INSPIRATION

Weather has changed. Rain. Test for my ‘waterproof’ equipment. I am taking the old road to Orgosolo. It’s gorgeous. Overlooking the Supramonte, a decidedly autumnal atmosphere.

The road is sometimes full of mud that descends from the slopes. Then it starts to be full of cracks. Then it starts to not be. That is, pieces collapsed in the escarpment on the right that gets deeper and deeper. No lateral protection and I cycle a few centimeters from the void.

Then a lane closed for a landslide. And the asphalt that no longer exists for a while but then reappears. But by bike all this does not bother me, in fact it is more beautiful (certainly not the same for some French tourists who surpass me in the car).

After the ascent, a bit of downhill, the usual shepherd dogs rushing at me. I scream against them. They stop but as soon as I pass them they run after me, and luckily I’m downhill.

In the distance I glimpse Orgosolo, appiculated at the top. I push with my legs, one, two, three curves. Nothing. The village does not show up. And the last stretch is tiring.

No entry sign here. So 377 street art postponed until tomorrow (there will not even be an entry sign from the road to Mamoiada, so no 377 street art in Orgosolo … a contradiction since everything here is street art).

Arrival in the centre village. It’s Sunday. The place is almost empty, just some tourists who stroll to admire the murals. No reception, but I’m ok with it. Only three old men at the bar talking to me, asking me why the hell I should have gone to Oliena in my life, and then they offer me a Coke, wishing me a good trip.

 

SOUND FRAGMENTS

Written for Francesca, hoping that she’ll carry on with the piano!

 

SARDINIAN SHORT STORIES

Francesca, 9, plays the piano. She is the daughter of the owners of the bed and breakfast that hosts me. Shy. Very shy. Black hair and big eyes. She speaks almost exclusively in Orgolese dialect with her parents. A part from this, she looks at me curiously and listens to my story. I convince her to play something on the piano, an electronic keyboard. It’s clear that she would have played without asking.

She starts simple, separate hands. Bravo, I think … of course if she played hands together … As I’m thinking that, she already starts the new piece, two hands. Bravo! I ask her if she knows what notes she’s playing, their durations, Francesca knows everything and answers fast and sure. I ask her if she ever ‘invented’ her music, her tells me yes but she does not want to admit it and changes the subject. Then comes a more difficult piece. Francesca tells me she can only play the right hand. We play it together, her with the right hand, I play the left hand part with the ukulele. Without a mistake, Francesca follows my part perfectly.

Francesca would be an ideal student, a young talent. So I decide to write a short piece for her during my creative moment. A little more complex than those that she played. When I come back and give it to her, she accepts it, very shyly, she takes it to the keyboard and starts to decipher it very slowly, stops, and then gets up, perhaps a little discouraged and goes near the fireplace. I know that for her now it’s a bit difficult, but I’m sure that from tomorrow Francesca will study it every day, accepting the challenge that only people who are passionate like her can do.