I had never thought I could actually feel that a house for rent could be mine,and just after a bit longer than a week.
But maybe objects don't only belong to us when we buy them. Even when someone lend them to us, as much as for this house, in return for a payment, even when they give them to us as a present or when we adopt them after they have been abandoned or when they are with us for a period and then they leave us, and in many other ways that fate makes up.
In essence this house belongs to me and probably, since it also belongs to my flatmate, it belongs to me twice because he always lends me his stuff.
This corner of the house where I can clearly think over is, as simple as it may sound, the living room. I could philosophize forever about the layout of the living area, get lost in wonders about continuous rooms, which favor continuous mental behaviors. That means that the hall, where there will be two bookcases, is connected to the living room through an arch (the kind of ones made of bricks, artificial, on fashion up to some years ago), in its turn the living room is connected to the kitchen through a sliding door made of wood and glass, which opens or closes half of the wall.
I'm sitting on a beloved Ivar from Ikea, partly painted in white, and the table I'm leaning on is still the one from the old house: two wood-colored trestles and a white board. If I look up I can see only trees foliage from the window, as if it were a painting I made myself at middle high school during painterprofessor Gualtiero Gualtieri's class (that's his real name).
To the sides of the white window, two curtains, white as well, made of really light cotton which might be more suitable for a bedroom. Under the window there is a heater, on the right a white wall and on the left, down below, a heap of books which had been underlined at university and on top a Sansevieria in a pot, white, which belonged to a previous plant I accidentally killed.
This is my "Description", that is the exercise the children in 2nd and 3rd grade elementary school are doing.
I wanted to try myself, just like them, the thrill of doing some homework, the kind of Describe what you can see from your window, because just the other day, while I was putting away books, I came across Homework, by Philippe Meirieu, published by Feltrinelli in 2002. I felt guilty because I had only read some parts of it: I had underestimated such an important topic, before being a substitute teacher in the morning and a school club teacher in the afternoon.
That's why I promise I'll read it as soon as possible and I've started to identify myself with a pupil who needs to do their homework. A sort of theatre in the theatre, I keep saying it to convince myself that this is an interesting experiment.
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