My mother would have wanted me to be an architect.
“Do you like to build houses? So be an architect!”
Instead, I became a crane driver.
Crane driver, not a bricklayer! Watch out because, with all due respect, there’s a big difference, even though my mother doesn’t think like that.
I see thing from above.
Plus, I didn’t want to build just houses, but also bridges, schools, maybe even a church.
The first time I set foot in the cockpit I almost passed out form the excitement and the height; you never realize how high cranes are until you drive one, I always say so.
But then, silence.
You’re alone inside the crane with your headset, you’re focused: move the arm, shift, drop.
You operate with huge amount of materials and, at some point, you let go.
It’s so hard. In some way, I am an artist, I have tried to explain it to my mother so many times. I think I am good in what I do, it’s difficult to let go, people think it’s not, but it is.
Because it’s different from tearing down.
Let go and tear down, fall and crash, they’re two different things.
You have to be strong to fall.
My mother thinks differently, of course.
She always rants that one day or another I will fall from the crane while I am sitting on the jib during lunch break.
Bullshit, I think. My crane would never betray me.
Anyway, that wouldn’t be fall, but crash.
To fall is an art, you don’t learn it from nothing or no one.
You have to know how to do it, you have to decide that, just that, it’s the right point where put weight. You have to accompany the movement, give up, that’s it, you have to learn to give up.
My mother, for example, never learnt to give up. I have been get onmy cranes for seven years, and she still doesn’t give up. She says I am a loser, good-for-nothing, she says I wasted my talent, her money, my opportunities.
I knew how to draw; for her, I had a gift, she wanted me to be an architect, but I wanted to be a crane drivers, I wanted to learn how to let go. She can’t do it.
But she can crash.
She crashed this morning
Down to the cobblestone, without elegance, and with a boring sound. She was just repeating to me how fool I have been, a disappointing child: just a crane driver, while I could have been an architect; a loser, just a loser.
I didn’t really want to tear her down, I think. I just wanted her to stop, to give up.
But she can’t give up, she can’t fall.
I am falling right now. I chose the spot very carefully, calculating the distance from the ground while I was getting to my beloved crane; there was silence, I really needed silence.
I walked through the jib, thinking about my mother covered by blood, crashed.
I would fall, never mind if no one would get it.
I know that fall is an art, everyone crash in life, endless, aimless, but not me. I am a crane driver and I can fall, I can give up to life.
I can let go, even if it’s about me.
I already know, at the news, the will say I was crazy, deranged, everyone knew that sooner or later I would have made a mess. Maybe it’s true, do you think I care?
My crane is nice, I know that, and it’s nice to let ourselves go, finally, in silence.