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Accetto Chudi


by Matteo F.M. Sommaruga

I entered the supermaket and looked around me. I was quite unnoticeable among the mass. I collected some provisions,
mainly edibles that don't require cooking, fruits and vegetables off the shelves. Some sushi as well, provided that
I had not direct access to a fridge. Not at home, of course, but at the headquarters of my company. Where I planned
to relocate waiting for a call from abroad. I could have cut such a time consuming activity, jeopardized and
tyrannized by the arbitary decisions of the Labor Unions that gathered the railroad workers under the Red Flag of the
Revolution. Or, more properly, that made them active members of the Red Army, the strongest pillar of the socialist regime
I felt to live in.

I didn't reach home that evening, I just enjoyed my meal under the trees of the park. A suburban green area, unnoticed
as well by most of the white collars of the nearby buildings. They preferred the dark and gloomy view of the 1960s State architecture,
they got accostumed to during their youth. Usually enrolled to State schools, where they had to learn to mimetize themselves with the grey
walls of those kind of Institutions. I dropped my waste in the garbage, wandering around that desert and lush island in the middle of the
megalopolis. I felt alone, quite powerless if anyone would have seized my body, robbing me of the wallet, the credit card, the identity card.
I was holding an old book I was reading on the train. I stopped close to a street lamp. Priests collecting charity from central Africa often
reports of students from the street of Nairobi or Ouagadougou studying overnight, thanks to the public light. It inspired me, I
wanted to do the same. I felt the need to annihilate myself. I started and read on the remaining page of that book. I took a deep
breath and abandoned myself to intellectual fantasies.

As the time went by, I started to forget my body lying on the grass. I was sleepy and couldn't follow the thought of the author anymore.
I dreamt of a huge and ominous battle between ghosts and unnatural creatures. I couldn't follow my thoughts either, I was just perturbed
by the fight of the will and the pressure from the outside. I woke up at midnight. It was cold, I had to find a shelter. I approached the office.
From the outside all the lights seemed to be off. The main entrance was unfortunately close. I certainly couldn't force it. The burglar alarm
was on and I had no key either. Nevertheless I was somehow compelled to make a choice of the whereabouts of my abode for the next
weeks and the buro where I wasted my time and creativity was the most eligible candidate. I knew the place, I knew the surrounding, I had
somehow free access and could claim to have lost conscioussness if someone would have questioned about my body lying on my desk as if it
were a sleeping bed.

A key, a key was essential to acquire a new home. What else could be done meanwhile? The building was quite awkwardly shaped by a wanna-be world class architect who just played chinese with a Le Corbusier-like fake experimental structure. Slanting enough, performing an x-shear on the standard cubicle, to make the frames reachable enough to be easily climbed even by a not professional intruder.

Even the skills of a lazy burglar had indeed to cope with some amateurish bravado. I looked for a small tree, or a big bush. Some piece ofdecorative gardening that little had in common with the harmonious elegance of the giardini all'italiana of the Renaissance mansions. I wonderedwhich kind of studies could have really conducted the gardener. Perhaps a drop-out of the engineering corral as well. I put the but in the left pocket of my jacket and started to grab any protrusion of that so bad shaped face. I felt me light, quite boosting of acting like a superhero from the comics. I never thought it could had been so light. Just hoped to find a way to come back, if I couldn't work myself an hole through the windows.
I had no diamond nor any other kind of apparels made so well known by 1960s series. My target was a cosy terrace. A cosy recover over the dullness of my daytime job. I shouldn't lose my book either. I would have otherwise lost the fight against my colleagues and the company management. Their non sense reading denial that was so close to the punishment inflicted to political prisoners by the DDR MfS officiers.

At least I got it, I reached a terrace. There's actually another one, much higher than that, where smokers usually gather during coffee-breaks. But
my new headquarters had to be invisible, like a bunker in the jungle against the American army in Vietnam. A pillar of the urban warfare for
Weltlichen Frieden und Freundschaft. Quite luckily the architect conceived a small roof on that terrace. As if he had imagined that someone should have slept there. It was also nicely repaired from the sight of any pedestrian who could have otherwise spotted me walking along the street. Quite
a chance to make myself expert with some DIY activity, and make reasonable the nerdish suggestion so proudly reported on the central pages of the Wired magazine.

social social social print

On the other side of Berlin Wall

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