Back to Black

Work at the hospice for the dying. Every day. Your own last days too. Forecast. Impossible. But you think of it anyway.
By misfortune on the street, probably. Your crushed body found on the zebra crossing. Poor pedestrian. He recently refused to drive the car. A destiny since the wreckage of his four-door Brava.
At home in the bed. A whole house demolished by a gas explosion. Nobody witnessed. He didn't actually use methane for heating, but the families around do it!
Covid couldn't be at death's door after four vaccinations. Heart attack is more plausible. For a strong stress or pain. Or a woman could cause it. Broken heart: a pump after all. Breakdown. The best death.
Death by a killer, why not? Murder with an intent or accidental killing? He travelled daily on the commuter train. Don't believe the hijacking of a convoy. Railway officials don't speak of terrorism, just a dementia case. Clues to investigate.
No, no. It should be a very long disease. Strong and brave to face the condition. Some years as disabled on the wheelchair. Always led by a care giver—do you get money enough for all that?
Paltry funeral. He was very old when he died. He had written his arrangements for the afterlife, left inside the writing machine box. Never know who will touch you dead. Nobody knows. The cold body will burn for lack of anything better. Wearing that branded yellow jacket? Crematorium. No more lot of maggots. Say a pray for him—the eternal rest as he used to his parents. Not much grief at the funeral. People in law, perhaps. It's rumoured that... His wife, she had plenty of appeal. Intellectual because of the father. He died of big C. in the 1990s. He'd taken the hair from his mother. She and some public figures he liked passed away that same year, 2016. Six years ago.
Twentyfirst I'll be at their grave. Sign of the Cross. Scanning the deaths on the public places. Read your own obituary notice they say one lives longer. Lay me in a Napoleonic cemetery, like an old guard's chap. A spur to self-respect. Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

P.S. R.I.P.


My Computer

Words caused by fingertip pression. My computer suffers because its aging process. ID card? 2 GHz Intel Core 2 Duo. While the 1GB-memory retains everything I put down for years. Queer lot of stuff it must have stored. Password required to access: m*n*m*i*p*i*c*. My computer wants to fly high to spend time in other networks by means of wireless technology (AirPort). One of us. It likes music for sure, iTunes. Integrated stereo loudspeakers. It must be 15 now, this #iMac  (™) all right reserved. A white-framed counting machine full of programs galore for everything. Software as part of the hardware bundle. Body and soul. Emancipation from those PCs. Beauty: it curves. Style. #iMac  (™) had been the first Macintosh to give up floppy disk. Just USB ports as the hub of modern life.
Apple's one-in-one. Alive he did say "stay foolish, stay hungry". Literally astounded to that piece of intelligence. Or billionaires get a grip of you by the stomach. Asked about him, my #iMac  (™) replies with relish: "Jobs Steven (Paul), U.S. computer entrepreneur. He set up the Apple computer company in 1976 with Steve Wozniak and served as chairman until 1985, returning in 1997 as CEO." Our erstwhile idol had feet of clay. Left alone in his glory. Infinite Loop.
My saddened computer has given me the illusion I won't never be a slave. Like a journalist or a novelist, almost a poet. Articles, statistics, stories, poems. Put gusto into computer graphics. An artist has to weave his own image. Then a blogger. The art of surfeit. Thesaurus. Treasure on my typewriting hands. Who would read 10 million bytes? How many ♥? I have been writing for so many years. Twenty-three just in this XXI century, but I am coming out from the past.
You've got mail! Thousands of messages to read on and send off. The gentle art of advertisement. "Thank you for your email. I am currently OOO through Monday." Out of office.
I get hold of the Mighty Mouse. #iMac  (™) OS X was called Tiger, its browser Safari. System preferences. I scan my computer looking for a travel site. Distance between eyes and display is subjective. It sure is great to get out of this desktop...



Clicking on the keyboard: January 2023. Twenty twenty-three. No leap year, just odd number.
In this odd world where million of emergencies occur every single day to billions of slaves living in 'survival mode'—O billionaire, I am a slave too.
The human body remains alive in worst conditions. Till I love somebody, somebody loves me in turn. Liebe auf den ersten Blick.
Prying into my New Year's greetings, you would find out...

May this year bring to thee
Joy & peace & welcome glee.

 ©2023 Roberto Dondi -- dmlr.org(sm)


B-SIDE pt.XI | #S T A Y T U N E D ! DMLR 1997-2017 | IT