Antoine Cassar's Blog

GOL DI MOGOL – UN ANNO DI PIÙ

mi, re
re primo rivolto
la

Ma che cosa eeè cambiato
dopo che ti ho incontrato?
Direi non moltooo
But what has changed
since we last met?
Not much, I would say

Sempre avvolgente
la voce di Lucio
Nice, simple words
No metaphor yet
it’s coming

Ma che cosa eeè restato
dopo che ti ho amato?
Direi non moltooo
But what remains
since we last made love?
Not much, I would say

Wait for it
Accordo di la
e mo’
gol di Mo’-gol

Ho un anno di
accordo di mi
piuuù
accordo di re
ee qualcosa in meno
accordo di la
tu-u-uuu

U-u-u
un gol da sogno
un gol degno
di Maradona

Ho un anno di più
e qualcosa in meno tu
I am one year older
and you, somewhat less older

Piccola intervista
su Rrradju Rokku

Cosa vuol dire, Mogol?
What does it mean?

Ee, vuol direee, it-e means, eee
one year has-e passed
ed io c’ho un anno di più
mentre tu, cioè lei
and she, she is-e
as-e she was
as-e she is
nel ricordo
in de meemori
in de imaginèiscion

Ho un anno di piuuù
ee qualcosa in meno tu-u-uuu

– Sei un genio, Mogol
– E, io ci provo… I-ee, I-e try
– Capocannoniere sei!
Topscorer! Scarpa d’Oro!

Io giocavo aaa pallone
sono il solito scarpone
ancora giocooo
… ancora gioocoo
(e segno
gol, gol, gol
but every time
we think we‘ve won
Pablito, eh,
we end up losing)

la
Ho un anno di
mi
piuuù
re
ee qualcosa in meno
la
tu-u-uuu

la mi re la
ċjoè, es decir
la miré
(y me miró)
y desde aquella noche
la la la

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ

HOW MANY MORE DAY ONES

How many more Day Ones
out of forty
in this fertile desert

How many more Giorni Uno
kemm-il Jum Wieħed
kemm jumwiħedijiet
ημεραένατα
before
una volta per sempre
I begin

That is to say
before I stop
musing on the impossible
that was destined to be possible
μόνο μια φορά
once only
seulement une fois

Two evenings,
one notte stellata
of crickets, koukouvágies,
and other bodily music
around a faded map,
one kalytero proí
la colazione più dolce,
a lingering aftertaste
of bitter σοκολάτα

Details fading
what turned possible
is becoming
has become
became
un mito
ένας ποιητικός μύθος
a poetically painful
myth

Two evenings, una notte,
one kalytero proí,
that’s four walls
of a sterna
amid the sprouting figs
and this longing
that digs
and digs

A sterna
to be filled, to not be filled
on a random day
of a random season
with a downpour
of forgiveness and αγάπη

And yet
if the sterna
as she wrote
is αστείρευτη
galactic, endless
then the digging
may never stop

Pablito, Rokkinu,
Libertà sempre più lontana
o l’idea, il ricordo di te,
che ne dite
la chiudiamo questa sterna
Time to build the roof
with solid concrete,
place the pipes,
the pompa, the well

Though cosmic love
can never die
let us close this sterna
quaranta volte e da capo
eppoi
una volta
per mai

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ

Grazzi – ευχαριστώ to those of you who have been reading and listening to my ‘Twanniż’ poems over the past month, most of them from what has now become Book ζ, Capítulo Tres – Vuelve Don Pablo.

We have now entered a new phase, Scudetto Francesco. I won’t be uploading the new poems, as they make little sense outside the plot and context of this crazy bipolar hyperacustic novel. You can read them in around twenty years’ time

Or maybe before, but I have lots of blanks to fill in Books α-ε, especially the parts where I was too manic or depressed to turn scribbled notes into writing. But now I’m in the right place, and in the right feline and canine company, to bring it all to completion. Slowly, hopelessly, and thus with playful joy.

Click to enlarge in new tab

Καλό μήνα, happy month

In Greco-Maltese
happy tunnel

En greco-español
happy pencil lead

In greco-italiano
happy parole parole parole
ancora ancora ancora
(l’importante è finire)

In Twanniż
all of the above
scribbled or sung
in silence

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ, Κεφάλαιο Όγδοο

THIRD KOUKOUVÁGIA OF THE YEAR

Last night I could hear
the third koukouvágia of the year
tenderly hooting somewhere east
of my avlí
This used to mean you’re ready
for another all-nighter
of spontaneous risate, poesia,
and a little of each of
the ancient Greek words for love

This morning the Mavronás triangle
is cobalt warm
almost invisible
if not for one thin blue strip
This used to mean
you’re thinking of me
and more than ready
for me to continue exploring
your southern γεωγραφία
the valleys that lead
to the waves
of foam and salt

You’ve hidden or deleted
the Cour des miracles playlist
No more playground
no more miracles
Do you still listen
to musica italiana
ogni tanto?

All symbols vanishing
all mousikí fading
your γλυκιά φωνή
and your fig-shaded laughter
an exotic memory

One of these days
in the Twanniż dictionary
I’ll find the courage to add
(arch.)
next to the noun
Twannáki

This book is almost done
One chapter left
a building to complete
my dream without a dream
bookshelves that your slender
seductive fingers
may never brush
but once you’re finally published
your book will certainly be there
sta elliniká
and maybe
bil-Malti

The door will remain ajar
at least for the musica italiana
Battiato, Cutugno, Lucio e Lucio
to slip out and travel east

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ, Κεφάλαιο Έβδομο – Asteírefti sterna

POEM NOT SENT TO THE GREEK SZYMBORSKA

Karyotakis to Polydouri
Κάσσαρος to Σιμπορσκίδι
Homer’s mountain to Pythagoras’ cave
Great poem
on the banality
of evil
I had a sweet Wednesday too
ferry, familja, φωτιά

Evil is what you did to me in August
“I didn‘t say I would leave him,
I said ‘maybe’ I leave him”,
forcing me to compete
at a 100 km disadvantage
– a banality forgiven

Evil is what you did to me in October
treating me like a disabled criminal
when I needed your hands on my ears
– a banality forgiven

Evil is what you did to me in December
with a poem you wrote me last summer
slapping me in the mágoulο
splatting my kardoulítsa
right before returning west
(to him?) for the holidays
poisoning the rain in my sterna
– a serious hit forgiven

My revenge?
To translate you
as the second koukouvágia of the year
hoots across Homer’s path
με αγάπη
με συγχώρεση
con eterno perdono –

” «the banality of evil»

how is it that

good surprises me,
I cringe before it

I have become so accustomed
to evil and its territory

I shall remember this Wednesday
because today something good happened”

Good for you, Σιμπορσκίδι
There you go
published, not punished

May all other six days of your week
be as sweet
as this heartfelt revenge

—

Radju Rokku, Book ζ, Κεφάλαιο Έβδομο – Asteírefti sterna

Ιθάκη, βορειανατολικά πάνω. Η βόρεια Ιθάκη είναι μια καμήλα που ξεκουράζεται. Η νότια Ιθάκη είναι ένας κουρασμένος νομάδας που κρατά την ουρά της καμήλας. Θέλει να συνεχίσει να ταξιδεύει, αλλά η καμήλα προσπαθεί ήσυχα να τον πείσει να επιβραδύνει και να χαλαρώσει. Όλα στην ώρα τους. Υπομονή.

— Radju Rokku, Book ε, Capítulo Siete

An energetic vowel, a singing double consonant. Almost, almost the shorthand Greek word for freedom. Bella, bell-issima. Let’s call her Cleopatra instead, even though she’s from Corsica. She has the hair, the eyes, the lips. She weaves guitar straps near the beach. Conversation flows like island wine. The poet listens, and tries not to look too long at her deep olive skin. Antonio! Keep your ears open, and your heart locked. Books. Music. A little geography. Language? Eh. A singing syllable. A vowel missing. Freedom silent, on a different island. On the final night, the weaver and the poet step back. Neither are free to fall. A guitar weeps on the sand. Trapped by freedom, trapped by silence. Time to take the boat, back toward the unspoken syllables of solitude.

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ, Κεφάλαιο Δεύτερο

Samos. A tortoise with two mountains on her back, competing for height, weighing her down. She shuffles slowly towards Ephesos, never to arrive. No hare will catch her either. She faces east, and only looks west at sunset. Towards a solitary camel, at the other extreme of Greece, whose hump is too large to slip under her carapace once again. Un amore impossibile. Not even Pythagoras can help. Unless, maybe, the camel remembers how to fast.

— Radju Rokku, Book ζ, Κεφάλαιο Τρίτο

Extract from Radju Rokku, a hyperacustic odyssey
Book α – The Music of the Spheres
Riħlat al-‘Awal – ʿAqabat at-Tut (The Arch of Blackberries)

KAFEDÁKI CON SILVIO RODRÍGUEZ

Bip, kċċ. Locked. Ara naqra, Rokku, plateía almost empty. And thankfully, the disabled parking space here in Stavrós is always empty too, unlike in Vathy, ħaxxejja ’l huma… Don‘t bother reporting them, x’jismu said. Small island, eh, half the population of Qrendi… Mela, Rokku mou, let’s go for a kafedáki għand Żaneto, and for you neráki, għax qalmadonna I forgot to buy more caffè and I’ve been in a haze all day, typing mistakes galore this morning… Xi trid tagħmel ħija? Ti na kánoume? Woċċugonnadù? Kafè, kif tmiss il-liġi, as Ġesukristu intended.

Idħol, isa, braavu. Żaneto? Poú eínai? A! Geiá sou. Kalaaá eímaste, esy? Eh, ħeħe. Mela, lipón, parakaló ena ellinikós, d, d… ti eínai i léxi? Doppio? A, dipló, nai! To xéro! Ντόπιος simaínei lokali, san to ládi, to krasí, nai. Διπλό, διπλό. Gia aftó ħreiázomai kafé. Ħeħe! Edáxi, tha eímaste stin avlí. Ċaqlaq Rokku, let me open the door… Wawwawwaw grrrr wawwawwaw ħaqq għall-madonna barra! Rokku! This dog doesn‘t like you for some reason, páme éxo grrr wawwaw grrr ħaqq l-ostja mur aqqalla tnejjek f’għoxx l-Ingliżi! Ejja Rokku, barra, no choice, we have to sit by the plateía and hope for the best. Ejja. Ejja. The teenage motorcyclists and their mikrés poútses usually come later. Isa, páme éxo. Ajma!

Mela, Rokku mou, let me just tie you to the chair… bravu for not barking back, my ears can only take so much. Théleis neráki? Acqua, mela, ara ġej, thankfully the koutí is out here already… Tgħid fehemni dak? Issa, if that guy says anything on the way out, I‘ll tell him – sorry, I was swearing in my language, Maltese, yes, from Mâlta, hekk, with the long open a, mhux Morlta jew Morlqa ħaqqalmadonna, Maaalta… You see, when we want to avoid blasphemy, we curse on the English, nothing against you personally, let alone your beautiful dog, eh, it‘s just an expression, a historical thing, since 1919 or maybe before, it just came out, don‘t think about it. Ħeħe. Miskin, not his fault, nor the doggie’s. Ajma! In reality, Rokku, f’għoxx l-Ingliżi is not exactly an everyday expression, it came out accidentally, and on purpose… eh, eh, too many English on this island, I hate seeing the Greeks serve them all summer, they think they own the place… anzi, il-Mediterran kollu… Ġibiltà, Ċipru, TWO military bases there not one, Buġibba, Exogí, imbasta Brexit tiela‘ u Brexit nieżla. Barra minn fuqna ostja. One day, Rokku, the Mediterranean will be free… 

I know you can‘t hear what I tell you in my head, Rokku mou, but I know you sense it, eh, niótheis ta kímata, you feel the waves of emotion at least, definitely … Qalla just imagine if I were to pronounce it all, illl-ħanina… le… leee! Ħaħaħa. Ma rridx takifemija, aa ma rridx pressured speech… ħtipa xílo, tocca ferro… ferro, fejn hu l-ferro… insomma, touch wood I never get it again. Wisq chilled issa biex nispissja. Bajpowler 4 to 5 out of 10 issa. Kalytera étsi. Mouth shut, nice and quiet. Most of the time… Insomma, Rokku, gowl kontra, I shouldn‘t have reacted like that. I still need to learn from you re! Now we’re losing 3-1, can‘t even remember against which team… Fejn hu l-pitazzin? Did I leave it on the desk? Ejja, sakídio mou…

Aħa. Mela. ΛΠ Μικελίνα 1, ASD Ideale Puglia 3. Gol del canino nero, very bad goalkeeping istja. Aaa mela, a little shopping at Kostáki, naqra guitar practice tonight, u forsi nġibu dro. Mid-tabling, mid-tabling Rokku, but still better than Man U these days. Matchday 9, plus day żero and the cup match, that means eleven days since I wrote that poem, qalla I shouldn’t have sent it. The one when you got me out of bed by shitting in the kouzína, in time for pre-sunrise, quel rosssore. Maġija. Skatá. Whatever. Never mind. Maybe she’ll actually like it, if she reads it. Insomma. I have a good feeling we‘ll make it to the end of the season this time. That will be a much greater triumph than actually winning the scudetto, I don‘t really care what our league position will be at this stage. Ajma Rokku mou. Prospathoúme! Nippruvaw! Ħeħe. With your help, I think I’ll make it. Peace for her, peace for me and you. Eh. Paċi kulaċi.

Bilħaqq, speaking of shopping, need to get dry food for when we – insomma, I, you‘re gonna stay nice and quiet in the front seat, my friend! – for when I try to rescue Karyotákis, and that cat in the parking area in Vathy who also looks ill. Ara naqra, ara naqra, there he is! Pejx! Taki! Takii! Pss pss pss, ψ ψ ψ… He‘s still frightened miskin, no souvláki this time otherwise he’d come closer… Pejx, you look a bit better than last time, ta, when you came right by the jeep, prosit, bravo sou… Ija, walk off, mhux xorta. Kompli xbin. Ta léme argótera, edáxi? Mela, Rokku, we see if he’s around after we go to Kostáki, orrajt? Tomorrow we might even rescue María first. Eh, María, as in María Polydoúri, poet and Karyotákis‘ rocambolesque and forever incomplete love. Just don’t steal their food, smajtni? Since you bullied Kelína, ħaqqalmadonna, I hear her eating outside the window at night, but we haven’t seen her face for nearly a month, ostja. Oqgħodli bravu did-darba, ta, orrajt? Tákis kai María, no longer dishevelled strays. Soon they’ll be healthy, and they will live happily ever after in Limourata … Never mind Préveza. Sta Limourata, kalytera.

Taki. Taki bħal taki-femija. Ħa! First time I made that connection. But he seems a very chilled cat, x’taħseb, Rokku mou? You’ll get along fine, sígoura, you already do. Insomma, bello! Issa, where‘s that beautiful, heart-wrenching guitar song I heard last night in the jeep, ta‘ x‘jismu hawn, Silvio Rodríguez, cómo se llama… cora-zón, cora-zón en fuuuga… leee that’s not the title… Tini ċans ħa nsibha… Wawwawwaw wawwaw grrr xxx Rokku xxx relax, don’t react, just let them pass… Wawwawwaw morru, isa, itilqu ’l hemm… Bravu. Good, he didn’t look up at me. Anzi, he stayed very calm, rajtu? Did you see? Eh, concealing his distress, avoiding trouble. Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way, eh, Pink Floyd, Breathe. Ħeħe. Bravu to him too. Maybe I apologise another time, assuming he understood Ingliżi of course. Eh. Somewhere on his wrinkled forehead as he went up the road, naħseb… I think he did. Eh.

Mela, sibtha, Rokku! Quién fuera, así se llama la canción. I haven’t learnt the lyrics yet. Mela, ħa nisimgħuha. Arpeggio de sol, arpeggio de mi menor, ok, u issa ġejja do, la menor siete, ee si menor?, and this one??, ??, arpeggio de sol… Estoy buscando una palaabra… Oríste. Efharistó, Żaneto. Mésa? ’Oħi, na meínoume ’dó, móno déka leptá. ’Ola edáxi, den ypárxei fasaría. Eh. Mela, da capo. Plateía nice and quiet. G Em C Am7 Bm boqq boqq G Estoy buscando una Em palaabra G en el umbral de tu mis- Em teerio C Quién fuera Alí Ba- Am7 baá ħeħe

Ali Babá! Ali Babá! Oujda! Oujda, Rokku mou! The magic word! Oujda! Ostja, Oujda, my abracadabra, my iftaħ ya simsim, open sesame, though I hadn’t the faintest idea before I spoke it. November 2019, soirée palestinienne, Labess concert, in Hollerich of all places. Ismu miegħu dak il-post jaqq. Imma. That’s where it happened. Ooo I’ll tell you that story another time, Rokkinu. Ejja ’l hawn xbin. Ejja ’l hawn. Mwa. Not tonight, I have to study those Greek grammar notes for tomorrow’s lesson. Oujda. Rokku, If I hadn’t pronounced that particular placename there and then, eh, you and I wouldn’t be together now, more than five years later. Taf? Eh. Oujda, W-Ġ-D, eh, similar to the English word wedge, eh, opening a door, a huuge motherfakin door, oo man. A door that closed, re-opened, and re-closed, for good, probably. Aa jaħasra. Ajma. But… if she no longer wanted to know anything about me, as she wrote… why did she publish that asteírefti stérna poem, and then block me when I saw it six days later? She wrote it for me, she sent it to me back in July-August. Giatí? Għala? Why aqqalla, why? Was she genuinely thinking of me? Was she reaching out, or not? Did she maybe have a change of heart over those six days? Or was it a trap, to see if I was still thinking about her after 30 days’ silence? Madonna we were only eight days away from the end of the futboċ season ħaqq l-ostja, and my index finger went pamm!, kardoulítsa. Eh. One hour later, pamm!, BibFran library page blocked, ostja. Għala imma? Għala? Could she really have used a love poem as a weapon to hurt me? Or was it so her boyfriend doesn’t see the poem might be for me, that crazy Maltese librarian in Itháki, eh, if he even knows about me? Eh. And the kavláda-liakáda sunbathing poem, and others published on her wall, he probably has no idea who they’re written for. Qalla, I remember, niftakar, Rokku mou, niftakar, ostja, under one post of hers with several poems, typed out while she was sick, eh, you know what he wrote, in the comment? Παίξε πλαιστάσιο, play video games instead. What the… ? No wonder she was bored in her relationship, qalla, living with someone who makes fun of her for writing poetry. Bah. Even if he was joking, ħaqq l-ostja, she deserves better, ma taħsibx? And yet. And yet. I don’t even know if they’re still together, in a distance relationship now. Was she with him for Christmas and new year, right after she blocked me? Jiġifieri a few days after she published that poem? It doesn’t even matter, qalla. She can be with a dozen other men, ostja I told her, my feelings don’t change, because none of them are me. And the few love poems I saw on her wall, all of them are for or about me. Que je sache. Eh? So. Could she have published more since then? Eh. I guess I’ll never know. Un amore impossibile, she would say to herself, listening to musica italiana in the car, before we met again. E un amore impossibile di nuovo. Eh. Ħaqq l-ostja. Ħaqq l-ostja, Rokku mou.

Qalla, song nearly finished, and I wasn’t listening. Da capo… arpeggio di re quién fuera encantaa- G dor … Estoy buscaando una esca- Em faandra G al pie del mar de los de- Em liirios vaya metáfora Silvio mou im-pre-sionante colega, impresionante … Bm quién fuera el batiscafo de tu a- C biismo hemm vers simili, fid-diska Julia tal-Brodu, jidhirli D quién fuera exploora- G dor Corazón, corazón o- Em scuuro G corazón, corazón con Em muuros ya te digo, qalb bil-ħitan sieħbi C corazón, que se es- Am7 conde, corazón, que está dónde Bm esconde-donde great rhyme ostja corazón, corazón en fuuu- C ga sí sí sí ċjoè D, eh, heriido de dudas de a- G mor aaa … tú sí que me entiendes Silvio … I missed a bit, ma jimpurtax … oo I would love to learn to play this one istja, ħafna arpeggi imma … C quién fuera ruise- Am7 ñor, quien fuera Lennon y McCart- Bm ney alażobbi minn McCartney, quién fuera John mou! ħeħe … D quién fuera tu troova- G dor jien, jien it-trovador tiegħek, jien it-trovador tiegħek, u inti t-trovatriċi tiegħi ħaqq l-ostja fejn mortli ħanina madonna G Corazón, corazón os- Em curo oscuro sew skoteinós mudlam dark so dark ħaqq uff x’għamiltli ostja oo … ti na kánoume Rokku mou … xi trid tagħmel … xittittâmel ħija … ay-ay-ay ay-ay …

Quff. Daqshekk. Télos. Breathe. … Páme, skyláki. Mela, ftit shopping, and then straight home għax the thunderclouds are gathering again u ħa ninqabdu fuq il-monopáti, the path will be slippery. Ejja. Kostáki jtik biċċa mortadella żgur. As for me, the soupoúla is ready, it came out good ta but nothing like last time, no carrots, no cipolla, the strong red one bħal ta’ Malta… so, not a goal. Imma, later I’ll add a couple of giagiá Dionysía’s eggs, tiġi itjeb żgur, nóstimi. Ñam ñam, Rokku mou, ħeħe! I love how the Greek word for delicious is from the same root as nóstos, homecoming by sea. Eh. And nostalġija, of course, though that’s a Renaissance invention I believe. Mhux xorta? Same root anyhow. Nóstimos, nóstos, nostalġija. Eh. Insomma, Rokku. Páme na agorásoume líga prágmata apó ton Kostáki. Sapun, bliċ, kafé fuq kollox, caffè per domani mattina… u mortadella, biċċa mortadella daqsiex, għalija u għalik, Rokku mou. Ejja ’l hawn xbin. Ejja ’l hawn. Mmmwa. Páme Rokkinu. Páme.

Kapitlu Żero – silta ζ
(extract)

Mela, issa, Rokku mou, mela mela mela, għax as you know, bil-Malti, everything begins, ends and continues in the word mela. Mela! Or lipón, as your compatriots say. Λοιπόν, mela, issa – xawer, Stavrós gia kafedáki, and for you neráki, kai metá Vathy, ftit grafeiokratía, see if we can meet the lawyer for that prokura thing, maybe find the missing furniture that arrived and didn‘t arrive while I was travelling, and then we chill. Hopefully that big beautiful ginger Japanese dog won’t be at the kafeneío today, ma rridx provlímata, fhimt? Ma rridx nervi, orrajt? Vabbene? Edáxi re? Andiamo tra dieci minuti, eh, che ne pensi? Look at you there on the bed, madonna, hekk, ixxxamplat, alażobbok, ħeħe, alarokkok minn kulma ngħidlek. ’Etsi braavo! Alarokku minn kollox u minn kulħadd! Screw everything and everyone, let’s go have some fun sieħbi, ejja ħa mmorru nieħdu pjaċijr!

Ajma, mela, ras, xawer, let me just open the paráthiro so the steam doesn’t soak my piano tetrádio and other books, għax ħaqq l-ostja I forgot to open the window yesterday and the day before, my mind was probably you-know-where, chissà dove, chissà con o senza chi. Eh. Ara naqra, Rokku, what a bright winter day. Aaa… I should improvise a pjanugrafija ta, tonight, based on the letters of Midwinter. Anzi, Mi(l)dwinter, with L in brackets, eh. Mi, L(a), ċjoè L, la, D, wintEr, E. So, chiave di mi bemolle minore, eh, moving to A flat, and then D flat, and then back to mi bemolle, ċjoè primo grado i minore, quarto grado iv minore, settimo grado VII la sensibile maggiore, eppoi primo grado uno minore. That L of miLd, it should make sense there, sottodominante, mild, not extreme, mild. Insomma, Rokku mou, we see tonight what comes out, ta. Mela, λοιπόν, xawer! Xawer Rokku mou.

Kxxx kxxx kxxx LA kshsh kshsh kshsh DO diesis minore ma che bella chitarra questa cscscsc cscscsc RE κτστστς κτστστς e di nuovo LA kxxx kxxx In un mondo CHE kshsh LA kshsh non ci vuole PIÙ DO#m cscscsc cscscsc il mio canto LIIberoo RE7+ κτστστς major seven Rokku κτστστς la settima del tramonto come la chiama Morgana I should include some major sevens tonight in the Mi(l)dwinter pjanugrafija κτστστς sei TU LA Lucio! Lucioo! kxxxx aa naqra sapun, nice and hot kxxxx E l‘immensiTÀAA kshshsh ok I don‘t need to lengthen that note so much si apre intorno a NOI DO#m cscscsc aldilà del LIImite κτστστς degli occhi TUOI LA Lucio Luucio Mogol Mogol Mo-golll! Ħaħaħa Mo‘ gol, jiġifieri now goal, carambola di Mogol iqassam lil Lucio who receives the ball with his chest and pamm gol gol gol gol goooooooooool di Lucio goool di Lucio BATTisti ħeħe assist di Mogol! Kxxxxx kxxxxx NAsce il sentiMENto FC ċjoè LP Lambda Pi Lésxi Podosfaírou Rokku Limourata UUno Inter Coglioni Hotspurs ZEro Il miglior calcio l-aqwa futboċ fuq Rrrrradju Rokku on any frequency you choose no longer only 88.8 FM tune in any time any place any wavelength mużika futboċ poeżija cani gatti lectures de Saint-Exupéry Maupassant Camus avec Nannu Frank pianoforte chitarra bouzouki baglamas pace, taaanta pace Rokku mou, tanta pace, walks on the mountain path, amygdala trees in bloom, musica, calcio, letteratura e di tutt‘un po’, su Rrradju Rokku. Buongiorno a voi, buongiorno a noi, buongiorno Italia buongiorno Maria ħħħħ but no we‘re not singing that one now, I still haven‘t totally forgiven, qalmadonna, le autostrade italiane e le stazioni servizio, soprattutto da Bologna in su. Ti ricordi, eh? When we bonded in the jeep, our first few days together 24 hours aqqalmadonna, le autostrade italiane del cazzo, eh ħħħħ, oo mamma mia.

Rokku mou, ejja ħa mmorru, páme, páme, aa let‘s go let‘s go let‘s go! Boxers, jeans, where‘s my jumper? Eh mhux by the desk ħija where I took it off last night? Eh. Socks kalzetti shoes żarbun ej’ej’ej’ejja ħa mmorru, għax we have a lot to do Rokku mou, a lot to do and a lot to chill. Isa! Vamos! Ħħħ ejja ħa nxiddlek is-samári, ejja, bravu, bravu pitravu, iss… finally a proper harness for your size, eh, it took me ages to find it. Ayayay Rokku mou, when you look at me like that, hekk, così, con un, un, un non so ché in your eyes, hekk, il-ħanina ħanina, kanéna lexikó, hekk with a low voice come Alberto Lupo in Parole parole parole ħħħ, ebda kalepin, nessun dizionario potrà maaai contenere le tante e tante parule che ci vogliono pe spiegà ciò che sento insieme a te. Tôf kemm inħibbik? Tôf kemm inħibbik? Ejja ’l hawn, éla, éla éla, μουά, μουά, ostja I never give you one kiss only hux vera, dejjem six jew eight for some reason who knows why, mwa mwa fuq li mwa. Five. Mmmwa. Enough, daqshekk għalissa. Mela, ras, iamo! Laptop, books, pitazzini fil-barżakka, beritta, jacket, keys, outside light on for when we return tonight, aa ej’ej’ej’ejja let’s hit the path my friend, twelve flights of stairs to the jeep, sigá sigá, nice and slow, ejja, let’s go, lezzgóu lezzgóu lezzgóu.

Radju Rokku, a hyperacustic odyssey.
A traġikummiedja in six books.

Five, nearly six years of my crazy life, as narrated to my dog Rokku. Bedtime stories, walks by the sea, chilling on the avlí (front yard), driving around Itháki in the bibliomobile. Or at the desk, while he relaxes on the inside doormat or by my feet.

Rokku is deaf, so the language I speak is irrelevant. I often narrate in silence. He understands the vibrations, the emotional waves, and obviously senses when I’m sad, singing or laughing.

So which or how many languages am I writing in? Just one. It’s all Twanniż. A Mediterranean English backbone, with increasingly diverse vocab and convoluted grammar. As with Camilleri’s vigatèse, the reader will learn Twanniż as they go along. The book will even contain language lessons, including ‘twanuzzjonijiet’ – adaptations of poems and lyrics into my own idiolect. And there will be plenty of musical notes, chords, notation in the right places.

Much of Books α-δ is already written, but I’m starting from scratch. Rokku’s arrival in November 2024, when he adopted me in Marathókampos, Samos, changed everything. He was the missing piece of the jigsaw, but was there from the very start.

Writing this novel will take years. No rush. I might publish extracts on this blog from time to time. I would consider serialising it, maybe trying to publish the chapters as ‘faxxikli’, like Maltese novels a hundred years ago. Yet memory works by association. The writing process will go back and forward according to weather or whim.

Rokku mou, páme vólta, let’s go for a walk in the town. Burrokrazija u kafè. Let’s see what song comes on in the jeep, and what episode it might remind me of.

This is going to be painful. This is going to be great fun.

Rokku mou Homer & Pitagora Joyce & Itháki Palestine, Oujda, Bonnevoie (the Mediterranean quartier of Luxembourg) Driving down France and Italy during the first covid summer. A two-day journey that took a whole month Santa Cesarea, Salento, bang on la Linea di San Michele (SE from Ireland to Jerusalem) Crossing the Ionio, earbreak in Pálairos, finding refuge in Exogí (NW Itháki) Exogí-Luxembourg-Malta … and back to Exogí, via Cartagena Athens-Aegina-Agistri-Ródos-Sámos-Turkey … and after picking up Rokku in Sámos, an aborted journey towards a book launch in Luxembourg. Life with Rokku in Limourata – on Homer’s path under Exogí – begins