spare. My friends and I were idling at the local library when a girl said my eyes were getting bluer. Truth is, they were not, yet I felt a shift in focus. I no longer was the chubby guy who complained about divine injustice and did nothing to counteract it, but someone who had blue eyes.

Then I suddenly started to show up on people’s radars. On dating sites, people became interested in what I was doing, the things I wrote. I suddenly had content. People wanted to know more and asked questions. I was inebriated with the sudden rush of attention and wallowed in it. They complimented me for my strong will and my ability to overcome mental and physical obstacles. And I played the part that was assigned to me in this narrative of success: yes, if there’s a will, there’s a way, yes, I changed the way I saw food, everything went smoothly. I swept the lonely hours spent thinking about food under the rug.

My thighs became something people envied. When I went on dates, they were the first thing at which guys looked. I welcomed their gaze the way one accepts a precious gift because, for the first time in my life, there was a part of my body I wasn’t ashamed of showing. When they touched my thighs, I flexed the muscles as if I were on a bodybuilding show.

It is not my intention to demonize anyone. I think we do know how superficial we are, and this doesn’t need to be a bad thing. In the lexicon of relationships, be they sexual or amicable, being attractive inevitably refers to how the body works and presents itself to the world. The body is a portal, an interface that offers access to what is underneath, and it betrays your attitude towards the world. The body is the joke at the beginning of a serious talk, the smile that makes the audience relax and open their minds.

Physical changes inevitably reflect internal movements, but I cannot say for sure what comes first. I can recall, though, a moment or perhaps a series of moments in which my body began to feel different because the people around me felt different about it. And the more you perceive that the more you look for it because it empowers you. It’s akin to a snowball. As it rolls down the hill, it grows in size and gains momentum.


The runner’s high is often described as legendary, which, more often than not, paints the picture of a mythical creature observable only by the chosen few. It is therefore dubious, or handed-down from earlier generations of runners. Something to chase akin to precious prey, a replacement for what our hunter-gatherer ancestors had to track and hunt.

Research conducted in the 1980s showed that prolonged exercise caused endorphin levels to spike, and for a very long time, they were believed to be the cause of the runner’s high. But then researchers realized endorphins were too big to pass through the blood-brain barrier and had to reconsider.

Then, researchers noticed that besides endorphins a runner’s brain also releases endocannabinoids, a naturally synthesized version of THC, the chemical accountable for the feelings that smoking marijuana triggers. As opposed to endorphins, which are created by specialized neurons, endocannabinoids, particularly anandamide, can be produced by basically every living cell in the body, and are small enough to get through that barrier and reach the brain.

The much-desired mood is also a question of finding your sweet spot. Go too slow, and it might never show itself. Go too hard, and it might feel like you’re punishing yourself. Stressing your body and mind during a long run is good, but do it in a way that feels controllable. Interval training does it for me. It pushes me out of my comfort zone, and knowing that I can get some rest, be it by walking or doing a light jog, at the end of each interval makes everything seem so manageable. At moments I feel as if my body is going to give up, and that might make me feel anxious, or desperate, but then it’s time to take a break, and those feelings subside.

Perhaps that’s what makes running such a good antidote for anxiety and depression: you panic and start doubting your capacity, you bring yourself down, you suffer, but then you know that at the end of it, a conclusion that you can foresee and control, those feelings will dissipate. Becoming acquainted with the transitoriness of your emotions by going on these trial runs, is much akin to exposing your body to toxicity to build up defenses. If you can overcome the anxiety that comes every time you feel like lacing up those running shoes or the one that occurs when you feel like you just want to stop running, then you can certainly overcome anxiety in the trenches of daily life.


These feelings I have while running, be them positive or negative, are overwhelming and, more often than not, I feel like stopping. I start doubting my running form and technique, my breathing turns shallow, and my shoulders creep up, stealthily as if to shrug or to push up against some invisible force. Most of the times, it feels as if there’s no way out of this realization, that whatever I do to mitigate this sense of doom, whatever mind trick I might have up my sleeve, I will never be able to run fast enough to escape it. I’m like a bear in a trap. I can see the cause of my problem, the rusty teeth of the metal clamp pressing against my shin, but I do not know how to open it.

It doesn’t get easier, running coaches typically say, you just get used to it. Yeah, I think, and you’re so full of shit. Literally, shit is coming out of your mouth. I try and picture them, these coaches, with their protein-shakes in tow and their perfect faces and taut stomachs, and I get angry. When am I going to be like them? When am I going to achieve that ideal form? Is there a point where this won’t feel like work?

Then, a moment later, I shake my arms, I take a deep breath, refocus on the distance I still need to cover, and the classes I still need to teach, and how I could explain, for the nth time, the present perfect. They’ll just feel it, I tell my students. The present perfect is almost instinctual. It’s a gut feeling. My mind goes bonkers, and the speed of my thoughts starts to match that of my feet. My heartbeat harmonizes with the cadence of my pace. Soon enough, I realize that nothing can stop me. I can still go for a while longer; I just need the patience to do it.

There’s this egotistical force wedged between the ground and the soles of my feet that pushes me forward. I don’t even have to think about it and, deep down, I know that if I stop, that drive to move forward will never forgive me, or it won’t show up next time I go for a run. So I listen to it. Lean into it. I am faster than my regrets, stronger than my failures, my anxieties, better than all those guys who rejected me.

Like all runners, I tend to be superstitious. To me, running is tied not just to physical rituals, such as preparing my running gear the night before and getting enough carbs into my system before a long run, but also to mental routines. For each workout, I prepare mentally. I think about how I’m going to feel at the beginning, or halfway through, or towards the end. I know that the first few minutes are going to be harsh, and a voice in my head is going to tell me I should give up because there’s no point in it anyway.

My imagination will run wild. It will throw at me images of hamsters playing on a running wheel, just to make things more exciting. From an evolutionary standpoint, I shouldn’t be running; I’m not chasing prey. I can just open the fridge, and the food I need will be there. Out of the blue, I’ll think about how cardio exercise is an occupation related to excess: there’s too much food lying around, and we’re always in search of ways to burn the extra calories. So we’re running, moving, heaving our bodies, chasing nothing but the fulfillment of the desire to make our bodies palatable to the coveting eyes of our peers.

Every run is a form of education in that sense. Each step is a small victory in the battle against whatever fears I might have, against self-doubt. They start creeping into my mind the moment I open the closet to put on my running gear, which gives off this weird smell even when they’re freshly washed. It’s a combination of burnt plastic and something feral. It makes me want to vomit. That self-doubt is still there even when I put on my running shoes. They’re not tight enough. They’re dirty. The insole feels a bit off, and I can’t seem to find the right position. My battery is low. Why am I doing this to myself when I could just sit and read something, finish that piece I was working on, mark some of those papers that are eyeing me from the pile?

But then I find myself running, the air around me welcoming.

Running is a form of training in emotional agility because it shows how transitory emotions can be. When you’re running, the only ultimate reality worth paying attention to is that of your body. Albeit you might worry about the future of your workout, the best way to deal with that anxiety is by focusing on what you can do to feel better right now: find a rhythm in your breath, relax your shoulders, control your cadence. Sooner than you know, the feeling is gone and you’re still moving, which you’ll always be doing, even when you feel like your life has ended.


There is a scene in the animated series Final Space (S01E08) that brings tears to my eyes every time I watch it. Desperate to close the breach in space that threatens to destroy the universe, Gary and his friends visit Bolo, a Titan trapped between dimensions. Once Gary enters Bolo’s mind palace, he is greeted by other versions of himself: there’s a Construction Hat Gary, an Eagle-Faced Gary, a Cookie-Headed Gary, and a Little Micro Gary. “In order to face what’s ahead,” Bolo’s voice says, “you need to face what’s inside of you.” And what Gary needs to face in that particular instance is the Amazing Mustache version of Gary, who tells the real Gary that he will never be able to get a thick, abundant, luscious mustache like that. “It’s true,” the real Gary says embarrassingly, “I’ve never been able to grow a mustache.”

Amazing Mustache Gary then begins to comb his mustache with his little mustache comb. “But you’ll never know the satisfaction of that,” he says and starts to laugh copiously as he flies above and vanishes. As his voice echoes and fades out, the real Gary begins to be engulfed by some sort of dark gooey thing that grows on him, slowly pulling him down. “Your anxiety is consuming you,” Bolo says, “you know you can’t succeed.” “Because I can’t grow a mustache?” “That’s exactly why,” the voice of Amazing Mustache Gary echoes again.

Of course, the mustache has nothing to do with closing a breach in space. It does have everything to do with how the protagonist feels about his capacity to perform that action. When you live a life in which you are being criticized every step of the way, even the most insignificant thing, such as your lack of facial hair, can become a nuisance and stop you from living a full, healthy, life. And yet, against all vicissitudes of fate, faulty plans, miscalculations, Gary tries to do it anyway, and sometimes he succeeds.

Gary is my hero because his lack of confidence reminds me of my own. More often than not, I’ve avoided doing things, such as talking to people who seemed intriguing, for the simple fact that I couldn’t muster the confidence to strike up a conversation. And I’ve always lived with the regret that stems from those missed opportunities. Just like Gary, my anxiety has consumed me and pushed me around. It still does. The other day I accompanied my boyfriend to have his sunglasses done and noticed that the name tag of the guy who served us said he was a writer. I wanted to ask him about that but then never did. And then we were out of the shop, and the world took us to other places, and I might never see the guy again.

And that’s that, and here’s the thing: you might not have a thick, abundant, luscious mustache, and you might not have the abs to show or the perfect hair, but you can try to be like Gary. You can do things against all the odds and still be successful, because trust me, the regret you’ll feel for not doing things is much worse than the embarrassment of rejection. If you don’t feel like running, go for a run anyway. If you don’t feel like talking, do it anyway.

I’ll go for a run now. Have a good one.

Sixteen (Architectural Design)

When I looked up, the birds were vibrating in the evening air screaming for water, and I asked the Lord for forgiveness, not just for myself but for the whole world. Grandma had told me about the birds, and the way they asked the Lord for water, at night, hidden in the trees behind the house. I thought, how cruel this Lord of ours is, one who refuses to give water even to the most innocent of us.

I took the wooden cross from grandpa’s homemade altar and went out into the fields and dipped it into the parched ground to force the Lord to listen to our plea. ‘Feel,’ I repeated as I walked around the orchard, ‘I want you to feel the hopelessness in the ground beneath our feet.’ The clouds gathered and boiled above me, and a woman from the village urged us to throw the shovels into the middle of the yard because the Lord’s wrath was upon us. Grandpa threw the shovels on the concrete, and the grass popped as if it was burning. We breathed in, and the air was incandescent with thirst, thick with the commands we shouted at each other. The woman walked away, the shawl she wore on her head disheveled, her breasts moving on their own, ahead of her, her hands furiously stroking her face as if keening for a son lost in the war.

The chickens had to be led into the stables where the cow and the pigs had been tucked away like precious gems. The windows had to be secured. Grandpa could not stand damage resulting from human errors that could have easily been avoided. Church bells ululated in the distance, the sky above full of leaves and dust, the hills around the village like subdued dogs. Big drops, here and there, then everywhere, my brother was nowhere to be seen, he who had always been afraid of thunder.

The Lord’s love arrived in gusts of wind and sharp drops of water, and our brains reverberated with images of sanctification. ‘Lord,’ we thought as we watched the sky come tumbling down, ‘how could we have ever doubted you?’ We barricaded ourselves in the house, all in one room, far from any source of electricity, removed from the windows because people got struck by lightning that way. Everything in the house had to be unplugged: the TV, the refrigerator, the radio. Then grandpa would run one more time through the rain, a long blue winter coat hanging on his shoulders. One last time, he had to make sure all the animals were safe.

As the rain poured, grandma crossed herself, and we waited in the half-dark rooms, every thunderstorm a pedagogy of survival. Stay out of nature’s way, it said. Sometimes the rain would fall for days. But that first couple of minutes after a storm had the taste of sainthood, proof that we were still loved by our Lord. As we headed out of the house to assess the damage, the earth seemed renewed to the core, and we knew that, at least for a while, we won’t be praying for rain. We prayed, though, for my brother to return.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo

Il caldo mi fa pensare allo Straniero di Camus e il tram ci sta mettendo tanto ad arrivare. Ogni sua sosta, seppur breve, diventa un motivo per arrabbiarsi. Perché siamo fermi, una signora grida dall’altra parte del tram, l’autista non si gira neanche. Nessuno di noi si muove, nessuno di noi parla. Dalla strada incandescente si sente solo il rumore delle ventole dell’aria condizionata e in ogni auto le persone sembrano mortificate, come se avessero appena compiuto un atto immorale, o ingiusto, e si sentono in colpa. La luce là fuori, ogni suo riflesso è come la lama di un coltello. Quando arrivo alla fermata mi metto al riparo, ma non c’è tregua. Il caldo è come un casco.

Ci vediamo dalle sue parti perché lui sta studiando per gli esami e non ha tempo da perdere, prendiamo una granita. Sta facendo una magistrale in biologia e non vede l’ora di andare in vacanza. Questo lo dice con una voce che arriva quasi alla disperazione e io provo a rassicurarlo dicendogli che manca poco e che dovrà fare solo questo ultimo sforzo. One more push. Dico questo anche se perfettamente consapevole del fatto che non lo aiuterà: lui dovrà comunque studiare, dovrà comunque dare gli esami, dovrà comunque soffrire il caldo, sudare, bestemmiare, pensare alle vacanze, al suo ritorno a casa. Sto per dirgli che anch’io ero così da studente, ma non lo faccio perché lui ride ed è così carino quando lo fa che per un attimo sembriamo dimenticarci del mondo e del caldo, e della coda di gente che si forma gradualmente davanti alla gelateria.

Andiamo al parco e lui si bagna i capelli e il collo sotto la fontanella e quando si avvicina ha quell’odore di terra umida in mezzo all’estate. Fa caldo pure al parco ma almeno lì, lontano dal traffico, il mondo sembra girare più lentamente. Ci sono cani con la lingua di fuori, bambini con le bici, e un signore che corre attorno al piazzale, la cui pelle sembra quella di un pesce o un di alieno. Ma io provo a guardare tutto questo con distacco perché voglio baciarlo e per fare questo il mondo deve restare fuori. Lui si guarda attorno prima di farlo, e chiude gli occhi quando lo fa. Io faccio lo stesso. Il signore che sta correndo non esiste più. E neanche i cani con i loro padroni. I bambini sono andati via. Siamo solo noi.

La seconda volta che ci vediamo chiude gli occhi e si nasconde il viso tra le braccia quando mi dice che non mi devo affezionare a lui. Non vuole farmi del male. Non ti preoccupare, non lo farai. La terza volta mi dice la stessa cosa. Non ti preoccupare, rispondo, non lo farai (non accadrà?). Nella mia mente provo a disegnare un cerchio sul pavimento attorno a me. Mi dico che è assolutamente vietato oltrepassare la linea.

In stazione, al ritorno, una ragazza sedicenne (penso) sta bisticciando con quello che sembra un suo ex. Levati, gli dice alzando sempre la voce, vattene via, coglione, sono stufa delle tue scenate. Lui si allontana e lei lo spinge. Levati, levati, LEVATI! Dieci metri più in là, sullo stesso binario, una tipa sui trentacinque sta gridando al telefono. Ho visto che eri online, dice, ma non volevi sentirmi, è questa la verità. La prossima volta farò anch’io così! Avrò altre priorità d’ora in poi.

Sul treno, penso a quanto sia difficile, faticoso anche, gestire le nostre emozioni, e al fatto che molto probabilmente questo è il prezzo che ci tocca pagare per avere un cervello così complesso. Rabbia, rancore, felicità, contentezza, sembrano tutte unità per misurare il mondo, o per creare un rapporto tra noi è il mondo. Penso al mio cerchio e so che non ci servirà perché senza la rabbia, il rancore, la felicità, e la contentezza, senza tutto questo camminerei ad occhi chiusi e mani legate.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo​

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Caro lettore, (ho la voce di un terapeuta)

Prima di tutto, devo dirti una cosa, essenziale secondo me: nessuno se ne frega. Nessuno se ne frega dei tuoi capelli, come nessuno se ne frega del fatto che a te piacciono i risvoltini. Nessuno se ne frega della tua maglia. Nessuno se ne frega che a te non piace come si veste quel tipo che hai visto sul tram. Nessuno se ne frega delle tue opinioni. Nessuno se ne frega, davvero. Proprio perché nessuno dovrebbe fregarsene di tutte queste cose. Fallisci meglio, ogni giorno della tua vita. Non c’è altro metodo per scoprire come sei fatto. 

Per favore, smetti di leggere “Il Piccolo Principe”. Leggi “Il Principe” di Machiavelli se hai davvero voglia di leggere qualcosa con un titolo simile.

Tutto passa. Pure il cuore spezzato.

Alla fine tutto quello che conta è la musica. E come muovi il tuo corpo. C’è più di un gigabyte di informazione in ogni tuo movimento. La musica è vortice. Il rock ‘n’ roll è sesso. 

Il tuo corpo lo vivi come una tragedia. Ogni kilo in più è una piccola sconfitta. Ogni muscolo in vista, una moneta d’oro. 

Un giorno questo dolore ti sarà utile.

Un giorno succederà che vedrai il mondo sotto una certa luce, così spenta e scura, di un azzurro malato, che vorrai spegnerti anche tu. 

E io ti riaccenderò. 

Se togli i tuoi incubi, se togli il lavoro che secondo te fa schifo (perché non è quello che volevi fare però hai bisogno di quei soldi per sentirti indipendente), se togli il padre di cui hai paura, la madre che tace perché, magari, anche lei ha paura del tuo padre e perché le donne devono seguire i loro uomini, se togli il volto del mondo, il fratello che, sposato, pensa che il mondo non può essere altrimenti perché tutto il resto non può essere che una scelta testarda, se togli le tue paure, che cosa ci rimane di te? E se togli anche il tuo amore, se lo nascondi, se lo seppellisci, se metti un cuscino sopra sperando che si soffocasse sotto la pesantezza della tua furia, che cosa ci rimane di te? Che cosa ti rimane? Solo il tuo corpo di carne e ossa, che nella sua tangibilità rimane un semplice grande vuoto.

E io ti riaccenderò. Oppure saremo due fiamme spente. 

E poi, di pomeriggio arrivi tu e il drink che abbiamo di fonte a noi sembra di contenere tutto il mondo. Io faccio finta di toccare il bicchiere mentre, in realtà, quella è sono una scusa per avvicinare la mia mano alla tua. Parliamo di Camus e forse di Calvino, che a me non è mai piaciuto, ma questo non lo dico perché non voglio fare brutta figura al primo appuntamento. Poi ci sono le regole che dobbiamo seguire: no, non quelle per il primo appuntamento, ma quelle che noi, ragazzi gay, siamo costretti a seguire nei luoghi pubblici. Prima di ogni tocco, uno sguardo attorno. Ma non perché gli altri sono cattivi, più perché questa vergogna che abbiamo dentro ci perseguita come una malattia incurabile. È come se fossimo troppo giovani per vedere o sapere qualcosa.

A casa tua giriamo attorno al tuo letto come se fosse uno spazio sacro, ma una volta che ci sediamo non si può più andare indietro e tu cominci a fare un elenco dei tuoi difetti. La tua voce non va bene ma tu la usi per cantare comunque. Il tuo naso è quasi sempre chiuso per una deviazione del setto. Sei uno che russa tanto. Il tuo corpo è pieno di sconfitte ma io provo a rassicurarti che va tutto bene mostrandoti i miei difetti. Non so perché lo sto facendo, ma per un attimo che sembra il più importante di tutti, mi sento a mio agio con te.

Il secondo giorno è diverso. Seduti su una panchina mi dici che stai rivivendo un momento del tuo passato: sei con il tuo ex, e all’inizio provi entusiasmo, che poi cade improvvisamente, e tu non vuoi rivivere questo. Io quasi mi alzo per andare via ma tu mi dici di rimanere ancora un po’.

Alla fermata del tram tengo la mano sulle tue spalle e una ragazzina ci guarda e io sento la vergogna che torna. Ma tu ti sei accocolato al mio petto e io provo a non pensare che questa potrebbe essere l’ultima volta che ci vediamo. Forse questo è il nostro segreto per una vita felice. Questo istante felice, poi l’altro, poi l’altro, e così via, senza sosta.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Ci vediamo di fronte a Palazzo Nuovo e poi andiamo a prendere qualcosa da mangiare perché è già tardi e abbiamo entrambi fame. Arriva in ritardo perché, mi spiega, ha sottovalutato le distanze. Ha il MacBook sotto il braccio ed è molto più basso di quanto immaginavo, ma parla inglese perfettamente, con un ritmo che a me fa girare la testa, e io mi sento subito a mio agio. Finalmente, mi dico, posso usare la parola “obstreperous” in una frase senza ricevere in cambio lo sguardo confuso di chi non capisce l’inglese.

Scegliamo il cibo thailandese e poi, borse di carta in mano, ci dirigiamo verso il Po per sederci e mangiare a l’ombra. Dietro di noi, un gruppo di ragazzi sta fumando e ridendo. Lui abita a Dubai, dove sta per finire un dottorato sulla mass communication, e mi parla dei suoi studenti con una sorta di affetto che tradisce la sua giovinezza: ha ancora freschi nella mente la paura e lo scombussolamento dello studente e vuole aiutarli. La sua ricerca, mi spiega, si focalizza sui blockchain e su come vengono rappresentati nella comunicazione di massa. Mi parla di come questa nuova tecnologia è una forma di internet che non potrà mai essere censurato o chiuso, e dietro le sue parole vedo una forma di entusiasmo, non frenetico, ma rassegnato, come per dire “sarà così, e menomale che sarà così e non altrimenti.”

I ragazzi dietro di noi continuano a ridere. C’è odore di erba nell’aria. Ma la loro presenza, a pochi metri di distanza, è così inconseguente che spunta solo nei momenti in cui ci fermiamo per guardare il fiume che scorre davanti a noi. Mi parla dei suoi viaggi, della vita gay a Dubai, e del fatto che, mentre nei paesi occidentali l’omosessualità è strettamente collegata all’identità, al “essere,” nei paesi del Medio Oriente, l’omosessualità è più qualcosa che “fai.” Più un’azione che una cosa statica.

Mi racconta di come per quattro anni ha investito affetto nella cotta per il suo migliore amico tedesco, che dormiva con lui, mangiava con lui, e che si è poi sposato (con una donna) senza neanche invitarlo o informarlo. Per quattro anni, mi dice senza rancore, ha vissuto con la speranza che questo affetto, ricambiato, potesse diventare qualcosa di più. Per quattro anni, aggiunge, non ho conosciuto altri tipi, e per quattro anni ho vissuto con l’idea che anche lui fosse gay, ma doveva solo fare il passo avanti e dirlo. Quando la verità è finalmente uscita allo scoperto il tipo è sparito. Ci salutiamo e io torno in biblioteca a lavorare su una traduzione.

Tra le parole che leggo e traduco, però, non riesco a non pensare a quello di cui mi ha parlato. “Fare” ed “essere” sono due verbi molto diversi che denotano due atteggiamenti altrettanto diversi. Uno implica movimento, l’altro staticità, e mi chiedo se il primo fosse più adatto a descrivere la nostra situazione. E questo non è perché siamo moderni e viaggiamo spesso in sempre più paesi, ma perché abbiamo scoperto di quanto è frammentato il mondo e, per estensione, di quanti piccoli pezzi siamo fatti, e di quanto siano diversi questi pezzi. Un sabato sera sei con i tuoi amici a mangiare ravioli e pensi che quella è la felicità assoluta e poi lunedì mattina scopri che la felicità è fatta di non dover svegliarsi presto, e mercoledì pranzi con un tipo che sta facendo un dottorato a Dubai e quello sembra il momento perfetto. Magari, penso, per provare contentezza devo scrollarmela di dosso quest’idea di staticità. Alla fine, una bella emozione sarà bella solo per un momento. E poi arriva un’altra. E poi un’altra.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Ci vediamo al Starbucks di fronte al Trinity College, e il nostro incontro lo percepisco, anche ancor prima di subirlo, come l’incoronazione di un lungo processo mentale, come quello che precede una decisione importante. Dovevamo vederci il giorno prima, ma per vari motivi (di salute, mi dice), non riusciamo a trovare il momento giusto. Lui è brasiliano, avvocato, con gli occhiali tondi e la barba che sembra fatta apposta per la sua faccia, come se fosse un vestito lavorato a maglia da sua nonna. Ha la mia altezza, e il suo corpo si perde nei vestiti, simile al corpo di un bambino in un mucchio di foglie.

Nel momento in cui ci vediamo sembra di evitarmi, non mi guarda, parla con le finestre, coi muri, con la commessa che scrive il suo nome nel modo sbagliato sul bicchiere di carta. Per un attimo mi sento come un intruso, e sono quasi geloso della loro conversazione. Io, come sempre, comincio a costruire muri attorno a me, perché questa sua indifferenza la conosco benissimo e fa male: è il sintomo di una malattia comune, il rifiuto. Ovunque io vada, penso, le mie insicurezze mi seguiranno, come un cane fedele che non vede la sua fedeltà come una forma di scambio.

Ci sediamo e parliamo di tutto. È venuto a Dublino per imparare l’inglese, io gli dico che abbiamo solo un paio di ore a disposizione, perché poi ho una cena, e poi devo tornare a casa. Mi parla della sua scuola, dei suoi corsi, del suo lavoro, e quando parla i suoi occhi fanno un cerchio attorno a me per poi fare centro sui miei. È molto difficile guardarlo, perché lo trovo (oddio) tanto carino, ma mi sforzo di farlo perché, perché, perché non voglio che questa maledetta f*****a ansia porti via il piacere che provo quando mi parla.

Faccio domande stupide, attraversiamo momenti di silenzio imbarazzanti, e sto già pensando al fatto che mi devo fare le valigie, al fatto che il giorno dopo dovrò svegliarmi presto per andare al aeroporto, ma poi quando tocco per sbaglio la sua mano con la mia, lui me la afferra e stiamo lì, così, lui con la mano allungata sopra il tavolino, a parlare di podcast che ti insegnano inglese. Andiamo in un negozio di libri e ci fermiamo alla sezione “cooking” dove lui mi dice che cucinerebbe cose nuove ogni giorno, solo così, per divertimento. Poi, andiamo in un piccolo supermercato dove lui si prende il dentifricio e la Coca Cola e io mi prendo le caramelle gommose che mangiamo insieme alla fermata del tram. Il suo tram passa. Può prendere il prossimo, mi dice, nessun problema. Io guardo Google Maps per capire quanto ci metto ad arrivare alla cena. Solo 17 minuti, posso restare ancora un po’, dai. Un altro tram passa. C’è sempre il prossimo. Io posso restare ancora un po’, dai, per una volta nella mia vita posso arrivare anch’io in ritardo.

Poi arriva il tram di nuovo, e non si può più rimandare, e ci abbracciamo, e io corro perché sono in ritardo, e non capisco da dove devo prendere il pullman per arrivare alla cena. Attraverso le strade e il freddo, il fiume di cui nome non ricordo. Una signora mi chiede se può usare il mio telefono per chiamare sua sorella, e io non mi giro neanche, perché ho paura di vederlo di nuovo, seduto al tavolino che ora è grande come il mondo intero.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Ci vediamo vicino al Cinema Centrale, e lui mi parla in un inglese storto, come se non l’avesse mai parlato, solo letto da qualche parte. Io provo a correggerlo ogni tanto, provando a non sembrare troppo puntiglioso, perché è carino, con la sua giacca scura e maglia color pelle, e un neo posizionato sul viso nel posto giusto, come quello di Marilyn Monroe.

Prendiamo un caffè e nel mentre mi parla del suo lavoro e io del mio. Mi parla di come lui se n’è andato di casa quando era molto giovane perché i suoi si erano lasciati e non trovava più legami con quella casa. Io lo ascolto e penso a come questa cosa, di andare via senza avere una meta, lo rende più nobile per certi versi. Lo vedo lì, dall’altra parte del tavolo, sotto una certa luce, e lo invidio perché lui ha trovato il coraggio che a me manca. Perché a differenza di lui, io sono tornato, sempre, perché, a differenza di lui, mi sono sempre legato ai luoghi, alle persone anche quando ero consapevole di quanto male questa cosa mi potesse fare. Lui si rende conto di quello, mi guarda e mi dice che sono fuori luogo qui, che mi può vedere solo a Londra, o in qualche posto del genere, che sono troppo interessante per restare a Torino. Questo lo dice con una sorta di imbarazzo che lo rende, nella mia percezione, molto femminile. E il neo di Monroe non contradice questa mia sensazione. Ha le ciglia lunghe e quando guarda in giù le sue labbra si affilano in un modo che a me fa tanta tenerezza. Ha quell’aria da ragazzo che ha appena finito il liceo, e il mondo è ancora pieno di meraviglie.

Lo accompagno per un po’ sulla strada verso casa sua e poi ci abbracciamo e ci auguriamo il meglio perché lo abbiamo capito entrambi, penso, il fatto che non ci vedremo più. Sulla via di ritorno, penso a quanti modi ci sono per dire ad una persona, oppure per farla capire, che le nostre strade rimaranno divise, o che si divideranno d’ora in poi. Un modo è sicuramente dirlo direttamente, che è anche il modo più difficile, più doloroso, simile allo strappare, in un solo colpo, un cerotto che si è abituato troppo con la tua pelle. Ma uno può farlo anche indirettamente, parlandoti di un mondo in cui tu non ci sei, oppure dicendoti che sei felice nel modo sbagliato, o nel mondo sbagliato.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Prima di vederci, però, abbiamo speso tante parole, come se le parole fossero una sorta di rituale tantra oppure una strada di mattoni gialli. Durante una chiamata Skype, con il telefono tenuto sempre ad un angolo non molto lusinghiero, mi fa vedere la sua cucina. Si sta facendo un shake proteico, mi dice con l’aria colpevole, dopo essersi allenato. Ride, e quando allunga la mano vedo i suoi pettorali e la tartaruga. Il suo corpo, biondo, è una battaglia vinta. Qua c’è il tavolo, il frigorifero, l’armadio per la cucina. Mi fa vedere tutto e io mi vedo già lì, seduto al tavolo a preparare il suo shake proteico oppure semplicemente a guardarlo.

Abita lontano da me, e la sua età lo allontana ancora di più, ma decidiamo di vederci all’Auchan di Torino. Vado a prendere il pullman e mentre lo sto aspettando, improvvisamente, un’amica di mia madre arriva in macchina e mi chiede se voglio un passaggio. Vorrei dire di no, perché so che dovrò spiegare cosa sto andando a fare, ma il pensiero di vedere il tipo ancora più presto del previsto mi spinge di accettare la proposta. All’amica di mia madre dico che sto andando a comprare un paio di cose. La mia indeterminatezza è come l’elefante proverbiale. Lui è lì, come promesso, vestito in una giacca che sembra troppo grande per lui, e mi parla con una voce molto bassa, come se qualcuno stesse per ascoltare la nostra discussione. Parliamo del tempo, in inglese, perché vuole migliorare il suo inglese (già abbastanza buono), e poi si mette a parlare al telefono con qualcuno. Parla e cammina, gesticola ma in un modo molto contenuto, e io mi siedo e lo guardo e inaspettatamente lo vedo per un attimo così fragile che quasi quasi assomiglia un cane maltrattato dal suo padrone. Abbassa la testa, guarda in giù, fissa il pavimento, come se l’altra persona potesse vedere la sua umiliazione.

Finita la conversazione mi offre un passaggio a casa nella sua macchina a due posti e io provo a parlare di altre cose, ad avvicinarmi, ma lui continua a fare finta di niente. Evita una strada perché il suo navigatore indicava una ferrovia e lui ha paura delle ferrovie e quindi fa un giro lunghissimo solo per evitare quella strada. Gli spiego che non è un passaggio a livello, ma lui la evita comunque. Per qualche motivo, gli do un altro indirizzo, e scendo dalla macchina, e faccio finta di cercare le chiavi finché lui gira la macchina e se ne va. E io rimango in mezzo al marciapiede colpito dal sole e dal caldo e dalla situazione.

Per un lungo attimo sento un imbarazzo profondo. Non c’è nessuno sulla strada ma io vorrei entrare in un buco nella terra e non uscire più, così come facevo da piccolo quando commettevo un errore. E penso alla sua cucina, al tavolo dove mi ero seduto, e mi sento come uno che è andato ad una festa senza essere invitato. Arrivato a casa, penso alla facilità con cui riesco a proiettarmi nella vita degli altri, come se la mia esistenza dipendesse da quello. Durante la nostra conversazione su Skype era come se esistevo solo lì, seduto al tavolo, e non dietro lo schermo del mio telefono. Quando, mi chiedo, a quale punto della mia vita ho deciso che non posso esistere fuori ma solo nella presenza di un’altra vita che scorre, tra l’altro, indipendentemente dalla mia?

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Viene dalla V. e parla italiano velocemente, come se dovesse scappare in ogni momento e vuole finire tutto quello che ha da dire prima di andarsene. È più basso di me, e io mi sento come una gru a torre che deve spostare pesi sopra di lui. E già questo non mi piace. Mi chiede di aspettarlo al pianoforte di Porta Nuova, e quando arriva, le cuffie bluetooth attorno al collo come se fossero una collana, mi dice che lui è un musicista e che non sa una parola d’inglese. Tutto ciò mi spaventa, mi delude, perché l’inglese è la mia lingua, ed è quasi un rifugio (cavolo, non potrò mai impressionarlo con la mia recitazione di The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock), e lui è molto, ma molto carino, e io voglio scappare, perché di sicuro avrà sbagliato persona. Lui comunque continua a parlare, e in ogni sua parola, sento una cadenza così estranea alla lingua italiana che la fa sembrare quasi come un gioco da bambini. Una ruota di legno che gira.

Mi parla del suo ex che l’aveva tradito, e dei suoi professori a l’università che, ogni tanto ci provano con lui, perché lui “è il più figo della classe” e le ragazze sono rimaste tutte deluse quando hanno scoperto che a lui piacciono i ragazzi. Poi mi parla del fatto che ha suonato con cantanti italiani famosi che lui non conosceva prima. Io nel mentre provo un forte desiderio di alzare gli occhi al cielo. Ma non lo faccio, perché quando gli dico che dovrebbe andare anche nei locali a conoscere gente (perché, secondo me, avrebbe tanto successo), lui mi spiega che per lui non funziona così. “Io vorrei avere successo”, mi dice con la sua stessa disinvoltura, “con la persona che scelgo io”. Io annuisco perché non ho altro da dire e per un attimo, tra di noi, si sente solo la voce registrata del capostazione che dice che il mio treno sta per arrivare.

Quando mi chiede il numero annuisco di nuovo e metto una tromba vicino al suo nome. Il piccolo musicista. Sul treno, tornando a casa, penso alle cose che non ho mai fatto per paura di fallire, agli spazi “di sicurezza” che costruisco attorno a me per stare bene, ai miei rituali, che vanno sempre verso di me, ma mai verso gli altri. E quasi quasi, la musica che sto ascoltando ha un senso.

Non ricordo se mi hai parlato in inglese o in italiano, ma di sicuro le tue parole sembravano quelle di un venditore che all’improvviso deve chiudere il negozio presto oggi, e sta già chiudendo le scatole mentre io sto ancora guardando. Sono parole lunghe, finali, riassuntivi, e da tutto ciò si fa capire che il mondo che avevi in testa è molto diverso da quello là fuori, e ora non hai più bisogno di nessuno. Una forma di autonomia suprema, che sfida pure l’arte. Io annuisco, in macchina, alle tue parole, e guardo fuori, e penso alla tua barba, e vedo gente per strada, sui pullman, ed è come se questa realtà, là fuori, è molto più accogliente di quanto pensavo. E sembra che, piano piano, sulla mappa di questa mia realtà, tu ti stai definendo come uno spazio indisponibile, oppure come la terra incognita, selvaggia, che si rifiuta di essere scoperta. Alle quattro del mattino ci ripenso, e sono quasi geloso delle tue storie, perché sono già tue, e io sono ancora realtà.

Mi sveglierò tra un paio di ore. Andrò a correre. Farò la doccia, provando sempre di restare dentro il mio corpo e fuori dalla mia testa. Farò colazione. Prenderò il treno per andare a Torino. Esaminerò studenti e proverò a non guardarli in faccia. E a fine giornata il cielo assomiglierà la pancia di un aereo gigante che coprirà tutto, pure le mie orecchie. Ma almeno, in tutto questo, tu sarai solo un pensiero. E se nel passato, i nostri padri costruivano case e fabbriche per seppellire il passato che ci chiamava da dentro la terra, io costruirò questa giornata sopra di te. E domani ci sarà un’altra. E poi un’alta. Finché non ti sentirò più.

D’estate si va al parco con l’uomo fatto di pelle e inchiostro. Ormai tutti gli uomini che ricambiano il tuo sorriso assomigliano una promessa fatta di notte per far passare la febbre.

Lui ti porta sempre in su, attraversando il calore pomeridiano, ti parla delle varie statue che vedete lungo il sentiero, e tu lo ascolti senza togliere lo sguardo dalle sue braccia che vorresti si muovessero per toccarti in un certo modo, con un certo senso. Ma lui si muove solo per spiegarti meglio il mondo. Vedi, tu hai qualcosa di cui ho paura, ma non saprei dirti cos’è. Si riempie la bottiglia d’acqua e saluta una ragazza incontrata per caso. Allontana le zanzare con le sue mani.

Poi, le sue parole diventano strette, come se volessero scapare tra i denti, mentre si avvicina e ti bacia e tu non sai cosa fare con quel bacio tranne che tenerlo sotto la lingua, sperando che si sciogliesse come una pastiglia.

Ti porta in macchina. Ti tiene la mano. Parli con sua sorella e lei ti guarda come se fossi un commesso esageratamente amichevole. Prendete tutti il gelato. Ti porta a casa e mentre tieni la sua testa al tuo petto lui geme come un bambino e tu pensi, finalmente, ci siamo, ho questo uomo con me nei suoi momenti più fragili, e nessuno potrà mai togliervi questo. Quando se ne va di lui rimane solo la musica.

D’estate si può fare. D’estate si può illudere senza rimanere male.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Lui studia architettura e parla inglese come se fosse madrelingua. Però senza l’arroganza di un madrelingua. Usa la parola “lucrative” (redditizio, profittevole) in una frase, correttamente, mentre mi parla di un architetto che è tipo il Lady Gaga dell’architettura. Poi mi parla di un suo libro, pubblicato in arabo, e la sua foto sulla quarta di copertina, che odia così tanto che ogni volta che trova il suo libro nelle librerie lo compra per poi regalarlo ai suoi cugini e altri parenti.

Ma io, ovviamente, da bravo ragazzo gay, gli chiedo se i suoi genitori lo sanno, se i suoi fratelli lo sanno, perché per noi, questa cosa del dire e del sapere è essenziale, come se senza quello non potessimo esistere. In principio, c’era il verbo (e il complemento oggetto). Lui mi guarda perplesso, come se non l’avesse sentito sopra le voci dei ragazzini che ci circondano in Piazza Castello. Sapere cosa? Il fatto che tu sia gay, gli dico. Fa una piccola pausa, e poi mi dice che in realtà vuole mantenere le opzioni aperte. (Santa swings both ways, penso). Non ho conosciuto tutte le ragazze di questo mondo, mi dice, quindi non posso dire che non mi piacciono le ragazze. La stessa cosa vale per i ragazzi. Prova a conoscere tutti, mi spiega, senza avere un obbiettivo, uno scenario in testa. Non mettere le cose in piccole scatole.

Dopo che ci lasciamo, sul treno, penso alla domanda che ci facciamo spesso sui siti/app d’incontro: cosa cerchi? Come se, necessariamente, si deve cercare qualcosa, che una volta trovata ci risolverà tutto. Mi dispiace, Mario, ma la tua principessa è in un altro castello. Penso, soprattutto, a come prima di uscire con qualcuno preparo tutto nella mia testa. Se farà questo, io farò quello. Se farà quello, io farò questo. Come se quello che sono io fosse uno spettacolo da mettere in scena per il piacimento del pubblico. E ogni pubblico insoddisfatto diventa un fallimento.

Mi prometto di dimenticare la sceneggiatura, o almeno di provare, di lasciare le scatole a casa, e di guardare le persone che incontro senza questi pregiudizi di forma. Perché poi, prima che diventino persone amate, sono, prima di tutto, persone, che avranno storie da dire in un inglese perfetto.

Oggi non sono uscito con un tipo. Oppure non ricordo di averlo fatto.

Ma poi, alla fine, perché tutto questo, da dove arriva questo desiderio di ricordarsi e di rivivere tutte queste stronzate?

Non è, penso, una questione di rivivere, ne di analizzare ogni istante del passato per capire dove si è sbagliato. È più per capire se si può vivere una vita senza fare male a qualcuno.

Il 24 Febbraio 2012 sono uscito per la prima volta con un tipo. Trovo questa informazione in un mio diario, ritrovato oggi, tra altri quaderni pieni di appunti. Il ragazzo si chiama M., e a quel punto aveva 22 anni e studiava filosofia. Lo descrivo come “intelligente, brillante quasi, e molto dolce,” e scrivo che ci sono stati dei momenti durante il nostro incontro in cui avevo tanta voglia di baciarlo. Ovviamente, non l’ho mai fatto. Poi scrivo che mi piacerebbe tanto rivederlo. Che spero tanto di rivederlo. Il 28 febbraio 2012 scrivo che mi sta evitando e che continua a non rispondere ai miei messaggi. Addirittura va offline ogni volta che gli scrivo su Skype. La stessa cosa il giorno dopo. Il suo nome risale un paio di giorni dopo. Poi sparisce. Non parlo, però, del fatto che avevo versato un po’ di caffè sulla mia manica e che ero uscito a fumare mentre lui si è preso un toast perché aveva fame. E non scrivo del fatto che è stato quel ragazzo a parlarmi di Edmund White, lo scrittore gay che poi diventerà uno dei miei preferiti, e del suo libro, A Boy’s Own Story, che mi aiuterà a capire chi sono e come sono fatto. Continuo invece a girare sui miei problemi: sono brutto, disgustoso quasi, certo che non si farà sentire, devo cambiare, devo fare qualcosa. I diari sono uno strumento molto potente. Amen.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Non ricordo il suo nome.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Lui studia medicina. Prima aveva studiato filologia classica. Mi sta dicendo tutto questo in inglese e io lo correggo ogni tanto perché non posso farne a meno, perché è un difetto di professione, e ogni volta che lo faccio mi scuso. Lui mi tranquillizza e mi dice che ho fatto bene. Ho fatto bene a correggerlo. Noto poi che la seconda volta non fa lo stesso errore. E neanche la terza volta. Tutto questo mentre mi parla dei virus, di come funzionano, di come in realtà sono dei parassiti che non riescono a sopravvivere senza attaccarsi ad un essere vivente, del cancro, e delle difficoltà che la medicina deve affrontare ogni giorno. Ho quasi paura di fermarlo perché vorrei tanto che continuasse a parlare con me, a vedere come le sue mani si alzano nell’aria per farmi capire qualcosa. (Non so perché, ma per un attimo penso ad un Primo Levi giovane, su una bicicletta.) E ogni volta che gli dico che veramente sa tante cose alza le mani e dice che ha “solo” studiato tanto. Niente di che. Nulla di speciale. La modestia, mi dice e io finisco la frase, è una virtù. Esatto, mi dice, esatto. E quasi quasi lo voglio sposare, ma alla fine di tutto mi dice che è stata una discussione stimolante e mi abbraccia. E niente di più. E mentre scendo le scale a Porta Nuova per prendere la metro penso alla lezione che ho fatto con i miei studenti stamattina. Success and failure go hand in hand, avevo detto a lezione. Non sarà una storia d’amore, ma almeno ho capito che tipo di persona mi piacerebbe avere accanto.

Fermati qui. Poi riparti.

Certe cose non si possono dire. Lo so benissimo. Per ciò ho costruito un intero mondo sulla punta della mia lingua, con tutte le cose che non posso dire, che avrei voluto dire, e che non dirò mai. Senza rancore, ogni mattina, scalerò quella montagna di cose non dette, e guarderò tutto con l’occhio di un collezionista, contento di avere tutte quelle cose. E tutto questo lo farò mentre ballo ascoltando Robyn – Dancing on my own.

Oggi sono uscito con un tipo. Arrivo a Porta Nuova, dove avevamo deciso di vederci, e quando gli chiedo dove lo trovo mi dice che è in ritardo. Di più di un ora. Perché, in realtà, pensava che non sarei mai venuto. Mi arrabbio e quasi quasi me ne vado a casa. Però mi fermo un attimo e penso a quello che ho imparato in questi giorni su come gestire le mie emozioni: bisogna fare un passo indietro, penso, soprattutto quando si tratta di rabbia. Faccio il passo indietro. È anche colpa mia, penso per un attimo, avrei dovuto ricordarglielo, avrei dovuto parlare. Magari pensavo, come lui, che non sarebbe mai arrivato al nostro appuntamento.

Rimandiamo l’appuntamento di un’ora e finalmente ci vediamo. Arriva vestito tutto di nero, vestiti larghi che non sembrano di finire, o di avere una forma precisa, e il suo profumo mi ricorda di quelle mattine domenicali piene di sonno quando andavo in chiesa perché mi sentivo in colpa. Sto per confessare tutti i miei peccati: si, ho letto Edmund White di nascosto, si, ho desiderato ciò che non dovevo desiderare. Finito l’incontro, mi dirigo verso la stazione e rido da solo e sorrido, ampiamente, a due donne che si tengono per mano. Rido perché penso al mio esercizio di positività, perché quasi quasi vedo tutto questo come un esercizio fallito. Va tutto a puttane quando sono positivo, mi dico. Ma poi, sempre camminando, mi rendo conto che la lezione era proprio quella, di ridere dei tuoi fallimenti, e di rendersi conto che quando sei così pieno di te stesso raramente c’è spazio per gli altri.


Robb’s Last Tape (Take Sixteen)


A few years ago, the daughter of one of my grandmother’s neighbors packed her bags and moved to Spain for work. Once there, she learned the language, found a job and a boyfriend, and seemed to be moving on with her life. The mother, on the other hand, did not take matters so lightheartedly and refused to accept her daughter’s apparent indifference. She had only one daughter, and she had dared to leave, to work and live among strangers, in a faraway country, and who knows when she would come back. The mother was and still is of the idea that you raise children to have someone care for you when you are no longer capable of doing that, and her daughter had ignored that belief by forging a life of her own.

She mourned her daughter’s departure and, long after that, she kept returning, doggedly and in spite of my grandmother’s supplications, to the place where she had watched her only daughter get on a bus and wave goodbye to her from the window.

My grandmother tried to comfort her to the best of her abilities since she is a veteran of sorts. She had watched as all of her children and grandchildren got into cars or on buses in search for a better life to return only perennially, akin to seasonal fruit. Then, when the supplications ceased working, and the woman seemed to be losing her wits, grandmother started berating what, to her, looked like irrational behavior. She needed to get a grip of herself, she had to do that for her daughter’s sake. For everyone’s sake.

The mother, as mothers often do, had built a life around her daughter and she would frequently get into fights with her neighbors and friends because of her daughter. Whenever she believed the little girl had been mistreated, either by her classmates, teachers, or even relatives, she would go to their houses and wreak havoc. Stern accusations would be served in rapid fire as the other person stood, dumbfounded, while the spectacle unfurled. After, she would avoid speaking to them or give them as much as a look when they crossed paths.

Every year, when the dyer’s greenweed in her front yard blossomed, she would pay a photographer to come and take a picture of her daughter sitting next to the flowers. The thing became a ceremony of sorts, a way to record the girl’s progress through life. The photographer was often drunk, and the photos would come out blurred as if to warn the mother of her daughter’s intentions. Always on the move, ready to sprint when the signal went off.

She was her daughter’s PR manager. Birthday parties were rituals akin to those concocted by wedding planners. Only the right people were invited or those who held some amount of clout. Eligible young boys were strategically placed next to her in case she would develop an interest in them. Those same boys were later scrutinized by the mother, their behavior weighed against that of other, ideal, boys, their families’ history accounted for in the process. Birthday gifts were reviewed through the grapevine, and if they were bad enough, or embarrassing enough, they could be used against you when the time was ripe. Friends were painstakingly selected, and if any of them ventured to trespass the unwritten rules of conduct that the mother had set beforehand, they would be shunned with biblical momentum.

People in the village frowned upon the mother’s demeanor and more often than not they disapproved of the daughter’s behavior. She wore high boots in winter and big circular earrings that reminded you of an R’n’B singer. She was a free-spirited girl and went dancing in the village discotheque, and she had been the first to introduce high-sole shoes and Spice Girls to the people in the community (including me). And when she broke up with the guy she had been dating in Spain, everyone, including my grandma and her friends, agreed that it had been a big mistake because she should consider her rank and nobody would have her after such impertinence. Beggars can’t be choosers, the consensus went. The mother battled on, her body shriveling, her health receding to some forgotten space at the back of her mind.

In the meantime, the daughter returned, whether to undo the harm perpetrated by her departure or not, I do not know for sure. She has now taken up university studies, and she has a mysterious new boyfriend who is always on the move, and nobody has yet had the pleasure to see or meet him. But the rumors never ceased: she is still the odd one out among the young girls in the village, a position, I believe, she both despises and takes comfort in, protected by the mother’s long and prickly wings. Personally, I take pride in her decisions, because I can sympathize with her predicament. In spite of all hindrances, she has remained faithful to who she is and has never been afraid of what people might think of her. I cannot fully fathom how the people in the village would react if they knew I was gay, yet I am confident the rumors would tear my family and me apart, so I prefer to keep some things to myself.

Like my grandmother, I also thought of the neighbor’s behavior as excessive, and, as if by habit, I frequently returned to a poem about letting go I had studied in college. It was a poem about a mother’s death, and it managed to encompass, in just a few lines, like all good poetry, the unnerving sensation and the pain of letting go. I cannot recall the exact poem, but its ending went along the lines of “it’s simple, you just have to let go.” As you might imagine, I could not tell the woman about the poem, she wouldn’t have understood it, and she wouldn’t have accepted it. She lacks the education needed to appreciate such an offering. And, as my grandmother has done on repeated occasions, she would have scolded me for my insensitivity, blamed me for being too far removed from the true meaning of the situation. Unlike the two of them, I had not experienced the emotional infirmity, the sense of helplessness prompted by the knowledge of being unable to see, touch, smell, and talk to the person that up to the point of departure had occupied a big chunk of my emotional life.

It’s simple. You just have to let go.

To be frank, I have made a habit of breezing through farewells and goodbyes, either by telling the other person that we shall meet again, that they haven’t seen the last of me or by depreciating the gravity of the moment. I would make a joke or a comment about something, wish them the best with the biggest of smiles, then turn quickly away and leave without looking over my shoulder. The quicker, the better, that was and still is my motto. For some reason, whenever I went out of the train station, or the airport, I would always look up at the sky, as if the blue impassivity of its vastness could act as a buffer for the brusqueness of my emotions. Yet, I have never broken down or cried in front of someone, except for that time, in high school, when my mother left me in a new house, with people I did not know because she had to go back to Italy.

But I have watched other people break down. My earliest memory of it is of when my great-grandmother died. I remember being at the cemetery, surrounded by people, and, as my great-grandma’s lifeless body was being lowered into the ground, my brother suddenly turned to me, his face melting in a flow of mucus and tears, as if to check and see whether I had any feelings at all. I did not cry, I was most likely dumbfounded by the ritual as I always am on such occasions, but I can distinctly recall my mother’s wailing, her supplications beseeching the old lady to return home because it was cold there, in the ground.

It’s simple. You just have to let go.

My mother broke down again when my father moved to Italy. When the suitcases were finally by the door, and the time came for him to leave, my mother leaned back against the fireplace and covered her face with her hands. Grandma cried, too, but more for her daughter’s sake. After all, she had never fully agreed to their marriage, and in her eyes, father’s departure was akin to a confirmation of her fears. Then mother pushed herself back up to hug and kiss my father, and the only thing I felt was this immense emptiness in my chest, the kind you feel when you are falling or traveling at high speed. I was stoic about it, or perhaps ashamed of showing my emotions. It was an impulse I could not control, or maybe I had made a habit of bottling my feelings. I could not figure it out, I was too young, my mind unripe, and decided to stay strong, because that is what boys did. Showing emotions was shameful.

Or perhaps it was because I had rationalized crying. It was something I did when I felt like it, and not when the situation required it, or when others peer-pressured me into it. I shed tears when I was furious or when I thought that some injustice had been perpetrated on me, not when people moved to another country. At that time, moving to another country spelled opportunities that had to be seized at all costs, it meant escaping deadening routines, earning new money, exploring different cultures. In school, I cried when I got a bad mark, or when other children made fun of me, which was pretty often. It was, in short, a way to diffuse pent-up emotions, an embodiment of rage. In high-school, at the height of my bully problems and those related to my homosexuality, I wished I could turn my heart to stone and never succumb to such manifestations.

Yet, as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. There have been times when I desperately wanted to cry but could not. Times when something would rise up in my throat and stop me from breathing regularly, from thinking straight. Times when I felt like it would offer some respite from the tension that threatened to turn my chest to shreds. Last summer, when the guy who had got my hopes up and boosted my confidence told me he was no longer interested in pursuing whatever we had going on, I felt like crying but could not, for the death of me, muster the courage or the fragility needed to shed tears. I had finally got what I wished for.

Is it that simple? Do you just let go?

What I learned that summer is that letting go is a sinuous process, much lengthier than the closing line of a poem, more extensive than the gap the departed leave behind. It requires a daily dose of effort, not to close it, but to become functional again. You wake up, and there it is, the absence, grumpier than any sense of guilt, more obstinate than a stain on an old carpet. I tried reasoning with it, telling myself that I should have known better, that I should have set a system of checks and balances that would have kept me out of harm’s way. But still, it lingered. I tried writing about him thinking that it might offer some closing, but, just like that omnipresent absence, the words refused to comfort me. You are on your own in this, they seemed to be saying, and, finally, I yielded to their stubbornness.

One step at a time, I told myself, and I believed it.

Then, in late autumn, I met another guy, and that absence seemed to recede, its tail between its hind legs. I met him on Tinder, and I had come to our first date with that memory of disillusionment still fresh. Which was good, because it kept me with my feet firmly planted on the ground. I was not going to make the same mistake again, for sure, I had learned my lesson. We had been dating for a while when I told a friend of mine about him, and that friend warned me. Be careful now, he said, you’re falling in love with him. I denied it, energetically, I could not be doing that, my heart was still charred, still smoking, the burnt wood still emanating warmth.

But then it happened.

And how could I see, as Elizabeth Smart puts it, the light of a match while burning in the arms of the sun? And the sun darkened as if to take some time off from its constant burning. And I was left alone in the dark. I counted the hours. Hours turned into days. I became increasingly aware of time akin to an alcoholic trying to stay sober. I stopped contacting my friends. I did not feel like going out. I plunged into my work, taking on as many projects I could physically tolerate until time turned into a puddle; until I could no longer remember when I got that text message saying we couldn’t go on meeting. Before and after no longer made sense.

I went into a trance.

Is it that simple? Do you just let go?

I calculated everything. The number of steps I took away from you. The more I walked, the further I went, the better I felt.

I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t linger. I shouldn’t ruminate. I shouldn’t listen to the songs you like. But I’m really working on it as if my life depends on it. I’m elbowing my way through the thick molasses of my mind to summon an image of you that gives you the legitimacy you had on the first day we met. A picture that is disengaged from what I know now as I’m writing this. I’m working my way back to you in the hope of finding a way out. Back to that Wednesday afternoon, the one with the yellow shirt worn over a black t-shirt and the smell in that vintage shop in Turin we went into because we didn’t have anything else to do.

You tried on a green shirt. You didn’t like it. The man in the shop tried to sell you other things, but you were an immovable object, your body gyrating in the mirror of the dressing room with the ease of a clockwork ballerina. When you look at yourself, you disconnect, and for a moment you resemble those who are photographed unknowingly.

I’m walking backward, back to that Wednesday in mid-October, when I went into one of the toilets of the Porta Nuova train station to change into a red sweater, which I had bought for the occasion and felt like a runaway in a spy movie. The Wednesday with the cheap wine that had gone sour, when you told me about how you had put hemorrhoid lotion on your tattoo, thus ruining it. The Wednesday that still feels like the epitome of all Wednesdays.

We’re laughing over lunch, and you’re slapping your thigh and close your eyes when you smile as if the joy you feel in that moment must be kept a secret. You’re telling me about how you went into the Vodafone store, repeatedly, because you’d been having issues with your account, and they refused to help you with the stubbornness of a foreign language. Then, you’re telling me about your favorite movie, Pulp Fiction, and I feel small because, for the death of me, I can’t think of one single film that is my favorite. The Grand Hotel Budapest, I finally blurt out in my defense while we’re eating ice cream. The Isle of Dogs, I add. You’re not a big fan of ice cream, you say as we’re heading to the ice cream shop. Eating ice cream is exhausting. I had never heard anyone describe ice cream as exhausting, so I make a mental note of it. Something to hold onto later.

I still hold onto it, like I hold onto the night we had tea and chocolate biscuits in bed after midnight.

We’re walking, wandering really, and as we cross a square in the city center, you invite me over to your place. There’s an awkward silence at the end of your invitation as if it’s something that shouldn’t be discussed further, but I say yes anyway, and feel my spirits drop for a moment, the way they do when I’m about to go into a job interview. On our way up to your place, we meet an old lady who lives in the same apartment building, and she’s all over you, and you smile warmly at her, and you’re no longer the tallest man in the world.

Then, I’m walking the streets we used to walk on, the places familiar, resembling the relics of some lost empire, the glory of it now unpalatable, ridiculous almost. I’m undoing our steps. I’m the old witch in search of eternal beauty. Poetry helps. The words of other people a pinning down of an animal struggling for air, the muscles still twitching after its head has been cut off. Your face against the pillow looms large like that of an unforgiving god. The god of the old testament. You body seen from below acquires the immensity of church towers. In the crowd, I still look for your figure, hopeful yet afraid that it might resurface and I might not know what to do.

I am still learning how to let go of him. Some days are better than others, but I have made peace with it: he is not coming back. I deleted all of our text messages. I blocked him on Instagram and Facebook because seeing him still knots my guts. I have invested my energy into my work. They say it takes time and I am okay with that. One step at a time, I tell myself, and I believe it. It is not simple, you do not just let go. You draw lines in the dirt with a stick as if planning a battle. This is where you are, this is where I am. If you cross this line, you venture into enemy territory.

Architectural Design (Prologue, One, Two & Four)

Architectural Desing Cover (Final)


The man with the beard and the round glasses who sold luxury bags for a living said: leave your history at the door when you enter this house. I complied and poured it all over the carpet that said: welcome home.

I tried to see myself as the person whose life unfurled in that home.

I felt light through the eyes of an astronaut, emptied of dichotomies and air. Free of the color of my skin. Finally free of my womanhood.

Repeat after me: first confusion and then clarity!

The man with the beard said: do your job. And I descended under the blanket, turned and tossed like a possessed woman, and spilled the truth over his pajama pants. He fell asleep afterward. He spoke in his sleep. He said: the future is not in the drones hovering above us. I hugged him and thought: my man, the prophet. He continued: the drones flying above us do not carry the future on their fairy wings; the highest truth has already been reached in the past when we put armchairs in the air. The future is in the memory of it.

I sang: I am the mother of me. History, my past, laid out in a graph like the seats on a stadium. And as I sang, I saw dust motes lit by sunlight, and I saw the weights he trained with on the windowsill, I saw his arms holding them and wondered whether he felt the same when he held me down, against the bed. In his sleep, he was implacable, adamant about the future.

This future in which I could not exist.

I sang: oh, the stadium where I was little and ashamed, put down on the grass for the first time, heavy men working above me, all of them sweating.

I saw the tip of a needle pushing through the skin, stretching it to the point of rupture. On that skin, the faces of people spread, too, like soft butter on hardened bread.
I took my history back on my way out and left the man with the beard in the doorway. He said: let’s see each other again. We hugged, but the man wasn’t in it. And I was already somebody else. I’m very good at that.

That was the last time I saw him.


On his way to the shop, the child, like any child, fell from the sky in the village of his grandma. He landed on his knees and elbows, all at once, like a broken cat, breaking the skin. Or perhaps, the child thought, some internal animal, eager to come out, tricked the child into falling on his knees and elbows to make the blood come out. The child thought he was the Messiah. The blood did come out, first shyly then stubbornly, like a playmate who refuses to leave when the game is over. In the open flesh, He saw the world.
The child ran back home crying, and the father suggested he wash his wounds with soap. The mother disagreed and instead placed the child on her extended feet, rocking him from side to side until the pain subsided. The mother’s feet, as you all know from those biology classes, were close enough to the womb. The child was aware of all this, so much so that he remembers everything. Even today.

The child had to wait for the wounds to heal and he grew impatient. The skin around the scratches turned hard, then brown in a series of slow-motion moves. The child looked forward to peeling off the hardened surface and so, to make time pass, he played on the soft grass, and read books on a blanket in the garden.

Then the day would finally come when the brown skin revealed the delicate pink surface beneath, the incarnation of an awkward kiss. That other skin would harden, again, and renew itself, still, imperceptibly.

The child was the animal Messiah. Not unlike any other animal Messiah in the schoolyard but somewhat different, more like a frown on a woman’s face when she saw horseshit on the side of the road. More like a fart everyone heard. The other children felt uncomfortable around him. The animal Messiah broke a sweat whenever he masturbated.

The houses in grandma’s village were the same. They were painted differently, of course, according to the taste and financial means of the owners, but they all had the same look. Like a child’s drawing of a house. Two big rooms with small windows to keep the cold air out. A kitchen at the back of the house, to be used only during rough winters. Most of the kitchens had slanted ceilings as if they were an afterthought. Added at the last moment, just in case. Opposite to the kitchen, there was a storage room that housed fruit in the winter and was dark enough for monsters to live in it. At night, the animal Messiah was afraid of going in there the way children in American movies are fearful of basements.

And then there was the attic, where clothes were hanged to dry during winter.

The houses were built around winter, and in those houses, they lived their lives.
The sky above the animal Messiah was so unavailable. A girl, a cousin of his, had told him he shouldn’t say the sky is blue. The grass, the grass he would encounter later on his trips to grandma’s village, on late November mornings like hair parted to the side. Counterless were the heads he had to cross on his way to school every morning. Those mornings like the amber droppings of cherry trees in the summer. The ground beneath his feet so sterile and unkissable that the neighbors’ grapes were sweeter and more inviting. On that ground, the cherry trees refused to grow, they said: no sir, not here, we don’t do business with you people, there’s only sorrow in this earth. Apparently, some rituals had not been performed correctly, the soil too young to give birth to anything appealing except for the children who needed to be kept away from harm at all costs.

The world beyond the front gate, so evil the children had to jump over the fence and live with the bruises that flowered, numbly, between their thighs. Fate grabbed them by the legs and bruised them and mother appeared like the Virgin in the doorway when they ran away.

As they ran, the trees fell from the sky like grandma’s heavy words. Grandma brushed her hair and her words in the morning, and the brush felt like wood against teeth. She dyed her hair only just above the forehead, the side that was most visible from under her headscarf.

The trees they climbed to steal fruit, or bypass fences ran along with them. Cherry trees were particularly precious. Old men guarded them with sticks and stones, and if they dared to steal the fruit, they ended up with a good beating and the silent treatment for days on end.

The words settled at the bottom of the sink. The words mother found on father’s clothes, the words that were as long as a woman’s hair. Mother said: these are not my words. My words are not as long as that. The condoms that mother found in father’s winter coat.
In winter, the mother smoked by the stove, and the smoke got sucked in the puzzled mouth of the furnace. She tried to get the father’s attention and threw a box of matches at him. It flew through the room and hit the father in the groin. When the children were not looking, the father made a face, and in that face, the children witnessed their parents’ adolescence and understood that adults were not the adults of books or those on TV. Those were not the adults who set on voyages not knowing where they went to seek a cure for mysterious illnesses.

The box of matches was still flying when father was in prison. Grandma said: stop smoking girl, you have your children with you. It is still flying through the room as I write this.

The bedrooms in those houses had to be big enough to accommodate large families. To save on firewood, the families had to stick together, elbows scraping against each other. The other rooms were used as storage places and for Christmas trees. Since Christmas trees had chocolate bars on them, besides the twinkling lights and other merry paraphernalia, they had to be kept in cold rooms. Not because of the temperature, the chocolate bars didn’t melt quickly, but because the children had to be kept away from them. Especially the animal Messiah, who was overweight. The tree was there for the pictures they took every year. In the photos, the children wear heavy woolen caps and bulky sweaters that were as itchy as they looked. The children didn’t go in there alone. They just knew they had a Christmas tree in a part of the house that was inaccessible to them.

Clothes were stored in the other rooms, and they were cold when they were brought in. People and clothes had to be separated that way. They needed their intimacy. Grandpa’s heavy leather jackets were particularly bashful. Akin to distant relatives they were brought into the warm bedrooms only on the nights preceding special events. Such as going to Sunday mass. And like distant relatives, they brought with them a smell of their own. It wasn’t grandpa’s smell. His heavy leather jacket, the suede kind with white sheep hair on the inside, occasionally smelt of aftershave, deodorant, and somberness. That wasn’t grandpa’s smell. His smell was that of chewed grass and hay and baby sheep. Little lambs that were brought into the house to sleep with the children on cold winter nights. The children didn’t mind it, they knew no other smells.

They built their lives around winter, and in those lives, they thrived.

What did you expect? They were used to seeing their own shit, and that of others as well, steaming in the outdoor toilet on cold winter mornings. And if they had to use the bathroom late at night, well, good luck to you, my friend! No matter how well they dressed to withstand the thermal shock of going out at night after spending hours in an overheated room, their balls suffered nonetheless. They had to pull their pants down. In a tiny wooden shed where breath turned to steam. Constipation was a drag from so many points of view. They gave up quickly because of the cold. Their asses froze. And sometimes a rat would appear and drown in their shit-and-piss concoction.

The houses were all the same. Sad mothers grew up in them. At dinner, the men ate the women, and they grew like skyscrapers. They grew up to become big strong men, so strong that even their convictions strengthened over time. Their heads turned hard, and their heads held the sky.

The animal Messiah rarely put things on his head. His head was big enough. If he put stuff on his head, such as a cap or a hood or a big idea, his head was bound to look bigger, hence disgusting. Nobody wants to feel that way about a part of their body. Unless something is going on in your head unless it’s messed up and the only thing that can make it right is reprogramming, the traditional brainwash, mental shampooing. Use a clean and soft piece of cloth for your eyes, you don’t want to scratch those LEDs. You’ll wreck the high definition. Yet, when he did put things on his head, and then took them off, he needed time to realize there’s nothing on top of his head. He put his hands over his head to tell his brain there’s nothing there. Eventually, the brain got it, and he forgot about it.

When the animal Messiah was little, a log fell on his head. He started running home the moment it happened, but the other kids stopped him and calmed him down. They said: there’s nothing wrong with your head, except that it’s too big and it stood in the way of the log. His brain understood it was still in one piece. It had been a big log. If he were to put his fingers around it, they wouldn’t touch. Not even close. He knew the trunk was going to fall on his head, so he stood his ground beneath it like a retard, just to see how it feels.

The instant it fell the pain at the top of his head told him to stand his ground. It was the full stop at the beginning of every sentence. His feet dug into the ground, and since then he’s been swimming in the dirt. The other kids didn’t want him to tell. They egged him on to see it fall on his head.

The log was part of a homemade contraption, engineered by the grandfather of his cousin, the girl who had told him about the blue sky. The animal Messiah had a swing made of wrought iron, and the cousin got really jealous, and she said to her grandpa she wanted one as well. So her grandpa put the log in between two trees and tied a rope around it in the shape of a swing. A wooden board with two half-holes at each end made sitting on the string comfortably enough to satisfy the whims of a little girl. If you swung for long periods, the log would rotate until it unhooked from the trees.

It went: plunk!

Nothing happened, really, except for the swimming in the dirt thing. Messiah’s head got more prominent because of that realization. His ears as well, to fit the size of his head.
Cousin’s granny said: your head is so big; you have the ears of a donkey, and your brother’s life will amount to nothing.

Cousin’s grandpa said: you stay away from that girl; go home and leave her alone. He was trimming the trees on the street, and the animal Messiah was just a little boy. He took his oversized head and went home, which was not very far because they were neighbors.

On the train, on my way to work, as I was reading through the manuscript, I thought about the animal Messiah and what he must have seen that day returning home. He must have seen mountains growing on the inside of his guts, their snowy peaks like those of homemade bread, the air in between them, the world bloated like a corpse left for too long in the open. He must have felt the shame of broken shoes.

A big head should house many things, even the unnecessary. Yet it cannot remember what happened to the toy stolen from grandma’s house. The grandma on the father’s side of the family had a home unlike their own, and in it, there was a room that had no power outlets, no lights, no heating. The father’s twin brother and his wife slept in there in winter. The warmed the pillows and the covers before going to bed. They tucked themselves under the heated sheets, and they slept.

They built their lives around winter the way you put a scarf around your neck, and in those lives, they slowly withered.

In that home, there were toys unlike those the animal Messiah and his brother had, and one of the cousins insisted he hid one under his shirt and take it home. But then, a couple of hundred feet from the house, the toy vanished. The animal Messiah expected, even after reality set in and he finally got home, the toy to fall from under his t-shirt. He looked for it in the folds of his pants. To this day he’s still looking for it, still waiting for it to appear.

How could a head so big forget about the toy?

In high school, a classmate said: your head is so big, why is your head so big? The animal Messiah moved to another bed. Where else could he tuck his head if not inwards? How could he renounce this large house of dreams?

The world must feel like a constant clearing of the throat.

The father’s car got a remake, and it got painted in a putrid red, the color and texture of overly ripe grapefruit. The day after it was brought home from the repair shop, the thin woman who was their neighbor and whose husband lost his mind came and marveled at it. She must have wondered how much money went into that paint. At times, the animal Messiah went into the car to listen to music on the radio. The car became his headphones. He listened to that song, Hotel California, without knowing what it was about or why the musicians had decided to call it that. It was the only song he liked, and he built his life around it.

The backseat was the most fascinating part of the car because that is where the goodies used to sit. Bananas mostly, and chocolate bars, and yogurt. An empty backseat was a source of disappointment. Once, on his birthday, the seat was empty. He had been showered with gifts a couple of days before, but that didn’t count as much as the vacant seat. He wanted the game console that resembled a computer keyboard. He could write on it. Play word games. Which, in the end, he didn’t play because they were boring. Yet just having the possibility of playing that sort of games made him go mad with desire.
On that day, he was around the school in the afternoon, and he saw his father’s car approaching. There was nothing in the backseat. He wanted to cry. At home, he sat on the front steps of the house and acted really sad. He told his father about the game console. Father said: rest assured, you’ll get it soon. His father the traitor, the unloving father.


I had a pole in my chest, and people held on to it as if they were on a bus. I can’t recall what happened to the animal Messiah. I closed all the cupboards and doors in the house. The man I had called over the phone was then crossing the front yard, and I couldn’t help but think I didn’t like him. What had I been thinking? When I opened the door, he looked around the house, a puzzled look on his face, as if somebody else, some pilot, had taken over the control of his actions. Then he turned towards me and covered the silence with words and steps, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I felt the excitement of a bladder emptied of worries.

Fungi growing where my womanhood should have stood.

He gravitated nakedly around the bed while he spoke with pathos about what he’s going to do to me. I ground my teeth and felt sugar crystals between them.

He had a name for each action, and they all spoke of how I was giving myself away, selling myself cheap to a man I had willingly let into my house. I thought of what the children would say even though I had no children.

This man like a disease walked all over me. He moved above me with the certainty of a surgeon. He shifted until I felt a warmth in my chest and I couldn’t tell the difference between outside and inside any longer.

He said: you’re no woman; you’re good for nothing.

After he left, I used bleach to wash my body, but the words wouldn’t go away. The fungi blossomed on my belly and chest.




The man stretched in my bed and sat at my kitchen table as if he owned the place. I had made sure to do the washing up. There were no dirty cups in the kitchen sink. We talked and while we did that I caressed his shinbone with my toes. His mother was in the hospital with cancer, and he spoke about her with a disdain I could not acknowledge. He was at my house, and I felt powerful. He had seen the books in my room, and his skin had touched my sheets.

His mother was going through the second round of chemotherapy, and she had given up hope, struggling against the doctors and the nurses who kept telling her everything was for her own good. To him, having a cancerous mother was a nuisance, because he had had to take some time off from his job to be with his mum. His father had taken his place at the mother’s side when he came to my house. He was here on borrowed time.

Then he started talking about his ex, and I felt pity for myself. After he left, I didn’t even dare to look at myself in the mirror. I made the bed and scrubbed myself clean. I replaced the sheets and used bleach to clean the shower cabin, the taste of his tongue in my mouth. Still, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, so I covered all of them.

I thought of the animal Messiah. By then, it had become an obsession, and I searched through my notes feverishly, hoping to find something, a detail that had perhaps escaped my attention and which might explain all this. At what point in his life had he decided he couldn’t live outside somebody else’s presence? The search took my mind off things. I wished, oh how I wanted, to go back in time and tell him he should, by all means, do his best to be happy on his own.