Sara Lazzaro

Years ago I metLove without liesin a wonderful Roman bookstore. Those were intense years of research, during which my heart sought new avenues to nourish itself. The book captivated me at first sight, perhaps because of the unique cover, perhaps because of the title

September is always a complicated month…you have to let go of summer, the colors, the sounds, the promises of summer. The days are gradually getting shorter, the air is cooler, the body is returning to the rhythms of daily commitments…the school year begins again

“You need a town, if only for the pleasure of leaving. A town means not being alone, knowing that in the people, in the plants, in the land there is something of yours, that even when you are not there, it remains waiting for you.” (S. Accorsi, final monologue of the film)Radio Arrow).

Aperitif with women in Piazza Anfiteatro, soft lights, street musicians, bars and picturesque restaurants envelop me on this early summer evening.   At the table, needless to say, we talk about men and I am amused by the idea that, despite disappointments and, fortunately they are still at the center of our curiosity.  Phone beep, WA coming historical friend…” Sara, he left me, call me immediately, I’m terrible!”.

Only the West knows history. Marc Bloch wrote: «The Greeks and Latins, our first teachers, were people who were writers of history. Christianity is a religion of historians. […] it is in duration, therefore in history, that the great drama of Sin and Redemption takes place.”Thus begins the paragraph dedicated to the History of the New National Indications for the first cycle, 154 pages which in my role as Headmaster I had to read carefully

Every morning I allow myself a quarter of an hour to have breakfast, between croissant and cappuccino I leaf through the newspaper. a kind of ritual with which I take a moment to immerse myself in the stories of the world before facing my little day. Often it is not a “light” reading because the narrative brings me back to images of violence, war, pain, anaffetiveness that seem so stupidly far from human reality … Every day.

<<Mom we are talking about CENSORSHIP and it is unacceptable!>>, flame-throwing glances run like lightning on the red Christmas table, the rebellious impetus and the adorable shamelessness of youth cross the dinner <<…and then I don’t get it from you ‘I was waiting!>>. Here with this sentence my daughter screws me, she always does it and she knows that she screws me every time, because yes, in short, the deliberately disappointed look with which she looks at me is an irresistible reminder to reconsider the question. My “fault” is having argued between a pandoro and a Tuscan bitter that the exclusion of the trapper singer Tony Effe from the New Year’s Eve concert in Rome seemed absolutely acceptable to me.

Every now and then I meet up with my friends from adolescence, women’s lives that cross mine between spritzes, memories, explosions of laughter and stories… many stories. We grew up together and each one over time has built her own path between falls and rises, as everyone thinks. When we are among ourselves, I don’t know why or how, but the stories in the end always focus on the relationship with the mysterious male universe. There are those who complain about the boyfriend, those who complain about the husband, those who complain about the lover, those who both the husband and the lover!

Latina is a lazy and sleepy city in the Lazio province. It was previously called Littoria and is the daughter of Fascism and the reclamation of the Pontine Marshes. It has enchanting landscapes, the sea, the lake, the cool neighborhoods, the rational center with its terribly linear fascist architecture, but also the disorganized buildings of the post-war years and an urban planning policy that is questionable to say the least. It’s a strange city, it’s not ugly and it’s not beautiful, it’s not chaotic but it’s not stimulating either, it always seems the same.