Today I have 59 years, five years older than my father when he disappeared.
My father is now younger than me, as I remember. He remained
fisato at that age: his 54 years.
And it is something quite strange now to think younger than me, for him, in life that he lives in my memory, time has stood still, marking time, to me, however, continued to have run its course changing (sometimes subjectively slower, perhaps), pursuing relentlessly.
But if my father is "still" at his age now for me, "youth" of 54, my memories of him undergoing a continual reworking and, equally inevitably, fade and blend. So many things, never laid down on paper ever written, but lived only in memory (and sometimes told out loud) are lost: the change in bits and pieces that sometimes must replace the parts together like a puzzle to give them a sense. First of many others which I was sure, fragments remain a bit 'washed out of which I have no certezza.Anche the years of my personal analysis siifanno increasingly alienated and that whole body of stories as the psychoanalyst who had fulcroomio father to be fading.
Where did this comment?
Perhaps the fact that, trying to rattle off the dates of major anniversaries of my parents, I have come a substantial doubt on the effective date of the birth of my father.
year: 1918, this I know for sure.
Day and month cards are mixed up here.
In the previous post I wrote: October 4, 1918, but now I am uncertain. On October 4
er recurrence that coupled the birthday of my brother Salvatore, the name day of my father, but also the anniversary of the marriage of their parents.
You can not , I began to almnanaccare inside me, that October 4 was also the day which marks his birthday!
If they were, we should have done for the day of the celebrations really sumptuous, but it was not our habits even celebrate with fanfare a single occurrence.
So, excluding October 4 as the date of birth, what would be left?
Void! I can not think of any data "papabile."
Faced with this absence of mind, I think I will certainly ask my mother some clarification and that she will be ready to answer my questions, offer answers. but I do not like.
I would like to be me to solve the problem.
One thing is certain: what was certain becomes doubtful, what was the domain of memory lived and owned, enter the sphere of the doubt.
Memories are fleeting and feeble.
And then, just for this, I must hurry to fix this all I remember of my father.
fisato at that age: his 54 years.
And it is something quite strange now to think younger than me, for him, in life that he lives in my memory, time has stood still, marking time, to me, however, continued to have run its course changing (sometimes subjectively slower, perhaps), pursuing relentlessly.
But if my father is "still" at his age now for me, "youth" of 54, my memories of him undergoing a continual reworking and, equally inevitably, fade and blend. So many things, never laid down on paper ever written, but lived only in memory (and sometimes told out loud) are lost: the change in bits and pieces that sometimes must replace the parts together like a puzzle to give them a sense. First of many others which I was sure, fragments remain a bit 'washed out of which I have no certezza.Anche the years of my personal analysis siifanno increasingly alienated and that whole body of stories as the psychoanalyst who had fulcroomio father to be fading.
Where did this comment?
Perhaps the fact that, trying to rattle off the dates of major anniversaries of my parents, I have come a substantial doubt on the effective date of the birth of my father.
year: 1918, this I know for sure.
Day and month cards are mixed up here.
In the previous post I wrote: October 4, 1918, but now I am uncertain. On October 4
er recurrence that coupled the birthday of my brother Salvatore, the name day of my father, but also the anniversary of the marriage of their parents.
You can not , I began to almnanaccare inside me, that October 4 was also the day which marks his birthday!
If they were, we should have done for the day of the celebrations really sumptuous, but it was not our habits even celebrate with fanfare a single occurrence.
So, excluding October 4 as the date of birth, what would be left?
Void! I can not think of any data "papabile."
Faced with this absence of mind, I think I will certainly ask my mother some clarification and that she will be ready to answer my questions, offer answers. but I do not like.
I would like to be me to solve the problem.
One thing is certain: what was certain becomes doubtful, what was the domain of memory lived and owned, enter the sphere of the doubt.
Memories are fleeting and feeble.
And then, just for this, I must hurry to fix this all I remember of my father.
