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Along a
windy, narrow street, it was quite an usual deep Summer's evening,
I met an eccentric figure, a lady I had never seen before: friends
and acquaintences, I remember, used to dub her "weeping
midnight callie", they loved her so much, and they seemed
to faintly adore her crazy antics, a woman so in love with eccentricity.
Voices spread around years gone wildly enjoyed and partied continously
kept delivering rumours about her pompous and quite unpredictable
persona, and the little combo of Kennington-In-Burdon had no
hesitation to unashamedly dissipate praises and exultance definitely
out of the ordinary, reaching the impossible and grazing the
uncommon. She was their own Divine, Goddess of the sweet dark they called her one day. She was electric and involving, a raging beauty that appeared from a vanishing dead-end street, bringin' tons of unknown magnetism while wearing old-cinema-stars-like clothes, repeatedly turning around herself tens of times before fading into the first, amazed, stunned stranger's arms, and then let herself flow again from face to face, having all of us fallen in love with her glamourous ego, quite a dangerous, uncalculable weirdness for that country.... but everytime she took the stage there was NO TIME at all... SHE was our time, and seconds were supposed to be shattered or simply taken off, leaving thousands of missing reasons for what it was happening to the common people around her increasingly soaring wills. Our Goddess used to be very demanding, and no-one could object or interrupt her, it was her very own show, no matter how many spectators she had while performing at the "The Ancient Cradle of Insanity". "Goddess of the sweet dark always HAS TO PLAY her full-passioned tragedy", says an old saying passed from generation to generation along the decades, brought to us till our days thanks to the infectious, never-documented-before adoration she was able, even after death, to translate and then hand down to the new witnesses of time... Several men madly fell in love with her, but for a cruel destiny she couldn't feel affection towards anyone, and pretty soon the Goddess gracely swept into raging depression; her "true love" was her independence, but everyone seemed to ignore it. She started dating young enterprising men but soon she revealed to be tragicly uncapable of feeling ANY kind of emotion. Depression "murderously" began to eat her ego day after day, hour after hours, infinitive seconds spent in front of the pale mirror she bought from an erratic antiques shop a very long time ago, in the middle of her unhappy, and still mysterious youth. Before going to bed they said she had the "habit" to sleep into a coffin, in a room meticolously coloured and topped with Greta Garbo's black and white pictures, all of them hung upon the wall. Her greatest dream - a famous journalist then stated - was that of dying on the stage, but only "after the most memorable performance anyone could ever achieve... and that ONLY me could....... The Goddess of the sweet dark......, you will remember me for the eternity... the woman who COULDN'T love....... but COULD PLAY LOVE........". And the red-flamed curtain went down, while darkness smoothly fell on the audience, still emotionally touched by her indisputable greatness.... all started crying; it was not common tears, but warm, painful tears that undeniably proved eternal, sonorous, loud adoration for their very own Goddess...... the ONLY ONE they ever had and the only one they ever could admire....... ....THAT IS "THE LEGEND OF THE GODDESS OF THE SWEET DARK"......! Questo testo è depositato presso www.neteditor.it e quindi coperto da diritti d'autore. Esso non potrà essere riprodotto totalmente o parzialmente senza il consenso dell'autore stesso, il quale, peraltro, ha autorizzato la pubblicazione su NuovoGPR, in data indicata in testa ed a mezzo e-mail. |