Where does the lost weight go?
My breath catches at this question: I’ve never asked myself that, never thought about it. I’ve always been in such a hurry to shake it off, to get rid of it without looking back, because it was too heavy, too fat. I never stopped to wonder: where does it go, in the end? But who cares, just get rid of it, erase it, preferably as soon as possible.
And yet, when you really think about it, those kilos had their own space and time they were full of things: big, fat, ugly things but also beautiful ones, heavy ones. And who says heavy things always need to be reduced or tamed? Maybe sometimes “too much” just scares us because we don’t know where to put it, or if we even have enough room to keep it warm.
A bit like stories that end, and we rush to we rush to lighten our load, shed the weight, like after a long mountain hike, when you’re so overheated you want to strip off every layer at once, from your thermal shirt to your windbreaker. And the moment you do, you feel like you can finally breathe again: Ahhh, air!
But soon after, the cold bites, a deep, bone-chilling cold that even the red-and-blue checkered wool blanket can’t fix. And just like that, you get sick. Maybe in the throat, or maybe in a deeper layer — because those layers held parts of you, and ripping them off all at once leaves wounds.
Marta and Antonio, for example, end up embracing to say goodbye — because breaking up always takes two. Maybe not at the same time, maybe on Tiber Island, where life begins, and you melt into the warmest, most abandoned, exhausting, sweaty, renewed, vital, and painful hug of all.
But that hug doesn’t come right away, first, a lot happens.
Like giving time to suffering: giving time to the suffering of the body, and a different time to the suffering of the soul. Learning to do it gently while cycling with a red cape, while eating a strawberry and chocolate gelato, rediscovering feel the taste of sugar on your fingers and lips, getting messy to find meaning in things that, even if destined to end, appear endless.
And then, in no particular order:
Giving away what’s left, like a painting of black and womanly profiles — when you take it off the wall, the figure remains but not the shadow, because nothing is truly dark when you give freely, asking nothing in return.
Except maybe that the other person lives their unique, original, passionate, beating life — in their own way, and only their way.
White lilies and supplì: full, hot, stringy, deeply fried.
Ivy and a whistle: one turns sunlight into life, the other wind into sound — two living things chosen by someone who had once lost their own life and cut their skin to let light in.
It happens, to get so brutally lost in the dark. And finding someone who can see and understand, that makes all the difference.
Someone who notices that a stomachache might be something more, and doesn’t just let go of hands reaching out for something to hold.
Rocket and lemon radiator pasta: on the wishlist. An easy recipe: just chili oil and lemon zest. So easy that maybe even I can make it, even though I don’t even cook fish sticks. Maybe I could make it for someone who smiles with the tenderness of someone who knows how to love, and who gets emotional like a child when I look into his eyes and say, “I like you”.
A boy coming out of the closet to live his own three-dimensional story, because not everything needs an explanation, even if we desperately try to find one just to keep fear at bay.
Like trying to explain the way birds move in the sky, becoming both figure and background, with no clear line between the two.
And there’s always one bird that dances alone to its own rhythm, and for a moment, you see only him. Somehow, his wingbeat makes the beauty of the others in unison shine even more.
Maybe, if the music is the same, we’re never really alone.
And if it’s true that the amoeba is the only organism that can’t get sick, it’s also true that it can’t learn Korean either — or fill three bowls with ingredients you didn’t know existed, one at a time, without rushing.
It can’t make a mess and then clean it up, can’t watch the sunrise from the window, can’t love and then stop loving — and turn that love into a caress.
Three Bowls came out in theaters on October 9th, which, I read, is the national day of remembrance for the victims of environmental and industrial disasters caused by human negligence.
And yet, to me, this film is about care, in many different forms. Because human beings, at some point, may get lost and screw up — massively — but if they care for themselves and for others, then they hold a kind of wonder.
I liked it, just like I told it to you. Maybe you’ll like it too.
Now I’ve gotta run, I have to go buy radiator pasta.
Susanna Lucatello
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