분야
hwp This is my place
in the Mile-end neighborhood
in Montreal, Canada.
Everybody thinks
Im French Canadian.
Because I dream,
that is not what I am.
Because I dream,
that is not what I am.
Those who trust only
their own truth,
call me Leo Lozeau.
They say he is my father,
but I know Im not his son.
Because this man is crazy
and because I am not.
Because I dream, I am not.
SOMEWHERE IN A VALLEY
IN SICILY.
Because he was partly hidden,
I never saw the face
of my real father.
What are you doing
to my tomatoes?
Im giving life
to your fucking tomatoes!
Stop it, asshole,
youre gonna ruin them!
Who gives a shit?
This load
is going to America.
A FEW DAYS LATER, IN AMERICA.
Faced with my mothers panic,
the doctor didnt dare tell her
shed been impregnated
by a contaminated tomato.
Since that dream, Ive demanded
to be called Leolo Lozone.
No one has the right to say
Im not Italian.
Italy is too beautiful
to belong only to the Italians.
Between my room and Sicily,
there are kilometers.
Between my room
and Biancas place,
there are meters.
And yet...
shes so much farther away
from me.
Bianca, my love...
It only takes three words
to write: Bianca, my love.
I took the shortest way.
Leo! Go to bed!
"Leolo!"
"Leolo Lozone!"
My name is Leolo!
Shuddup, bozo!
Shut the fucking door.
Its freezing.
I dont try to remember
what happens in a book.
All I ask of a book...
is to give me energy
and courage...
to tell me theres more
to life than I can take...
to remind me
of the need to act.
It was the only book
in the house.
I never wondered
how it got there.
It was thick.
The words were pushed together
and required enormous effort
and concentration
to yield their secret.
At home, I never saw
anybody read or write.
Television and billboards
cluttered my brain.
At the beginning, I read
the underlined passages
without really understanding.
I remember wanting to give up
because there were no pictures.
I find my only real joy
in solitude.
Solitude is my castle.
Thats where I have my chair,
my table, my bed,
my breeze and my sun.
I sit in exile.
I sit in fake land.
Because I dream, I am not.
Because I dream, I am not.
I had started writing down
everything that crossed my mind.
My family had become characters
in a fiction.
And I spoke of them
as if they were strangers.
As far back as I remember,
it was the smells and the light
that solidified
my first memories.
My grandmother had convinced
my father
a shit a day
kept the doctor away.
Dont cry, my darling.
Do like mama.
Push, Leo.
Push, my love.
