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          marco gaddi 
About me 
I was born in Turin on the 28th of December, 1958. Since 1987 I’ve been working as a family doctor in Venaria Reale, a city near my birthplace, famous for its Sabaudian Royal Palace, according to many people the building that really inspired the well-known Versailles Residence, near Paris. In 2010 I released my first album “La tana delle nubi”, with twelve songs written by myself. On March, 2011 I published my first novel, a funny story about a general practitioner in search of the Universal Remedy (Edo Franchi alla ricerca della Panacea Universale). I’m married with Enrica and I have two sons: one human, Alessandro, and one almost human, a shitzu dog named Asia.   
Here you can find the lyrics of the songs and  a few short stories 
La tana delle nubi — English Lyrics  
It 's like a minor art / Made of wood and rags 
That wants to tell you of my love / That tries to paint it like a picture 
It 's a love that doesn't run, but it walks/ And that almost hides itself 
But it's a love that is coming closer / moving along deep streets 
It 's a love that satisfies itself / only from the “just” and the “maybe” 
But it's a love that grows, becomes / And you don't know how much... (As) 
The coin found in the street / The relief that gives the Friday 
The fog  when it clears / The smile that follows your yes 
The wind you feel down / The warmth of a wool scarf 
The bag with the surprise / The fresh water of the fountain 
It's like an Arte Povera (1) / made from hemp and words 
Simple like the things/ of which my love is made 
It's a love that shows its patience / And stands to be apart 
A love that deprives, lives without / And anyway it doesn't come, but it starts 
A love that costs nothing / Apart from the pain to take care of it 
But it values more than the greatest / And it would like to say to you ... (As) 
The soft shade of the arbor / Or the sigh after the examination 
The scent that you feel in the market / the snack that quiets the hunger 
The answer to the riddle / The bench in front of the fireplace 
The trunk with inside the umbrella / As the last but one step 
(1) Arte Povera is an artistic movement and style mainly flourished in Italy during the second half of the past century. It promoted the idea of a revolutionary art made with unconventional and ordinary materials.     
(In 1735, under the patronage of the Académie Royale des Sciences in Paris, a scientific expedition sailed to South America in order to make an accurate estimate of the terrestrial meridian. Chief of the expedition was the captain Pierre Bouguer, hydrologist, and Charles Marie de La Condamine, military mathematician. It was an important chapter of the newborn Geodesy — the discipline that deals with the measurement of the Earth - but also one the  most unfortunate ventures in the History of Science) 
From there, everything ends and begins again: in the heart of the volcano, 
Where God Pichincha boils. 
In the meantime Quito is  looking, with its dark eyes and judges and condemns everyone 
Depending on its meter. 
We, Instead, with ours meter and with the help of the height 
We’re trying to measure the circumference of the Earth  
But it is the stature of the Andes  to put limits to the goal 
to make it so great that rather than challenge it seems instead to offend  
Monsieur La Condamine Reason is our belief  
But sometimes even Science has to deal with superstition 
As the charts are accurate and so are the scales,  
why in this world there are things that still are going wrong? 
As this expedition, born under the starlight 
Of the French Academy, but then crippled by bad luck. 
Almost ten years of misfortune, of rebellion and treason 
Of broken legs and obscure fevers, leak and mutinies. 
Inaccessible paths on this hostile Cordillera, 
That takes your breath away and breaks your nerves. 
And that keeps us prisoners 
A mission sailed from a too much far place: 
Climb up to the equator just to measure a meridian 
And maybe one day we will go even to the Moon 
But will we ever discover the law that governs and explains the luck? 
Certainly, we’ll invent a cure for Death 
But will we be able in the end to find the antidote to the poison of bad luck? 
Monsieur La Condamine, I'm going away 
From this vicuna’s land, from its poisonous curare 
This place too much infested with bad luck 
So, Sir, I'll ask You with respect:  
Please, You and  your Geodesy ... Fuck you damned hell! 
Bella, wearing almost regardless your life 
But when you loose the buttons of your glance 
You can see the silk wearing your face 
And all the pearls that make all of your smile 
Bella, of shard and corn' s done, 
Made from charcoal and iron 
Water surrounding the coral 
Bella, like deep blue sky 
Bella, from all the things that give grace to the world 
Bella, from sugar and salt 
From love that really is able to hurt 
Bella, a journey which takes a room 
And how even much is never enough 
Bella, tender and soft thrill 
Hidden heart under a blanket of snow 
Bella, the sun warms it and melts it 
Or maybe it's your embrace that opens and welcomes me. 
Bella, flowerbed in the street,  
unexpected gift, 
a found shilling but spent, 
Bella, you were a bit of my journey, 
But so beautiful it was when I stood beside you 
(The Reggia of Venaria that night, almost seemed to move ...) 
Great as a boat /  Light wind aft 
And a full moon / That climbs on her back 
She moves into the Gardens / Then sets sail towards the mountains 
Because she has no boundaries / Not horizons at all 
Flocks of black crows  / Turn upwards from the lawn 
Like serious kites / Follow her from above 
Hedges open themselves / fences hatch 
Hares sniff / almost indistinct rustles 
The Power of the Kings Shines through the windows  
While outside the onlookers barefoot crowd is struck dumb 
The one that leaves no mark  
Neither on the portraits nor on the sealsPoor men and horses,  
They leave only fleeting footprints 
Great as a sailboat / She sails without wake 
The Court and the Gallery / both just skims on the ground  
Vague murmur of woods / Strength of stretched antlers  
Misty and dark lakes / She laps before the “Gran Paese” 
Time governs her/ and it does so without rudder 
It  guides her always / in the same way 
Which is the one of the huge projects / The  ideas and the earth 
The sky and the theorems / The blood. The war, too. 
The austere voice of the Powerful 
Echoes in the halls 
While outside the missing people dark chorus stands up 
The faceless History,  
Which anyway moves and supports 
Because are the free men’s arms 
That push forward the Temples and the Royal Palaces  
(If songs were lines in a conversation, the situation would be fine — Nick Drake) 
And if indeed there were pink moons and clothes of sand 
To shed light on the dreams and shelter the rage 
To have had a fragile and wrong life 
With great wings but  so little sky 
To have first given back it and then later have sung it 
In that way , so suffered  and so beautiful 
And if that song was really the line of a conversation 
A square that becomes rhyme and  then gets emotion 
It would be much easier, even to love each other 
In the same way to apply an exact proportion 
To take half and to give the rest 
Equal for all, without exception or remains. 
Then you'd be here, maybe you'd be here 
Singing  again. 
You were a  seaman or better a  desert island's dweller 
With a paper airplane to bring you back on the dry land 
The land of those who feel different 
With their feet always off the shoes 
The disconsolate and disappointed land of the missing  people 
Who are back but do not know how to go 
You were a river man or perhaps an indecipherable affluent 
With the soul left on the shore 
Without a boat to travel upstream 
To come back to a house without walls and corners 
To avoid injury from the artificial light 
In a room with windows without glass 
To breathe without getting hurt 
Then you'd be here, maybe you'd be here 
singing again. 
And if indeed there were clothes of sand and pink moons in the sky 
I like to think that everything would be easier 
As the difficult art of being in this world 
Desiring to achieve without doing it 
And going forward, following through 
Because dreams are more land to be sown 
Maybe there is a place where the clouds hide themselves 
It’s been a long time I’ve been chasing them 
Following  the route of their migration 
Looking for a sign, a trace 
Like a raindrop or an unstable wake 
A footprint of fog or the echo of a thunder 
There will be a passage or a way 
Something that takes me to them 
Them, the clouds, which are both shadow and storm 
That is to say, silence and noise 
Foreboding of snow or sometimes illusion 
Thin matter, eclipse and glimmer 
Harmless or cruel they observe the world 
They weave around it a kind of a veil 
Them, the clouds that are not a place 
Because  there is no land or sky inside them 
Maybe there is a place where the clouds shelter themselves 
Something that protect them from air 
From the human eye, from maps and tools 
Even from light and sound 
A place away from the forces and the streams 
Where they can stop 
Where they can conceive the rain 
A rain to give back to the land and the sea 
Maybe there is a place where the clouds nest  themselves 
It’s been a long time I’ve been chasing them  
Pursuing the meaning of their escape 
Looking for a sign, a trace 
Wild and stray, they are moving slowly 
Between the equator and the pole 
And like them, me too I'm looking for  
something that could be both haven and flight 
Funny, to tell you with another time 
Maybe a  5/4 
In a electric suburb of the late twentieth century 
With light trails and passers-by flashes  
Vitrified things everywhere moving around 
Saturated, even dissonant colours 
A livid sky injected by lifts 
Thrown over bristly and burning antennas 
So, try to follow me  
I've dedicated to you an entire labyrinth 
Made with crumpled sheets, waiting  and appetizers 
And then, my God, I even pushed myself 
To search reasons and aims 
Only to find myself losing balance, 
Slipping on your heels and your delays 
And finally booking period photos and memories. 
Maybe, to tell you in another way 
Even in a way that makes use of words.   
But what to tell you, this is the hard matter. 
Because, you know,  Poets and Screens have stolen everything: 
The fire, the questions and the sighs 
Not even the buttons or the screws They left me 
It remained just You ... but you were late for the tire dealer 
And for the aperitif with that dispensing chemist … 
The day after,  cleaning has to be done 
Paper bags and scrap to be thrown away 
Still cutlery and crumbs left on the table  
And empty bottles and dishes piled in the sink 
The day after all the people are gone away 
You, alone, just with silence together with you 
And while you’re cleaning, it almost makes you afraid 
Thinking of  how much joy every day ends up in the junk 
And you feel a sadness / down on the things 
Almost it takes possession of them / It touches and corrodes them 
And like a caress / eventually it softly touches your heart 
The day after  is when you let your thoughts running away 
And you follow the wire of things 
From the first day until yesterday 
You look around yourself and then you see everything: 
Errors and opportunities, missteps and regrets. 
Time, you know, it evaporates and then flies 
The more it passes and the more people find themselves alone 
It takes away your feelings, all the things you loved 
And then you discover how hard it is to laugh and love again 
And you feel a sadness / down on things 
Almost it takes possession of them/ It touches and corrodes them 
And like a caress / eventually it softly touches your heart 
The day after is just another day before 
The stories are repeated, and there is a continuing life 
A window opens, there is sun in the street, 
We must bring order, 
Cleaning has to be done. 
Dress yourself, as Iceland, 
with ash and silence and mutability 
Let the time to run 
Let it be island that emerges, let it be wealth 
Ford of a river and finally let it be awareness  
Shake, as Iceland, 
The fire and ice inside and outside your skin 
Under an ancient, boreal instinct 
Merge thrill and warmth 
Because after the soul always begins the sea 
Release then, as Iceland do,  
The earth’s blood, 
Let it to become lava that turns into rock, 
Let it to become creek and then cliff wind 
Make of this love 
Which travels and doesn't reach 
A cascade water, an immensity of blanket  
always and just make of it something as an “over” 
Undress yourself, as Iceland 
Leave only the amazement for the eyes 
Like a sign that grazes and nearly steals 
Like a sign that invisible rests  
on the real things’ truth  
Look at you, you're Iceland 
Highest and suspended voice 
Giant’s footprint  
So close but so far 
Never ending story, tightened 
Between the twilight and the life. 
Release then, as Iceland do,  
The earth’s blood 
Let it to become lava that turns into rock, 
Let it to become creek and then cliff wind. 
Make of this love  
An amalgamating and disseminating quake 
Make it blood returning into the veins  
Make it ice that melts … and rock that blends itself ... 
(On May 20, 1973, in the Monza’s motordrome, Renzo "Paso" Pasolini  lost his life during the race. This song was written to remember a great champion of motorcycling but especially to remember that you can win even after coming) 
They say you can write a music without notes 
At 200 per hour riding on two wheels 
And so they say that this  music is not made of sounds 
But folds and passes, shots and acceleration. 
They say you can run with eyeglasses 
Because what you need to see the path is just your heart 
Feeling  the track just below your fingers 
The way it rushes, as life is rushing away 
Oh Paso 
for everyone life has the same goal 
But how to get it, each one has his own way 
Riding a violin, a heart or a motorbike. 
They say that everything at 200 per hour becomes indistinct 
The wind stops, even the colors change color 
So the fear,  and even the terror 
They become lighter, lighter than love 
They say that at 200 per hour it breaks 
The thin thread that ties between balance and certainty 
And it takes a moment, just a moment 
To change the race in a leap or a flight 
Oh Paso 
life is a track that you cannot study 
every corner hides the end or the glory 
This is life: it should be played always from memory 
And if Life should be, then, it mustn’t be a Life 
Behind any of a fashion or a red light 
It should be an engine that runs, but also smiles and smokes 
Something that burns, but do not consume 
They say you can win even after coming 
Anyway, the joy of the podium jubilation is short 
And it takes more than this to overcome death 
They say that for some lives, then, to die is nothing 
Because they still keep beating in people's hearts 
They become history, they become myth 
Like Paso’s one … a blast in an infinite loop 
They say you can run with eyeglasses 
Because what you need to see the path is just your heart 
I’m goin’ away 
Tonight I only want 
To go away 
Outside there is a city 
That is creaking under the weight 
Of all its useless frenzy 
And how many lights go out the constellations 
There’s no magic ... you know ... in a dark sky. 
So .. I’m goin’ away 
I return in a suburban courtyard  
Over the gate there is a thin air 
I breath and immediately everything runs slower 
Even the eternity, it barely moves 
Maybe because the clocks here come from Milan (1) 
And enchant  time  with their.. tick tack ... tick ... tack ... tick ... tack 
So ... I stay here ... 
To promise to myself the certainty of a well spent life 
The beauty of the days to come 
And the beauty is just in this sense of waiting 
In this beginning that seems to  never come to an endIng  
In these clocks of Milan  
That stop time with their ... tick ... tack ... tack ... tack 
Let me try again 
The fear that  Juliette Greco made to me 
Her  silhouette in the dark of the Louvre 
Wearing the Belphegor’s mask (2) 
Besides, the hum of May bugs (3) 
You see,  they don’t show anymore 
Maybe because they  have their own mess 
Or just maybe because there are no more beetles here.  
So … I’m goin’ away 
I made a road with my incoming days 
And  I’ve spent most part of my life 
The hope has become more sparse 
But sometimes I stand still, waiting, 
A perfect and away sound  
And I pretend it's a clock of Milan 
Which plays with the time doing ... tick ... tack ... tick ... tack … 
I still have five stones  (1) in my pocket 
An oak branch, the jumps over the ditches 
A dog made of cloth, a slingshot, a ceiling 
The faded photos of Suarez and Bitossi (4) 
And  even more vague things 
As certain memories and certain emotions 
That  come, in the evening, and bring you awayAway ... inside a song … 
(1)      The “clock of Milan” and “the five stones” were typical child games in the courtyards when we were boys 
(2)      One the most terrifying child memories my generation share is the TV television serial “Belfagor” in the sixties, starring Juliette Greco.  
(3)      The cockchafer (colloquially called may bug, billy witch, or spang beetle) is an European beetle of the genus Melolontha,  in the family Scarabaeidae. Once abundant throughout Europe and a major pest in the periodical years of "mass flight", it had been nearly eradicated in the middle of the 20th century through extensive use of pesticides and has even been locally exterminated in many regions 
(4) Luisito Suarez was a famous soccer player in the sixties, playing in  the” Internazionale” football club; in the same times run on the bicycle Franco Bitossi 
How beautiful is Poetry 
When She has an entire People to sing for 
And the more She dies, pierced and mutilated 
The more She revives, more and more alive. 
How beautiful is Poetry 
When She loads on Her shoulders 
The huge weight of an Idea 
And the more she falls and hurts 
The more She stands up, more and more proud. 
Then, how beautiful is Poetry 
That even if they humiliate and offend Her 
For that  People, for that Idea 
She doesn’t give up, She doesn’t surrender 
But She gets even more beautiful ... 
Poetry ... 
     A few short stories of mine 
Le Douanier     
In one of the possible infinite parallel universes, there is another Henri Rousseau. He is a snake charmer. He lives in a tropical forest filled with yellow stems, green leaves; full of branches,  insects and intentions.He dreams  of corridors filled with metal pipes and unlimited balconies surrounded by railings.And he suppose plastics and imagine metal plates.The space is made of traffic lights and buttons. A grid of cables.And he paints it with his fingers on the river stream. 
Patrizia lives in a house full of cats. There are cats everywhere. Cats on the chairs and on the table. Cats on the chairs and in the kitchen. Cats for lamps. Cats instead of television.They are like standing gray fur islands. Soft ornaments of solidified lava.Even Patrizia is still. Absolutely still. As in a painting by Thomas Medugno.Everything is perfectly still in this snapshot of words.Except for the slight sparkle of dust in the air. 
Wonders of the World      
Mario and Rita have withdrawn from the world. Even TV talked about them. They invented a very special device. Something like a machine by which they  have restricted the whole earth into their apartment. A room for every continent. They sleep in Asia. They eat Africa. They read their books in old Europe. Mario plays his guitar in Australia. Rita embroiders in America. They have two bathrooms. One in the north and one in South. No more to say.They don't see anyone. Never. They have a just a daughter who is studying Fine Arts and once a week brings them some shopping. They don't want to see anyone. Do they need any people? They travel all the day. The Great Barrier Reef. Macchu Picchu. The Taj Mahal. The Eiffel Tower. It 's all there. A picture, an ornament, a book. Polar bears on the toothpaste. A sponge with the shape of a lion. It 's all there. The world. Once they even took part in a big game hunting. A bunch of Serengeti ants. Third tile right to the refrigerator.Sometimes they write each other. Letters full of magic and wonder. Travelling is a marvellous thing, they say. And tell each other the wonders of the world. 
           Twelve little moments 
We spent a weekend together at the seaside.I brought with me a camera. One of those disposable cameras. It had a flash, a plastic skeleton and a film heart  with twenty-four poses.We spent together almost two thousands seconds. Full of love and tenderness.We chose twelve of them. Just twelve. And nestled them in that plastic body with only one eye.When we got home, she kissed me gently in front of the door of my house.I left the camera  in the glove compartment of his car.A week passed.I asked her if she had developed the  photographs.She replied that she had not yet had the time.A month passed. And another month yet.Those twelve moments were still waiting in a drawer to come to light.Quite some time passed. A time that went beyond himself.One evening they opened her car and stole two things: a pen and the camera, pregnant with her twelve little moments.Now there is a kind of gravestone on a beach of Santa Margherita. Near a wharf and a hotel.There and only there the sky is always gray and it is always the same Sunday. Of the same April. Of  the same identical year.I often go there when I feel alone. I rest in silence. And I wonder what would have been of those twelve little moments. Once they have been grown. 
When the radio aired Harvest Moon by Neil Young, the  no longer young man looked into the no longer young woman's eyes. And suddenly he felt the immense desire to invite her  to dance.He asked her with a burgundy bow tie. He asked her  with his lips just  a whisper from her hands.And she agreed: with a chiffon skirt and a few wrinkles around her eyes.What they drew on the floor was not only a circle. It was life and an impalpable sign of soles.This story is beautiful not only because it's nice to think of two human beings, embraced, in the gloom of a dining room. While a vintage radio plays Harvest Moon.It 'nice to think that a radio, much older than them, is the accomplice of a sweetness more and more rare. 
             The sadness of the twist 
There is a place very close to my house, where they welcome and cure the sad screws. It's a true story, believe me. The sad screws do really exist. They are those that, after a while, unscrew. They are those you can never screw. You'll say: it's just a little matter of thread. Indeed, it is not even an issue. Simply you have to replace the defective screw with another  one. I think on the contrary it is a very serious matter. At a time when everything is forgotten and thrown away is reassuring  to know that even the humble life of a screw can have a sense. That it is clockwise or counterclockwise, nonetheless, it doesn't matter. 
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