To Absent Friends

Foreword: I'm crap when it comes to speak about death, so you might be either depressed or unimpressed after reading this entry; likely, you won't feel any deep emotion; but then blogging is not about the feelings of those who read, is about my feelings. They're weird, but they're there.

I was watching Star Trek: Nemesis the other night (yes, I'm a geek. No, I'm not a Star Trek aficionado). The best character of the series "dies" there. Yeah, it's Data. The Captain says that, after the battle, sharing a drink with the other big shots. It's nice, probably the best bit of the whole movie.

A friend of mine died last August, the 7th. Her name was Michela, she was 27, she was pretty, nice and funny, and don't you expect me to say all this? Well it happens to be true. She used to like the same music I like, she was learning to play the trumpet and she was as good as I am with the guitar, which is not much, she liked to laugh at everything including herself just like I'd like to, I was in charge of "tutoring" her when she got her first level degree, and she was happy enough about that to give me a hardback copy of her thesis, and that was nice.

Then she gets a job, she puts some money away, goes on a well earned holiday with her boyfriend, a tire blows up and she ends up dead. That IS tough, undeserved, unfair, sad. I don't know what else to say to express how bad it feels.

Not long before that last August, she told me about her trumpet practice sessions: during the lunch break, in a park, in Bologna, in the sun. I wasted no time in turning that into the description of the last scene of a movie, made a couple of jokes to tease her. She teased back, told me to write it instead of wasting my time doing nothing. It never became any more than a fragment, but here you go:

Put on Red Right Hand by Nick Cave:

... e questa e' la fine della storia, tutti andarono per la loro strada, qualcuno felice, qualcuno stanco, qualcuno zoppo. A volte ci sentiamo, ma non capita molto spesso, la vita ci porta di qua e di la'. Me, se mi cercate, passate da Bologna, in quel parco vicino al centro. Chiedete di una ragazza che suona la tromba, sola, nell'angolo dove c'e' sempre il sole.
Se non ci sono, aspettami.

... And that's the end of the story, everybody went their own way, someone happy, someone tired, someone else limping. We keep in touch, every now and then, but not too often, life is too hectic and keeps pushing us all around. But, if you;re looking for me, stop here in Bologna, in that park close to the city center. Ask for a girl who plays the trumpet, alone, in that corner where the sun is always shining.
If I'm not there, wait for me.

It's not that much of a piece of work, but this is what I can offer.

To absent friends.
I.