30 Years

25 Jan
to-day it’s 30 years since i’ve come to America.
i’d like to say it’s bittersweet, but it’s mostly bitter.
we are clamped down in an economic vise and no one is sleeping well or normally at this house.
my friends and acquaintances back home, or in Europe in general, are leading happy, healthy, social lives.
they’re asking when we can come visit.
all i can muster is…domani, domani.
but domani doesn’t look any more promising than oggi.
30 years ago i stepped off an Alitalia plane at JFK with my father and two suitcases.
we were dazed from the time zone change, straight out of Rome, and nearly missed our connection to Cleveland.
this country has never been my home.
neither has the one from which i came.
and neither was Italy, in which we spent a couple of weeks waiting for our visas or some other paperwork to come through so we can jump to the States.
i am not a melancholic person; mostly (at least from my perspective) everything has been a struggle
and so i don’t and cannot look back on most times with longing in my heart or any of that nonsense.
my high school friends are attending get-togethers, reunions, parties, happy hours,
some are forming bands and playing old, popular songs, from when we were teenagers.
i cannot attend any of that.  those times are long gone and i don’t want to re-visit any of them.
my life has been sort of a ‘scorched earth’ whirlwind; i cannot traverse the dead soil, there’s nothing good there.
it’s interesting…30 years ago my parents and i were buying our clothes from Goodwill because we didn’t have money;
to-day, my wife and i were talking about heading out to Goodwill to snag some tops for her and maybe some trousers for me.
(we bagged the idea in favour of spending nothing and holding on to whatever dated and faded outfits we don)
nothing ever changes really.
not here. not in America.  they sell you a dream and dangle it before you until you die.
you’re the Greyhound that goes round and round the track and never snags that fucking rabbit.
rabbit run!
30 years.
it doesn’t mean anything, really.  just grey hairs and more pounds on the carcass.
yellow teeth, damaged liver, damaged psyche…
30 years.
it’s nothing.

Posted via email from Post-(S)wine-Osterous


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