I’ve bought my very first book by Haruki Murakami on October 13 2009, english version, from Barnes & Noble. There was a guy on Twitter, Masinutoscana, who was talking about him and on that specific book, with a great enthusiasm. You know when you hear about a book that you clearly understand it’s a brand new masterpiece or it’s a classic one must have? It was that kind of feeling with Murakami.
“What I Talk About when I Talk About Running” tells about Running, of course, though not only about that. Running is for me one of the farthest activities I’ve ever fancied about, for the following reasons:
I’m not able, physically, to do that
Cannot Endure it
My Fate on that under the form of a Bag of Potatoes
I admit that with any other activity I felt so unappropriate, really. Just give me to walk for hours, on a climb, under a deadly sun in August, under the hail that slashes my face, with the mud that makes me slipper on the ground; or a bike along the “whitest road” ever known by a human being, that make me call names of God all the time, with the coldest weather that turns air into stalactites making holes in my lungs. All of this. I accept it. It can be: in these horrible conditions, I still can see my role in the world, though I can’t see the reason.
Everything but running. Not that, please!
Running has always been on that highest pedestal, a “Mutaforma” (see Fringe) between horror and terror, done by amazing people that, gently sliding on cement, on grass, on sand, are definitely so “real and convinced” in doing what they do, even the real beginners, in their clumsy shapes.
Then a simple question: “Why them and not Me?” I guess this question kept silent for years, But now I finally got rid of this “fear”. Mostly, the matter was about not to be able to do the most natural thing of this world, after walking: running.
On Monday I got up at 5.10am, without the alarm clock (never use it as I hate it), and it wasn’t horrific at all. At 5.30am I started my naive running around big buildings of the suburb, wrapped in the dark and deep silence, while the air at my mouth turned into smoke. Humid, cool and alone: that was the scene. That was the scene I was fancied about an early morning run. I was thinking of how beautiful was the feeling to be the only one around, at least in my perspective, with all the space at my disposal: I was rich! Usually feeling as in a cage, surrounded by too many people: always someone on the horizon. So, feeling alone was kinda to be the King of the World. And the ironical thing is that when you’re alone, it’s impossible to feel alone: seems that being alone makes you feel a new balance, taking away all the worthless stuff.
Honestly I wasn’t alone: blackbirds were having their breakfast with XL worms, picked here and there. They were anywhere: on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street, on the benches, on the trees, standing still or flying quickly on a worm. Then, all of a sudden, they gathered symmetrical, as if they could hear a call: there were sunlights perking from the clouds, creating weird lights and shadows. While running I was gazing at the noble stands of the blackbirds, their casual garments but classy, as if they wore a waistcoat, their look to the sun, the steady beak and the breeze moving their feathers…Got it!
The scene where the angels come together at dawn to salute the Dawn, standing still….
It’s 6.30am, the first noises, the first people around, the first cars passing by.
The first sun of the first dawn, while I land at the entrance.
Pant. Smile.
B.
