The poverty of abundance And 'since I started writing here that sometimes it comes out this idea of \u200b\u200bhow the world has changed since the days of my childhood, and I wonder if the change that I feel like it really is pejorative, or if it is just nostalgia for the good old days, a sign of age that progresses inexorably, as indeed I do well to note in other places. I do not know, but certainly the difference between ' today and first is so deep and branched into every aspect of life that is to draw a conclusion to try to understand a little 'better to do this derives sensation. One of the things that have changed my opinion, is the meaning of poverty. Once, the misery was the absence of tangible: a business was a miserable little shop with the goods, old furniture, things that show a lack of resources, resources. That is the first time I went I was so upset the United States: in a city like New York there were shops, mainly large chains, but not only, that certainly cashed a lot and yet they were scruffy, dirty, approximate, with all the available space reserved for the goods and only that. Shops were equally poor, more than that, the shops of the country of my childhood spent in the summer months in the countryside Pistoia haberdashery or abandoned during the long afternoons spent a stroll through the streets of Novoli, which in the early seventies was very peripheral, to put it Cattafi, but a different misery, unredeemable because it contains no more in themselves, hope for a change possible. The seller in the suburbs of my childhood aspired to shop the best, clean, spacious, and if one day's business had shot some good would have realized it, and taking in the great majority of cases, even better than the living room. The work in fact was not only a means to earn money, but also a way to create, a place to publicly display, a way to have hope in tomorrow. Today Blockbuster are charmed as every time, from the same misery, by that sense of doom hanging over more and more, in Italy as in the world, non-places in the supermarkets. Behind the facade of false glitter and sequins, filthy warehouses, terminals, prehistoric, dirt, broken furniture that no one ever will adjust because no one can hear her there, that it belongs to an abstract entity, unknowable, alien. A world of sottolavorazioni underpaid, interchangeable, with a very low level of specialization, with alienating routine, start-up courses, corporate training, assessment and statistics, however precarious, in time, a contract to call. Undesirable places in which even who should have the quality to stay and the desire to do so, is passing through, in turn unwanted, as tolerated. Works such as places of transit, which belong to everyone, or anyone, and consequently squalid, prematurely aged, vandalized every day by neglect. Places full of merchandise and empty of joy, culture, love what you do, whatever it is. Obviously, it's not just the fault of those who work there, reduced to a number within a structure the size incalculable. When you work in a company of ten people and you are the last, are the ten: time to get to the third position is calculated, measured, comparable to the ambitions and hopes of everyone, relationship with those sitting in first place and decide what do you do the next day is a human relationship, even if working, and he himself is part of that company, decide your future but also his own. If you are a multinational ventimilaequalcosesimo, you're a worker ant and nothing else, the climb is inaccessible, the hope died out, your life is decided by people who will never see and which do not exist except as a statistic, as a percentage in the costs and revenues, and in turn often equally poor attitude if not in economic conditions, linked to the results, ready to change company at the earliest opportunity, sometimes with reckless key money, others with their belongings in a cardboard box. Worldwide upside down, plenty hides the moral poverty, irresponsibility shared.
