Sleeping in a hotel has its time. Like the joy when you were invited to a wedding and you were eighteen years old. Or the desire to be told that they have photos of you from when you were handsome and funny, when you were worth it. It is paradoxical that they coincide in the same time space to feel offended by everything and be honest without anyone asking you to.
Oscar Wilde said that all bad poetry is sincere and he was right. Sincerity has a reputation it doesn’t deserve. Lying is a form of intelligence. A madman does not know how to lie. To do so he has to build a delusion. And a delusion is never lived as a lie. Being educated is a form of civilization. Point-blank sincerity that no one asks of you always has the education of those who listen to you. With their lies and silences.
The other night I had dinner with friends and it was nice until everyone decided to go home, with partners, children and cats. They left me at the hotel while I sang (Bacharach/Davis) that a house is not a home. I occupied the room surprisingly canceled by an Italian author and I would not sleep at home. And there, lying on that enormous bed, stuffed into an Italian author bathrobe, with an envelope full of tickets for Italian author lunch or dinner, I began to think about all the things that anonymous and offended people, by virtue of sincerity, do not requested, he had told me the last few hours.
I felt old, fat, ugly and tired and even somewhat Italian. Insomnia led me to wonder what I was doing there in that Italian designer bathrobe, tucked into that Italian designer bed and room. Things didn’t get better: addictive thriller plots in Italian occurred to me, with children lost in the woods and detectives with inner demons. I got scared, got up and left. With all the lies that occurred to me and a bathrobe telling me about Antonioni.
