The phony fame on social networks and the stalker of my separate collection

The other day the social networks were agitated in paranoid interpretations of the guy who had gone on stage by Giorgia Meloni – was he a collaborator? was Guido Crosetto after a diet? Was he one without the approval of cancellettism and therefore unauthorized to seek his spotlight as well? – and I was thinking only of that moment when Meloni had to say “stop everyone” to the bodyguards, and of the fact that not only do you have to keep a cool head and give an exhibitionist answers that don’t make you look like someone who just goes to the power the inverts sends them to confinement, but also be careful that your entourage does not make the exhibitionist a martyr.

Last night, on stage in London, Dave Chappelle told about the guy who attacked him on an American stage, guy who had a switchblade, the handle of which was shaped like a gun. “A knife whose gender identity was a gun,” Chappelle had said at the time, outraging the susceptible. But think about it, he commented the other night, he had something that looked like a gun and everyone who was there with me was armed, but think about it if they thought it was a gun and shot him.

But Giorgia Meloni is the next prime minister who gives a rally, and Dave Chappelle is the most famous comedian in the world who makes a show: they are the ones who once was (which still is) predictable were the object of unbalanced attention, and in fact they went and walked around escorted. Forty-one years ago, the guy who wanted to be noticed by Jodie Foster shot Ronald Reagan, he didn’t go to the house of an unfortunate reporter who had written a paragraph in the newspaper in which he criticized Foster’s acting skills.

Then came the social networks, that infernal machine thanks to which Andy Warhol’s prediction went to hell. We are all famous, even if we do not do anything disruptive, and we are always and forever, other than a quarter of an hour.

Of course, “fame” is now a relative concept: at present, almost no one is Marilyn Monroe, understood as a figure known even to those who have been in a coma for decades (perhaps Queen Elizabeth or Madonna: people who became famous in years in which fame it was serious). But almost all of us have, thanks to the most banal tweet in which we say that we don’t like cocoa on cappuccino, the ability to unconsciously touch the obsessive fabric of some stranger who in Scurcola Marsicana at that moment decides that we are a decisive figure in his desperate life. Because her grandfather produced cocoa, and assholes like us sent him bankrupt; or because he doesn’t like cocoa either, and he feels understood and has decided we’re best friends. It doesn’t matter if it’s hate or love: what doesn’t know you and defends your genius is the same as what doesn’t know you and says you deserve a life sentence.

Nothing is scarier than the stranger who has an obsession with you (if you know the obsessed person, you generally delude yourself that you have the situation under control: sometimes it ends badly, and so perhaps preventive paranoia is an advantage). Fortunately, most are boasted obsessions; some time ago an apparently obsessed man made a whiff of my having a weekly column in Repubblica when I hadn’t written for Repubblica for something like four years, and it was very reassuring: yes, he’s obsessed enough to imagine my column, but not obsessed enough to check regularly the bullshit I write.

This fear does not seem clear even to the well-intentioned. This summer I went on vacation to an enchanting place, which I could not resist photographing, but which I was careful not to tag. Partly because, with what it cost, we didn’t even want to advertise for it for free. And partly because I think I am John Lennon and that, if I report where I am in real time, a geek will arrive with the Young Holden in one hand and a gun in the other.

That’s why I photographed a London menu the other day in which the burger had “nduja butter” but then I didn’t instagramm it: there are people obsessed enough to look for the menu to understand where I am in that moment. I know, you think I am mythomaniac (I am), but I keep among the elements with which to write a great novel about the lives of others of silent despair the screenshots of a public Telegram group in which some lightning bolts of war scrutinized corners of buildings they saw in my photos to reconstruct where I was at that moment and guess where I lived. Once you had to be Liz Taylor to get that kind of nightmare attention, now she’s worth any Sorcioni Guaia.

The lovely place, I said. A girl I don’t know but who lives near me and writes to me every now and then and had seemed sane to me so far she sees a photo of rocks, and she writes me that she knows where I am. Now, I say: “I know what you did” is the title of a scary movie, how is it possible that able-bodied people do not understand that “I know where you are” is not something to write to a stranger, if you don’t want to that the stranger put you on the list of those to be terrified of?

In Bologna on Tuesday they collect the paper, I think I’ve already talked about it. It won’t last, Matteo Lepore boasts that he will eliminate this modernity of door-to-door collection, what can ever go wrong. It won’t last, but for now the card is put out the door. I did it with a certain carelessness: Amazon purchase invoices, home-delivered fruit summaries, useless brochures, newspapers, books. I am mythomaniac but not enough to think that, as in American films, someone is going to ravan (sorry for the bolognesism) among my garbage.

Then, one day, I get a comment on Instagram. She is a girl who writes my address in a friendly and enthusiastic tone according to her (not reciprocated, Guzzanti would say). Blessed be Instagram that allows comments to be made visible only to us and to those who leave them, at least this moron cannot make my address known to the world. Since then, every now and then, when I take the trouble to look at the comments on Instagram, I find one, hidden from the world, by this giantess of thought and action. In the last one I noticed she wrote: I still have a box of yours stolen from the collection. That is, there is a girl, in a poor age of Jodie Foster and John Lennon, who takes possession of my recycling and keeps it at home. Looking at the labels of Cortilia? The Dyson instructions? The cassated drafts?

What is the solution? Make my undifferentiated more impersonal so that the madwoman won’t be able to recognize it (but maybe she’s mad enough to stand at the window and spy when I go down to leave her and then know what my box is)? Fuck me thinking that at least he lets himself go like this, instead of stabbing me? Thinking of a plot that takes possession of my butcher’s broom to spread it in the wrong places on the days not delegated to the collection to get me fined?

Or, more difficult hypothesis, to say that it’s okay, I’m wrong, Lepore is right, eliminating the door-to-door collection will not be a good idea to make the city cleaner but at least it is a way to stem stalking? Of course, we must then see if the stalker that I can afford is determined enough to go and ravanare in any paper bin, in which case more than a reform of the differentiated it will have to think of one from Basaglia.

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