Paolo Borsellino

"è bello morire per ciò in cui si crede,
chi ha paura muore ogni giorno,
chi non ha paura muore una volta sola"


"it is beautiful to die for what we believe in,
who is fearful dies every day,
who is not fearful dies only once"

Paolo Borsellino (January 19, 1940 - July 19, 1992)

Thanks

Sometimes unexpected and unpleasant events happen (paraphrasing "s#$t happens"). Like a knee messed up during a river rafting expedition. Just in summer, when one enjoys the most to go running close to the ocean or the never ending soccer games with his friends.

Instead... Forget that! The challenge is no more to dribble a buddy but rather to go the restroom, to keep the apartment in human friendly conditions, to drain the pasta without dropping the boiling water on your thigh and many other similarly amusing activities...

One of the most abused cliche' to cheer up the afflicted soul in these situations consists in finding reasons for which we are still lucky or for which we should be grateful. Such an exercise is most welcome while you are sitting on the toilet bowl and you try to identify places to grasp in order to stand up and succeed in performing basic maintenance of your body in a dignified fashion.

Luckily there are presences that transform similar intellectual exercises into practical observation activities. In my case these presences are people that truly and deeply care about me.

Like a fiancee, the image of goodness, which will drive 1.5 hours after work to have dinner with you. Or a Bingo lady, ready to drive few hours to help you out with the logistics. Or a friend that becomes you personal driver and does not mind sharing his parents and his food with you. Or an angel that introduces you to the concept of chocolate eggplants and drives you to the doctor. Or a special mother that sends you a special card containing a wish which is all but a cliche':

"Your response to this, as with any other life changing event, can strengthen, deepen and enrich your beautiful character. Search for evidence of your growth and celebrate it!"

So, instead of cursing like only a real italian from Friuli can do, I will share a song to say thanks to all the hearts of gold that care about me, for those that I found and for those I will find.

Portrait at the coffee shop

She is sitting in front of me, crossing her legs. She wears shiny sandals, very stylish. She told me they were a good deal. Behind her, a shelf packed with hundreds of books with multicolored covers. Stories about everything, I guess. The coffee shop we are sitting in is impregnated with memories. She used to come here when she was in high school and during her first years in college. A few blocks from Redondo Beach shores, where she fell in love with the ocean since she was a kid. Where the sun calls her name before setting. She moves on her chair, she needs to adjust her jeans skirt, probably because it is showing more than she is comfortable with. Her head is reclined, reading her book, studying for her finals. She has a sweet profile, moulded by Life after the features of Peace.
One of her big silver round earrings gently leans against her cheek. Sometimes she glances at me. I observe her shiny blue eyes and her mouth, always hosting a smile. Her shiny lips match well the shimmering of her eyes. She must have had an argument regarding geometry with her eyebrows. She'll poke me for this observation, because she's physical.
I like her sporty sweater, dark blue with red stripes running down her sleeves. On her breast the name of her school and a number, 11. She holds the pen like Americans usually do. The ink is purple, it fits her personality. Not many people can write in purple: it takes character. I realize that my code is messy: Monday I'll have to curse for the bugs I am generating while continuously glancing at her. But it is worthwhile.
She stretches her neck, her right hand is touching the sweater near the left elbow. She squeezes the fabric between her fingers. She likes to do it. She says that she needs to feel things, to touch the world so that she can understand it. Sometimes she blinks, then she scratches her nose and now she yawns. A few purple lines highlight something relevant on the book she studies. Her purse is sitting next to her chair on the floor. It's a present from her mum. Painted on top the names of many different countries and the charming faces of classy ladies. She travelled a lot. On her right hand the ring from the Renaissance fair. Also silverish, the metal folded to form the symbol of infinity. Perhaps she grasps its meaning or maybe she gets lost in it.
I glance again at the bookshelf behind her. My attention is caught by the title of a the book, mainly because the characters are big enough since I am not wearing glasses. "Love Warps the Mind a Little" it says. Yes, indeed.

Eternal Sunshine of the Saved Soul

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
that never forgets, and forever shines.

Eternal sunshine revealing shades,
of gloomy monsters yet filled with grace.

Eternal sunshine stirring hidden traits,
that never change and that have no name.

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind,
whose lively eyes were dry and blind.

Eternal innocence that once was raped,
who cried out loud "the king is naked!"

The king who ruled over seas of rocks,
his glory chanted by yellow crops.

He marked the hearts with burning flames,
to share his pain for his share of blames.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
now free to shine in a cloudless sky.

Of noble origins, of eastern pride,
returning love with the brightest smile.





Thanks to A. Pope, G. Byron, M. Gondry, U. Saba and Faber.

Father and Son

The old man had only few white hair. Two clean lively eyes. Several wrinkles witnessing a life exposed to the sun. Even when it was cold, during the winter. Always facing the sun.

His thick sweater smelled like grass and musk and smoke. The smoke of the fireplaces of the little town where he spent his life. A town he knew it all. Each single stone, each pebble, each tree and each street. He knew the names the elders used to give to the fields.

The old man was constantly fixing his home. A straight, sturdy building. The home stood solid for many years, in the same position. The winds changed but not the orientations of the walls. The earth shook but the house was standing still. It seemed the house could stand independently of the foundations.

And the sun bulged the wooden walls that the snow shrank the winter before. And the old man fixed the cracks. And the autumn rains damped the doors that were dried by the spring breeze. And the old man fixed the hinges so that he could let in what was comfortable and keep out unwelcome guests. And the old man was finding inside his home a fresh shelter during the height of summer and a warm refuge during the winter storms. Inside the house he knew for many and many years. Inside the house his parents helped him to build. Inside the house he meticulously preserved throughout his entire life.

That man had a son. The son did not care much about that house. The son traveled and became acquainted with many different houses. All sort of houses, with different shapes and different colors. The son lived in many different houses.

And when he went back to visit his father, the old man invited him inside his home. And the son did not care about that house. He could only see the cracks, the bulges, he could only hear the squeaking hinges. He was feeling cold inside the house that a long time back was his home.

And the son did not enter. And the wrinkles of the old man were like dried creeks.

Bellatrix

Tonight, like one year ago, I went out to watch the sky. A dark black vault adorned with shimmering sparks. And in my mind the name of the stars echoed, and each name was evoking a memory.

And from memory to memory my eyes and my thoughts were passing through dark places, through questions not answered, through dark winding paths.

But the stars make the sky so fascinating. Those infinitesimal bright pearls, set in an eternal, infinite dark cloth, become the sense of everything.

And I feel at rest when my eyes lay on the stars. And I feel connected when I look at the stars. Because I know that the people I care of, when they look at the stars, they see the same amazing spectacle that I see.

Our eyes are caressed by the same light.

And, as Bellatrix wrote on a chalkboard, I have been too fond of the stars to be afraid of the darkness.

Truths

Such the feeling of incompleteness when an important part of your life is far from you.

Like the protection offered by a powerful warrior, gentle as a breeze that slips through the cracks of your soul.

Such the transparent blue of eyes that show how much a sincere hearth can give.

Like the hope that wins the incoherence of a little man,

Such as the scones that fill more than your stomach,

Like the smile in front of a castle, the magic of fairies, the fantasies of children.

Such as drops that nurture dry lands.

Like the warmth of faith in a woman.

Such as interleaved fingers that expect protection.

Like the lights of the cranes shimmering through a goblet of red wine.

Such as the pages of books caressed by the eyes of young woman.

Like footprints threads on silver shores that weave the future.