Once a year now, I simply enter my testimony into the record. And here, for the record, my name is Piero Amadeo Infante, and this is the year of our Lord, 2016. On the 20th of January, next year, I shall turn 55, something I never could before, and still now cannot, fathom in any reasonable manner.
Sometimes, when the conditions are right, and there is enough activity around me to distract my conscious mind, I can be totally still.
it’s a little spooky though.
I feel like I’m processing too much, and the load triples when I stand still, developing all this film, doing all this math, and mapping all these places, in the life that I have lived up to the moment that finds me here writing this, for no other reason than to bear witness that I was here, and that I actually existed.
I fear the things all men my age fear a little, I think. the slowing of the blood. The lessening of the usefulness. The road ahead, which for many of us, looks like the road behind, meaning we travel alone.
And most of all, we fear being trapped in our own gravity, our own perspective, and secretly want do risky things, or get involved in bold projects, to save us from the prison of our own outlook. creative pursuits, are our prison breaks, and the culmination of them, our personal Bastille days. We want our reality to be broken sometimes.
The peace that has overtaken my life in the past few months, I have used to learn things I never knew before. How to truly be a domestic housekeeper. How to shop, clean, and keep the house.
I never stayed in one place long enough to learn these skills. I finished a book which is now in the hands of my able editor, while I take interviews from around the globe.
I am able, on occasion to be of service (or so I would like to think) to younger men navigating parts of their life, that I have mastered, while my life, careens recklessly into new territories I have yet to discover. it is like calling to the ships behind you to avoid the reefs, while you, ahead of them, sail directly into a fog bank, feigning confidence.
The lack of rain in this part of the world absolutely kills me. I mean really. I can feel myself dying inside a little bit every day that there is no rain. It was always the only safe place for me, the only time I felt totally loved by the universe. I’m considering leaving this place and moving to a place that has a regular rain pattern for that reason alone. I cannot live in a place with no rain.
I deal with feelings of my departed mother, wondering why it never felt like she was on my side, and beginning to mildly envy those who had actual mothers, and what that must of felt like, to have somebody to protect you. In my life, I have mostly been protector, but never really felt protected.
I hold the vocation of motherhood as sacred, and mothers in general really impress me. as a study for scriptwriting and character development, I went through the entire series of the Sopranos, (A series that used my music) and found the similarities between the soprano family and my own, a little too close for comfort.
My mother’s impact was like a comet, and like a comet, everything exploded out from the middle, with nearly every member of my family, changing their last name and leaving town at some point.
I don’t feel robbed over something I never had to begin with. It just seems like a strange ritual, between women and their children, this religion and belief in unbridled love, that I admire, but was never a practitioner of.
I am neck deep in the middle of my second book about 350 pages in, recording around 50 compositions for use in Spanish-language television, working on three scripts for children’s cartoons, and generally using my imagination to make a living, which is turning out pretty nicely.
I keep dreaming of a place, surrounded by Eucalyptus, where I plant a giant circle of black bamboo, and build a single level house, very spartan, solar powered, water efficient, with a beautiful outdoor area. A place for me to wind down my life, a place to receive visitors, and to do projects. And a place less populated. I’m getting a little tired of people. Humans are aggravating me.
I have, by choice, not engaged in any romantic long term engagements, for nearly two years now, in an attempt to clear my head and heart, and see clearly the nature of my love, lust, fascination, obsession, adoration, and issues with, women in all their forms. The subject has become no easier.
I feel the dead in and around me, with a pleasant lack of gravity, and of late, have been the subject, of what I can only call astronomically rare good luck.
Looking back, on all this, I think I was the one that was supposed to die earlier. The one a lot of people thought would be either destitute, or delusional, despite the fact that the same people made use of my talent, services, and loyalty. All debts paid in full.
I’m still here, and we owe one another nothing. I’m doing quite a bit better than most of the people who considered themselves stable, productive, or even upstanding members of society. Having scratched the surface of the façade, I’m no longer impressed by any of these people, their businesses, their industries, their claims, and least of all, their expensive charades. I’m utterly glad, that I took this road, through the rain, to wind up exactly where I am.
In a wide dirt road, in the fog, with 1000 miles behind me, and 1000 miles ahead of me, sitting on a suitcase, writing poetry, and remembering my loves with a smile.
Life in general, is a bloody, beautiful, heartbreaking, joyful disaster, and metaphorically, you could say, that I dressed perfectly for the occasion, in the clothes of a street kid, who could survive anything, and did.
I’m still here. I have a black eye and a bloody lip, and sometimes nurse a broken heart, yet as the poem says, my head is unbowed, and as another poem says, there are miles to go before I sleep.
Suddenly now, after writing this, my spirit feels lighter.
Thank you for bearing the burden of this testimony with me, and I hope it does not offend. It is only way I know how to communicate, things I do not fully understand.