busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train feeling nearly faded as my jeans
Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained took us all the way to New Orleans
I took my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana I was blowing sad while Bobby sang the blues
with them windshield wipers slapping time and Bobby clapping hands we finally sang every song that driver knew

freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose
nothing ain't worth nothing but it's free
feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues
feeling good was good enough for me
good enough for me and Bobby McGee

from the coalmines of Kentucky to the California sun Bobby shared the secrets of my soul
standing right beside me through everything I done every night he kept me from the cold
then somewhere up near Salinas, Lord, I let him slip away he was looking for the home I hope he'll find
but I'd trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday holding Bobby's body close to mine

freedom's just another word for nothin left to lose
nothing ain't worth nothing but it's free
feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues
feeling good was good enough for me
good enough for me and Bobby McGee

An accident happens, has happened and leaves traces. Beautiful, fragile and friable traces that fall apart easily and make place for other traces.

A piano, a beautiful piano can be the center of a house, it can be the center of a life. A house can burn down, and a piano can burn with it and with the life of which it had been the center. This is not necessarily beautiful. Some fires are beautiful, like the one shown in one of
the Films of Andrej Tarkovski. Some of them do not happen by chance : In Norway or Sweden, the family house of under-aged persons that committed a capital crime is set on fire by fire fighters and burnt down to a pile of ashes, small gray and black waves within the outlines of the former building. David Byrne wrote a song on this, not on the Norwegian legislation but on a desire created by houses : to burn them down.

A house can be a beautiful house. A life or a song can be beautiful as well.
For now, it doesn't really matter how broken or well conserved it is.
I'm getting there. I could say, I always arrive too late or too early. I get there.
One of the authors I do not like has one of his protagonists say : If I'd ever say, this is so beautiful, I wish this moment would last, I would like to stop here, I'd deserve just that : that my life would stop. I like these words. They are at the center of thoughts that I am interested in since two years : how can I interrupt a process of disintegration and how do I deal with the wish to conserve a form while thinking that change is the only interesting state of things. This piano made me cry recently when I was playing Kris Kristofferson's Me and Bobby McGee on it. When I saw it in the ruins of the burnt house, of which it had been the center, it didn't makeme cry. I was stunned by it's beauty and it began to become a center for me. I don't cry easily, and even less so in public.

The only time that I remember doing so and probably also my best performance, without being one, happened 10 years ago in Rome.
It was a moment when I did not make a decision, I acted under an ultimatum and to not decide on something that I couldn't decide at that moment, I did everything the ultimatum imposed and arrived at decision without having decided upon something.
The buses that go from Tiburtina to the center are always crowded, mine was as well, but I was crying and the quantity of liquids that came out of my eyes, nose and mouth was so big, that I was standing in the only zone in this bus that was not crowded, I could have danced on this puddle of tears, snot and slobber.