The book is finished. It feels like papers and sketches on a desk, somewhere in a corner of my mind, have been sorted out and put in perspective – curtains open, new clothes to wear, now I am ready to go on.
The idea of writing this book came up in the Summer of 2011. It started from a conversation. I write, he publishes. I went on an US tour, came back and picked up the conversation again. At the end of the year I started.
Before I start to write the book, I should have a clear concept of “retreat,” without having to involve mountains, age and spiritual humbug.
I lived on Weserstrasse in Berlin, Neukölln in a period that the massive changes came about and a new bar, a gallery, a DIY fashion shop opened every month. Still it was a pleasure to walk around, meet the dirt streets, the places not yet touched by polished youth. Berlin entered into my book.
Reading the book I write has made me arrive at the bottom of the Emserstrasse after I have waved the Wulff’s good-bye at the tax free zone.
Happy with my book. Happy with writing, although I continue slow and should stop moaning not to have an old wooden table in Southern Europe.
Meanwhile, later this hot afternoon, windows open, hope that children won’t cry in the courtyard and continue writing on my book.
And then it stopped. The landlord needed my apartment and I had to find a new place. It took ages. The book remained untouched; it resembled a house left in a hurry by its owners, their only possessions carried with them in a suitcase.
I gave up on the apartment hunt, applied for a residency instead. If I would live somewhere in the next months, it would be in the book I wrote. The advantage of returning to a book is that the words don’t get covered by dust. They react as if nothing has happened. Words have patience.
I went to California, to Sonoma County, the Warnecke Ranch to be precise, as an artist in residence.
This became my desk
And now it is all about entering the world of my book, watch, feel, think, write it down.
Meanwhile, for my own book which I am in the process of writing, I visit an other part of Italy play a de-tuned piano.
While my desk waits for me to continue writing, I foresee that over the coming days the book will enter heavy weather.
In my book I visit Bologna 1977, pirate radio, riots and Mantovani. All the muses in the house keep an eye on me.
‘Stop the Music’ candidates for title of the book. We set sail for Magna Grecia, burn Pythagoras’ hut.
After an interrupted visit, an unrevealed mystery, the book continues with 2nd reflection on the origins of language.
Pipe Organ, church bells, Greek plays, tubular systems, pressed air, music… I can almost view the end of the book.
I wrote ‘cannibalism improves genetic code’ in my book a week ago.
Look at that: Raymond Chandler has taken it on him to write some parts of my book. Plot will dissolve in white noise.
This book, I see a hole, step in, find characters, they take me, knock on a wall, break it, enter a different world:
If all goes well I will finish my book this week-end: ideas lining up en masse.
But, Ladies and gentlemen, I finished the book yesterday. Last words: ‘tartar sauce’ Title: ‘Stop the Music’ Great help: Warnecke Ladies.
I won’t mention the struggles, the disappointments and the waiting game that followed when I returned to Europe.
It’s here. It is not perfect. Backyard is written as back yard for instance. It is a book written in the kind of english that sounds foreign to everyone born into the english language.
Michele Mazzani finally adopted the book and published it in a very limited edition of 50 copies. Not much? Let’s see if these copies sell at all.
Here are some excerpts
The book will cost 12€ plus shipping.