Los protagonistas son chicos (y perros) que viven en las calles de Palermo. O no. También en caravanas, asociaciones, comunas, haciendo trueques o de okupas. Todos con estudios universitarios. 


         Vento (viento) decidió su propio nombre y dejó la comuna en la que había vivido durante 11 años cuando su esposa le rompió el corazón. No tiene ni 26 años. Me enseñó cómo había creado sus pinturas haciendo mejunjes con diferentes tonos de tierra y agua. Y me habló de guerras lejanas, injusticias cercanas y campamentos de refugiados en los que querría colaborar. Varios conocidos suyos murieron entre suníes y chiíes, pero no le asusta. “Podría enseñar a los chiquillos allí a pintar o tocar la armónica” decía mientras jugaba con las cariocas.


        Vincent canta country en la plaza octagonal de Quattro Canti. Cuando los demás terminan su “jornada laboral” pidiendo limosna a cambio de malabares, dibujos, cantes y bailes, van a escucharle cantar mientras cuentan sus monedas. 

 
        Domenico estudió filosofía en Roma y allí pertenecía a un ejército pacífico de payasos. Hoy no ha comido. Voglio bene a Dome.


          Todos ellos comparten un mismo camino. El de la búsqueda perpetua de una existencia lo más alejada posible del sistema capitalista que los educó. Como si detestaran ese padre autoritario del que decidieron independizarse para ir en busca de una Madre tierra más natural y coherente. Ella los quiere así, con sus rastas, con su olor a podredumbre y dientes sucios, pies descalzos, mierda entre las uñas, hambre vieja y con cabezas repletas de marihuana, piojos e ideales.


      Ojalá pudiera volver a escuchar a Vincent cantar su alma fuera y rajar con ello la mía.

       The protagonists are boys (and dogs) who live on the streets of Palermo. Or not. Because some of them also live in caravans, associations, communes or squat houses, or by bartering. All of them, though, have a University degree. 


         Vento (Wind) chose his name when he left the commune in which he had lived for 11 years after his wife had broken his heart. He is not even 26 years old. He happily showed me how he had created different colours of paint by mixing diverse types of soil and water. He spoke about distant wars, nearby injustices and refugee camps in which he would have loved to collaborate. Several of his acquaintances died among Sunnis and Shiites, but that doesn't seem to scare him. "I could teach the kids in there to paint or to play the harmonica", he said nonchalantly while spinning the Poi’s.


        Vincent sings old country songs on the octagonal square of Quattro Canti. When the others finish their "workday" asking for alms in exchange for juggling, drawings, singing or dancing, they would listen to him playing while counting their coins.


         Domenico studied a philosophy degree in Rome and there he was part of a peaceful army of clowns. Today, he hasn’t eaten a thing. Voglio bene a Dome. 


         All of them share a common path. A perpetual search for an existence as far away as possible from the capitalist system that brought them into existence. They detest their authoritarian Father-like society and have decided to become independent of him. They go in search of the more natural and coherent Mother-Earth. She loves them just the way they are: with their dreadlocks, with their smell of poverty and dirty teeth. With their bare feet, dirt under their nails their constant hunger and with their heads full of marijuana, lice and ideals.

 

         Some days, I wish I could listen again to Vincent singing his soul out and ripping mine out with it, too.

            Elvira Martos

      elvenmg@gmail.com