Milano - Torino, Back and Forth Across the Atlantic

Paris Pt2

He travels with his leather jacket again, the first time since the end of last winter, and he’d forgotten how much fun it was. Its smell reminds him of everything he likes best about his situation; hitting the airport, through the glass doors, zipped up to the neck, at six in the morning, a bleary line at the bar past customs and the smell of cheap brioches and fresh coffee floating over at nose level, hunger aches, familiar. Sitting in the airport’s plastic bucket chair, the thick jacket squeaking, thoughts of his fuckless summer are replaced by memories of his fuckless winter.
This time when he travels he feels distinctly separate from the real thing. All my heroes were punks – he says to himself, the older he gets the funnier this sounds. If he isn’t the real thing, then what is he – he feels as though he is drifting badly. A hopeless ad man, treating clients badly, pah, depressed, hurrying back through the wet city, full of arabs, soup restaurant - glistening heads just below eyeline, bread and lemon and chilli on the tables, to the hotel – if he isn’t the real thing…
He sits on the bed in the hotel room with the window open, his jacket off, there is a slight chill coming in – the room had been hot and humid when he opened the door – the cold air feels like a fever, he feels tired, it is raining, he listens to the music outside coming from somebody’s party in a flat on the other side of the street, people laughing, he imagines them walking upstairs and downstairs, looking for a fuck.
If he isn’t the real thing, and down from the lago he had forgotten he wasn’t, what is left for him other than to make himself an approximate version of it, the autonomous product, some object, for the kids, for all the punks to live by. He wonders, despondently, to travel as the real thing, back and forth across the Atlantic... The product would be a crystallization of a relationship with the real thing. He sighs – the economy of now can go fuck itself, he’s laughing, sitting on the bed.

-LPM

Paris' Leather Jacket

-LPM

No title

-JPD

Buy a black car, drive it

They stop at a small town. Jean meets a girl, Juliette (Dita Parlo), and they are married, while hardly knowing each other. So the barge moves on. It is not an easy transition for the married couple. In Paris they go ashore and the wife flirts with another man. There is a fight and she runs away, then the husband goes in search of her.

-LPM (after Guardian)

Morganti Fragment: down from the Lago

When he’d first come into town, drifted round the periphery, on the coat-tails of all the others from the lago who didn’t know any better, thinking the big city meant seeing the same people they saw up on the lake but in a more expensive bar with shitter food, bars with small dogs in them and stink of gelled heads, first years: drifted round the periphery, like a bobbing head, trading in sex, not other things, leaving the acrid taste of a white chick’s sincere chest tribal tattoo in his mouth. He stared at her and he could get off. The next morning, the bar, the coffee bar with coffee cups piled up next to Africans and bus drivers like the long comic reality of an American movie, chocolate brioche exploding on his fingers, walking out in the piss cold to see the sunrise properly, and the land steam.

-LPM

Triple Breakfast

-JPD