In isolation like everybody else, Alberto hears voices from the past, sometimes in his village dialect, which is Lombard Besanese. Also his English takes a funny twist.
B L O C K D O W N
Alberto Albertini, yesterday at 2:24 PM
there’s here amannn — ghe chi unomm
when I entered the house looking for Marisa, there was a woman I did not know and who did not know me: “Marisa, there’s here amann!” Strange to tell, it was me, and never had I thought about me as a man! What else would I have thought I was? A non being? Yet I was, but believing maybe I was still a boy, adolescent, a bodiless entity? Slightly stunned, as if suddenly I had fallen into reality. Because I’m constantly living inside myself that was a shock, a call to enter the real, but, what’s the real?
ghe chi unomm — there’s here amann
quando sono entrato a cercare la Marisa, c’era una donna che non conoscevo e non mi conosceva: “Marisa, ghe chi unomm!” Che strano, ero io, non ci avevo mai pensato di essere un uomo! Che altro pensavo di essere? Un non essere? Eppure ero, ma credevo di essere ancora bambino, adolescente, un ente incorporeo? Un piccolo stordimento, come essere caduto improvvisamente nella realtà. Forse vivo costantemente di dentro e quella fu una scossa, un richiamo ad entrare nel reale, che poi che cos’è il reale?
“We don’t want to be free, we dream it”
The earth is what has remained for you.
The next door, the street.
And you open it by such a disfigured sight that it can’t go far, a sight dragging itself.
And you open it with a heart so consumed that it won’t support you for long.
And you open it with such a rusty key that barely enters the keyhole. Also the keyhole is rusty.
Walls pursue those who abandoned them.
You were the palm that gave shade to the walls.
Edmond Jabès, Le livre des questions, 1963
(Text and images by Alberto Albertini}