Pretending to be healthy, as in a song by Giorgio Gaber. It is June 3rd and the season of decrees is gone. We live, we leave, we travel, maybe even a day at the seaside escapes us, overcoming the imaginary borders of the regions, in the end without even a healthy and robust constitution. The mockery is that it rains, because fate is spiteful and now that you can move from North to South, and back, it makes the sun disappear or maybe fate is just a distant relative of the sheriff governors. The fact is that it rains, even on brackish tamarisks. It is, they say, the return to normal.
Beautiful normality, if only one knew what pasta is made of. Holy, even if you struggle to remember it. What then, really, what is it? Once upon a time, normalcy was to say that you were at home. Now that we’ve been out for a while, we have to go find it. Normality is an invention.
What is now so normal is still not. It is to live at a distance, with masks on the face, looking into the eyes of those with diffidence and those with nostalgia, a hug, a “I recognize you”. It’s this “stay away from me” because you never know. It is the virus that is perhaps packing for going on vacation, but that in the autumn could return, perhaps changed, relaxed, tanned or ready to start his dirty job again. How long does the holiday of a virus with the crown last? It is not known, because these are the first days of vacation of his short life as a guest of humans.
The normality is the restaurants to book, the beaches with umbrellas a lot by the meter, the quadrille in the disco, no cheek to cheek sighs, concerts for a few close friends, outlaw aperitifs, exams without teachers, commuters waiting for the next train, because what arrives seems half empty, but it is bureaucratically full.
Normality is football without respite, like a big binge, with matches one after the other, as is done in the summers of the world and European championships, without fans and TV rights to be discussed and a league that already smells like cardboard. It is Conte, the premier, the encore, who tells us that everything will be fine, because life is a reality show and the promises are true only with the cameras on, with the lights off we have to make do, because poverty is not beautiful to show on TV and the poor, as Casalino said in the days of Big Brother, are recognized by the smell.
The normality is the taxes, the rents and the mortgage to be paid, the shops with the shutters at half-mast, the bank loans exactly as before and the mafias that have already programmed the washing machines, with the money in the laundry basket. It is politics that does not find answers and sees anger and disillusionment fill the squares and the only spontaneous question that bounces in his head is: why don’t they wear a mask?
The normality is to go from Lodi to Milan with the scooter, because it seems bad to waste the bonus and every time you pass a truck you scream that the future is green. It’s really a wonderful world where everything goes on clean energy, but you don’t get there with shortcuts. The scooter, to be honest, has the same taste as Marie Antoinette’s brioche.
Normality, this time to put it to Jannacci, is the beauty of the twenty years. “It is being able not to listen to those who claim to explain the future to you, and then work and then love. Yes, but here, that love is done in three, that there is no work and the future is a black hole at the bottom of the … “.