Daily Obsession # 1
by Cristian Giodice
I have a problem, just the one, but all
the other problems stem from that one. It's a problem that ruins my day from
the first thing in the morning to the last thing at night. When I'm exhausted
and I'm lying in bed, I think to myself that tomorrow will be better. Perhaps
it has something to do with the water, or maybe it's the seal? I'll never know.
The only certainty I have is that it happens every day.
In the evening, out of habit, I prepare
the coffee mocha ready for breakfast the following day. I try to pay close
attention to make sure everything is just right. As I carry out my preparations
I imagine the flavour, the aroma which will fill the room, and the cigarette
that will follow. Everything seems in order, no margin of error, and no sign of
any obvious mistakes. So, I go to bed confident and hopeful.
The alarm goes off and violently rips me
from my flight of dream. I am plummeted traumatically back to reality, which
comprises of grey cloudy skies, not yet old enough to be called daytime, and a
snoring in my ears.
After having struggled out of bed, my
first act is to go and switch on the small gas ring and turn it down to the
minimum. In the meantime: toilet, deodorant, clothes, and from the moment I am
lacing up my shoes, anxiousness about the forthcoming result begins to pervade
my cotton wool mind.
As I approach the coffee machine I am
tense, visibly contracted, rigid. I lift the grumbling lid nervously, I close
my eyes, praying for success; I lower my head and look inside. My knees sag
imperceptibly and a spontaneous sigh echoes around the apartment.
Here we go again, practically no coffee
has come out and what little that has is boiling impatiently.
On to plan B
As popular tradition dictates, to avoid
this problem, I run the mocha’s base under cold water; then once I again, place
it back on a low gas, for another couple of minutes.
I try to distracted myself, to elude the
growing stress that I can feel rising in my chest, by checking my e-mail. No
new messages, so I return to the stove.
Inevitably, my eyes discover the
perpetual failure. For the umpteenth time, no more than a fingers width of
coffee. I take a cup, pour it in, it doesn't even half fill it.
I'm furious when I add the sugar to this
mixture and I stir, grudgingly turning the spoon, I'm already knackered. I
bring the cup to my lips, its strong burnt flavour assaults my taste buds, and
my mouth contracts into a grimace of disgust.
From its pot, on the window sill, a
cactus, sadistic and spiky, reminds me that today is Monday and the week has
only just begun.
Daily Obsession # 2
by Cristian Giodice
When I get to school, even if I'm
running late, I go to the bar. I order a cappuccino to overcome the revolting
taste that the dribble of coffee from home, has left in my mouth.
I ask for a coffee and ask for it not to
be too hot. I'm rigorous about this. It's a habit that I've had since
adolescence, when the little creature that governed my heart told me that if
the cappuccino was too hot it would ruin my tooth enamel.
The man at the counter gives me a
concerned look, he manages to satisfy my request once or twice every ten times.
He disappears for a moment behind the coffee machine, then reappears. He tries
to distract me by asking about my students, or telling me about the football. I
respond monosyllabicly, scrutinising his dosing with an austere look. When he
places the cup upon the saucer, which is already waiting on the counter, I have
the packet of sugar, in my hand, already open. Slowly I poor in the granules as
the barman discretely moves away, and I stir the concoction in an
anti-clockwise direction, as is the way of us left-handers.
My lips touch the frothy liquid, and
rays come out of my eyes and burn in to the barman who, in his intimidation, is
organising the croissant display. It's too hot! I pay and leave, without saying
goodbye, whilst two pernicious eyes silently curse me from behind the
counter.
Running down the corridor, I want
revenge, violent revenge, but the only thing I can do is go into the classroom
and threaten to fail someone.
Daily Obsession # 3
by Cristian Giodice
I get home and it's already late for
lunch and I've got to eat. I'm not usually hungry because of all the
cigarettes that I've smoked during the morning; today however, I'm really
hungry, famished. So when the door closes behind my back, I am already
examining the pan, to discover what my darling has decided to leave for me to
heat through for lunch: cutlets, re-fried spinach and hard boiled eggs.
Wonderful!
I start to heat up the cutlets and I
begin to salivate excessively and try to stave off my hunger by scoffing down a
a piece of bread, that causing me to choke.
As I stir the vegetables I think about
her. She's gone to work. Having different working hours we only see each other
in the evening. We substitute cuddles by preparing food for each other: her
sumptuous lunches, and me, romantic dinners. This is what she thinks, but never
says.
When everything is warmed through, I
serve it up neatly on the plate, in this order: cutlet, eggs, spinach. I take
it to the table, where everything is already laid out: American table-cloth, a
glass on the right, place mats. I take a fork and spear the cutlet. The first
mouthful inebriates my senses. I look for a napkin to clean my mouth. I want a
drink of water, but alas I can not find it, or better still it's not where it
should be: it's not in the place where centuries of everyday use have dictated
it should be. Instead I find it on the other side of the plate, and the blood rises
to my head, my stomach closes and my hunger evaporates.
I get up, thumping my fist on the table,
and think about tonight's dinner, I don't think it's going to be such a
romantic evening anymore.
Daily Obsession # 4
by Cristian Giodice
If paradise exists, I'm not going there,
not that I care.
If there is a paradise for human beings,
why can't there be a paradise for animals, plants and objects?
I was little more than a child the first
time I asked myself this question. Over the years I have asked myself the same
question quite regularly and each time, I come up with different answers. The
first time though, my childhood's religious indoctrination made me quite
certain of the existence of paradise for finished or half-finished bars of
soap. And so every so often, when the occasion presented itself, I would
provide the remains of the soap, a brief and honourable funeral and send it
gurgling down the vortex of water.
Now, as it happens, just about a month
ago, a small morsel of pink soap was sitting there, in the corner of the
soap-dish, drawing its last breath. Automatically I initiated the funeral rite,
and I searched through my memory, rummaging around in the dustiest recesses of
my mind, to find the litany which is supposed to accompany the funeral ceremony.
Alas, years of vice have laid waste to
my cognitive capacity and the frustration of a failing memory coupled with this
kind of search, is not to be recommended. This small detail, the failure to
remember something, provoked an anger inside of me which has been growing. It
is as if this anger has been stored up over the years and in turn it has
created an obsession, that, for want of a better expression, is somewhat less
than genial. It is quite predictable. You see, memory is not to be trusted, particularly
if its partial or imbalanced. So, until my mind is able to remember the
required liturgy, my body simply can not touch the soap. So, consequentially,
because of this obsession I have been afflicted with, from that day forward I
have not washed.
Translation
by Daniel Morris http://www.digital-daniel.it/
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