I read hands to tell your past
Dopo qualsiasi concerto io faccio fatica a dormire. Non che questo mi dia il minimo fastidio. Credo di aver vegliato sulla fine dell'estate questa notte. Tra uno scroscio e l'altro, una finestra che sbatte e un bicchiere che si rompe. Rompere i bicchieri, involontariamente s'intende, sembra il mio personale fil-rouge dell'ultimo mese; sono implacabile.La veglia involontaria ha bisogno di essere mitigata e accudita dal femmineo, perciò sono andato a trovare Sarah Kay Sarah Kay è una poetessa e performer di spoken words di New York. E' giovanissima, 1988. C'è tutto un mondo nelle sue parole, che credo sia un costante stimolo al lavoro interiore se letta da una donna e una buona mappa per studiare le galassie femminili per noi ometti. C'è una poesia che si chiama "Hands". Che Sarah ha portato dal vivo in una puntata di Def Poetry , programma tv in cui Mos Def presentava poeti e artisti di spoken words noti o emergenti. Già perchè un programma del genere in America è durato sei stagioni. Da noi probabilmente chiamerebbero Bondi e non riusciremmo più a distinguerlo da Colorado Cafè, che peraltro non.fa.ridere. Diamine. Bacca dal lei neon. Bando alle ciance, quando non dormo mi vengono anagrammi a nastro. E' domenica, e credo che ci meritiamo tutti di sentire una che ci dice che "Some people read palms to tell you your future, but I read hands to tell your past." Il testo è sotto. Vado a farmi un caffè. Strano. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuAbGJBvIVY]
People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands. Told me so often infact that one day I started to believe them, until I asked my photographer father 'hey daddy could I be a hand model?', to which he said 'no way'. I don't remember the reason he gave me, and I would've been upset but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold, too many homework assignments to write, too many boys to wave at, too many years to grow. We used to have a game, my dad and I, about holding hands. Cos we held hands everywhere. And every time either he or I would whisper a great big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands. That we were sure this one had to be 8, 002, 753. Hands learn more then minds do. Hands learn to hold other hands. How to grip pencils and mould poetry. How to tickle piano keys, dribble basketballs and grip the handles of a bicycle. How to hold old people and touch babies. I love hands like I love people. They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life. Some people read palms to tell you your future, but I read hands to tell your past. Each scar makes a story worth telling. Each callused palm each cracked knuckle a missed punch or years working in a factory.Now I've seen middle eastern hands clenched in middle eastern fists, pounding against each other like Each country sees their fists like warriors and enemies. Even if fists alone are only hands. But this is not about politics, no hands are not about politics. This is a poem about hands, and fingers. Fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer. One time I grabbed my dad's hand so that our fingers interlocked perfectly. But he changed position saying "no, that hand hold is for your poem!". Kids high-five but grown ups shake hands. You need a firm handshake, but don't hold on too tight, but don't let go too soon, but don't hold on for too long. Hands are not about politics. When did it become so complicated? I always thought it was so simple. The other day my Dad looked at my hands as if seeing them for the first time and with laughter behind his eyelids, and with all the seriousness a man of his humour could muster he said "you know you've got nice hands, you could've been a hand model!".