Random Thoughts

Bellamore Kry

2009-09-24T00:24:00.000-07:00

Bellamore Bellamore don't leave me,

Kry, Kry stay with me,

Bellamore Bellamore don't forget me.

Kry, Kry don't forget me.

Rose of spring, island in the sea,

Fiorellino, ocean of love,

light in the night, Polar star.

Light of my heart, my life.

Bellamore Bellamore, let me watch you,

Kry, Kry, let me watch you,

in the moon and in the sun, let me watch you.

in front of the stars, let me watch you.

Crumble on the snow, firefly in the glass,

New year's eve snow, red sparkle,

Bellamore Bellamore, show yourself.

Kry, Kry, show me yourself.

And sit down, come and rest,

And lay down, drink your tea,

on this little chair shaped like a flower.

come with me little girl, on this magic carpet ride.

This coming night will not bring pain,

This new day will bring life,

This night will go by, without hurting you.

This new life will bring hope,

This night will go by, or we will make it go by.

And the memories are paintings.

Bellamore Bellamore, don't go away.

Kry, Kry stay with me.

You, that know the tears and know how to soothe them.

You know even what is not said.

Bellamore Bellamore, dot leave me,

Kry, Kry don't leave me alone in this journey,

You, that do not believe in miracles, but know how to make them.

You can touch life with your hands.

Bellamore Bellamore, let me sing you,

Kry, Kry, dance with me,

in the sun and in the wind, let me sing you.

In the kitchen and in the fountain, dance with me.

Haven and poison, sugar and salt,

Wine and cheese, honey and cinnamon,

Bellamore Bellamore, let me consume you.

Kry, Kry, let's get tired together.

And come here to cover yourself, to get warm,

Come here, it's cold, give me the blanket,

on this little chair shaped like a flower.

come with me little girl, on this magic carpet ride.

This coming time will not bring pain,

This new basket is full of joy,

This time will go by, without hurting us.

This new time is for us.

This time will go by, or we will make it go by.

This new joy is made for us.

Paolo Borsellino

2009-07-20T07:37:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-07-14T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-26T22:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-30T23:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-20T01:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-15T01:03:00.000-08:00

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.

The ballad of the traveller

2008-10-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

The traveller walked that road for many years.
He could not rememberer why the journey started, it just seemed he walked forever.

The traveller asked who set the signs.
They said: "We did. The master told us to do so!".

The traveller asked who was the master.
They said: "Don't you know? They told you about him since you where a kid!".

The traveller asked where he lived.
They said: "Up there".

The traveller asked why he was living so far.
They said: "He is close! Your eyes are blind!".

The traveller asked what language he spoke.
They said: "Too hard for you: we can translate. Unless your hears are deaf!".

The traveller realized that he was lost, blind, deaf.
The road he followed for so long did not seem anymore familiar.

The traveller recalled the times when he could see signs everywhere.
Now those signs where pointing everywhere.

The traveller recalled the times when he used to walk in company.
Now he realized he was walking alone.

The traveller recalled the times when the master's directions were clear.
Now he realized he could not make sense of them.

The traveller recalled the songs, the wine, the dancers.
Now he realized all was silent, dry and dull.

The traveller asked if he could meet the master.
They said: "He was here just a while ago, why do you need to meet him now?"

The traveller said he wanted to ask a few questions.
They said: "We can give you the answers!".

The traveller asked if they were sure.
They said: "Sure we are. We know the answers".

The traveller asked who told them so.
They said: "Those who were told so by the master".

The traveller asked if they would speak with the master.
They said: "We did, we do, we will".

The traveller asked why he could not do the same.
They said: "You do not seem to speak his language. Or perhaps you are deaf".

The traveller said he could try.
They said: "Why bother? Listen to us. Trust us!".

The traveller asked if he could learn the language.
They said: "No, there is no need".

The traveller said he would like to learn.
They said: "You would misunderstand. Follow our directions".

The traveller followed the directions.
He walked. He got lost.

And then he stopped following the directions.
He was lost again. But now he could see and hear.

The traveller made it to his final destination.
There was wine and songs.
There were dancers on the shore.
There was broiled fish.

He met the master.

The master greeted the traveller.
The master asked the traveller how was the trip.
The master asked the traveller which way he took.

And the traveller found the answers in the questions of the master.

They were there too.

And they were asking questions regarding the answers of the master.

And there was wine and broiled fish.
And no more questions to ask.
And no more answers to seek.

And everybody was dancing and singing.
At the feast of the master.

The Sky of Krysia

2008-09-15T00:40:00.000-07:00

Good songs speak to each one of us with a unique language, where words became symbols and places become experiences. Good songs are patient companions, caring friends that always suggest us, using familiar words, new things. Songs are places where far countries become close persons.

The sky of Krysia is an ocean of light and bright clouds
The sky of Krysia is a flying carpet in Disneyland
The sky of Krysia will lend you blue eyes to look at life
it sinks you in hope and covers you with peace
it sinks you in peace and covers you with hope.

The sky of Krysia feeds you with coffee and brioche
The sky of Krysia ruffles your hair with a gentle touch
The sky of Krysia is a flock of smiles dancing on the beach
it rains passion for life at night, it wakes you up early with the sun

From San Pedro to unknown shores,
From Santa Barbara to flat lands
wherever I am traveling, like a gipsy or like a king
the sky of Krysia moves with me
the sky of Krysia is inside me

The sky of Krysia is dancing in a fountain
The sky of Krysia are footprints on the shore
The sky of Krysia sometimes paints the world in black and white
But after a moment makes colors more vivid than the sun

The sky of Krysia has winds to caress a tormented soul
The sky of Krysia is a skirt that swirls in the sun
The sky of Krysia is God that talks to you with a smile
That blinks at you at the rhythm of a song
That blinks at you at the rhythm of a song

From San Pedro to unknown shores,
From Santa Barbara to flat lands
wherever I am dancing, like a gipsy or like a king
the sky of Krysia moves with me
the sky of Krysia is inside me

wherever I am drinking, like a gipsy or like a king
the sky of Krysia will move with me
the sky of Krysia will stay inside me

The Poet With Red Trousers

2008-09-06T00:09:00.000-07:00

Andrea had big white teeth. A bony face, shadows on his cheeks to make his expression always intense. Long dark hair, that years speckled with white threads. Later on he grew a thick beard, a faithful representation of my childish stereotypes about the face of Jesus. Tapering, manly fingers to caress the melody accompanying his words. A ring, sober witness of the bond with a woman. His voice, an instrument to witness his love for the dearest places of his life. A voice to tell about the human journey, from the beginning to the end. Dark lively eyes to see the world beyond conventions, windows opened upon an unconventional soul.

Sensitive souls usually care about sensitive issues. Andrea sang a tribute to Fabrizio De Andre', not long after he died. He chose a song entitled "Hotel Supramonte". A melodic song that tells about violent, treacherous storms. When darkness suffocates the hope for the present. When looking at the sky brings anxiety.

E se vai all'Hotel Supramonte e guardi il cielo

tu vedrai una donna in fiamme e un uomo solo
e una lettera vera di notte falsa di giorno
poi scuse accuse e scuse senza ritorno
e ora viaggi vivi ridi o sei perduta
col tuo ordine discreto dentro il cuore
ma dove dov'è il tuo amore, ma dove è finito il tuo amore?

And if you go to Supramonte Hotel and you look at the sky
you will see a woman burning and a man alone
and a letter true at night, false during the day
and then excuses, accusations and no way back
and now do you travel, do you live, do you laugh or are you lost
with your reasonable schemes inside your heart
but where is you love, where did your love go?

Andrea could look at stormy skies with a smile, with enormous strength, making his tribute even more intense.

Grazie al cielo ho una bocca per bere e non facile
grazie a te ho una barca da scrivere ho un treno da perdere
e un invito all’Hotel Supramonnte dove ho visto la neve

Thank the heavens I have a mouth to drink and it is not easy
thank to you a boat to write about and a train to miss
and an invitation to Supramonte Hotel where I saw the snow

[...]

The last song of Andrea at his last concert, not long before he died, was "Non Potho Reposare". Refined verses to celebrate bright days, when hope lightens the future. When the sky hosted gifts of peace, freedom and love. When the earth hosted people that were his life. Andrea could sing this song while that sky was darkening, impending over a very close horizon. With a smile in his voice.

[...]

T’assicuro che a tie solu bramo,
ca t’amo forte t’amo, t’amo e t’amo.

Si m’esser possibile d’anghelu
s’ispiritu invisibile piccabo.
Sas formas e furabo dae chelu
su sole e sos isteddos e formabo
unu mundu bellissimu pro tene,
pro poder dispensare cada bene.
Unu mundu bellissimu pro tene,
pro poder dispensare cada bene.

Non potho reposare amore ‘e coro,
pensende a tie so d’onzi momentu.

I assure that I long only for you,
that I love you strong, I love you and I love you.

If it were possible,
I would take the forms of an angel
made only of invisible spirit
and I would steal from the sky
the sun and the stars
and I would form a beautiful world for you,
to dispense every gift

I cannot rest my love my hearth
I think about you every moment.

[...]

In both occasions he was wearing red trousers and the same ring.

Butterflies and Cigarettes

2008-08-14T23:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, during the day, I take a break from my job. The official excuse is to enjoy some fresh air. The truth is that I smoke a cigarette.

There is a bike path next to the building were I work and a lot of green. Grass, trees, some wild flowers, even a lemon tree. And many curious animals such as squirrels, lizards, all sort of bugs, hummingbirds, crows...

And butterflies.

I am fascinated by these insects. Besides their intrinsic beauty, I find amazing how they fly. Unless the air is totally still, the trajectory that they follow is quite random. If I observe a butterfly just for a short while I have an hard time in figuring out which direction she takes or where she will land.

An engineer could make a geeky but sound observation: the path they follow resembles more closely a brownian motion rather than the elegant dance celebrated by poets (for sure more appropriate to their grace).

If there is a breeze then things get even more complicated. Back and forth, up and down, fast and slow...

A few days back I was in Washington DC, visiting an exhibition in company with two beautiful ladies. I noticed a little jewel representing Love and Psyche. I learned that Psyche, the personification of the soul, was represented in ancient Greece as a butterfly.

The soul that has its up and downs, that hosts memories that swing back and forth, that chases thoughts that run fast and slow.

Back to my point. Butterflies get where they want. Or, at least to a pleasant place. To a safe one. Despite the apparently unpredictable effect of their jerky motions, despite the sudden gusts that seem to hopelessly drag them away from their final destination.

When my lips are holding nothing more than the butt of the cigarette and it is time to go back to work, I usually think that the flight of a butterfly is curious metaphor of human condition, of human soul. The hopes we pursue, the choices we make seem powerless, jerky wing-beats that do not lead us towards our yearned destination.

And then there is the wind of life, often unpredictable, always strong, which leads us even further from where we want to go. That lifts the carpet of our unconscious and spreads the dust that we meticulously swept underneath.

Then I throw the butt of the cigarette and I smile. Because I recall how a few fuzzy wing-beats or a sudden gust will not prevent a butterfly from reaching her final destination. Butterflies always seem to end up in a pleasant, comfortable, beautiful and safe place.

But butterflies seem to be never tired of flying.

Stars and Memories

2008-07-30T02:31:00.000-07:00

One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is my dad teaching me how to love the sky, how to love the stars. He was able to trigger in me the passion for the mysteries suggested by their shimmering. He told me about distances that the mind of a child was not even able to conceive. He taught me how their light could carry the image of an incredibly far past. He explained me how to connect bright dots in the sky so that they would form heros, animals, pictures of the legends that populated the imagination of the mankind. He told me how those still sparks, that in the past were thought piercing the shell of our finite world, were actually moving faster than what I could imagine.

I keep jealously those memories, and every time I am out at night, if the sky is not dirtied too much by the pretentious lights of our cities, I glance at the stars and for a moment I get lost in such a magnificent show. And I usually trip or run into things...

Sometimes I also stumble in songs that depict so well my feelings or my experiences that I feel the need to share them with my closest friends. Sometimes I attempt to translate them, probably in a very crude and coarse manner, to overcome the language barrier. Tonight I want to try something different. The translation will not be from Italian to English, but rather from Italian to my memories. A different kind of experiment, maybe too bold. But just a click of the mouse can save you from my deliria! The song is by a poet, F. Guccini

Stelle

Ma guarda quante stelle questa sera fino alla linea curva d' orizzonte,
ellissi cieca e sorda del mistero là dietro al monte:
si fingono animali favolosi, pescatori che lanciano le reti,
re barbari o cavalli corridori lungo i pianeti

A thick book, figures of the sky with imaginary lines,
Stars appearing from the dark foliage of tall trees:
Swans, Eagles and Lyres,
Belts, Chariots, Queens. Gods of War, Titans and Messengers

e sembrano invitarci da lontano per svelarci il mistero delle cose
o spiegarci che sempre camminiamo fra morte e rose
o confonderci tutto e ricordarci che siamo poco o che non siamo niente
e che è solo un pulsare illimitato, ma indifferente.

Unreachable, infinitely understandable mysteries.
Stars that gave voice to hope. Stars seen from behind dark glasses
Infinite spaces embracing a grain of sand. A grain special and unique
The same stars, when there is happiness and when there is sadness

Ma guarda quante stelle su nel cielo sparse in incalcolabile cammino:
tu credi che disegnino la traccia del destino?
E che la nostra vita resti appesa a un nastro tenue di costellazioni
per stringerci in un laccio e regalarci sogni e visioni,

A hand seeking for our path, two eyes lost fixating the tip of the finger:
Stars that bring the darkness of a repeating past.
The same constellations visible across one ocean
A thread joining broken dreams and unshakable hopes

tutto sia scritto in chiavi misteriose, effemeridi che guidano ogni azione,
lasciandoci soltanto il vano filtro dell'illusione
e che l' ambiguo segno dei Gemelli governi il corso della mia stagione
scontrandosi e incontrandosi nel cielo dello Scorpione?

Nothing to understand, not even remembering stars watching over vain promises,
Just a present to sweep away long silences
And silly lists of things that is nice to do together
And stars that laugh at us, hating our image mirrored in others

Ma guarda quante stelle incastonate: che senso avranno mai, che senso abbiamo?
Sembrano dirci in questa fine estate: siamo e non siamo
e che corriamo come il Sagittario tirando frecce a simboli bastardi,
antiche bestie, errore visionario, segni bugiardi.

And rings of princesses, and rays that pierce the night, and voices full of questions
And a summer, a night in the castle. Silence that cries we are not.
Green metal, impressions of a child, dust,
A library and a wife crying, magazines about stars,
A boy that is not a man

C'erano ancora prima del respiro, ci saranno alla nostra dipartita,
forse fanno ballare appesa a un filo la nostra vita
e in tutto quel chiarore sterminato, dove ogni lontananza si disperde,
guardando quel silenzio smisurato l'uomo... si perde...

Stars like hopes. That when shattered just multiply and become new,
Hopes that change for expectations that don't
Memories that will not be forgotten, paths that cross
Astonishment of a child spoken with the voice of a man

Buon Viaggio Dr. Pausch

2008-07-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

Shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell

2008-07-22T22:27:00.000-07:00

Watchman, what is left of the night?
Watchman, why you don't answer my questions?
Watchman, why am I lost in a silent, red, stony desert?
Watchman, why the darkness is only broken by the lightening of my rage?
Watchman, why you don't let me in?
Don't you know that I can only hear weak echos from the past?
Watchman, do you really know when the day will break?
Watchman, is your answer too big for my heart?

La notte è quieta senza rumore, c'è solo il suono che fa il silenzio
e l' aria calda porta il sapore di stelle e assenzio,
le dita sfiorano le pietre calme calde d' un sole, memoria o mito,
il buio ha preso con se le palme, sembra che il giorno non sia esistito...

The night is quiet without a noise, there is only the sound of silence
and the warm air brings the taste of stars and wormwood,
the fingers skim over the calm stones warmed by a sun, memory or myth,
the darkness took with him the palms, looks like the day has never existed...

Io, la vedetta, l'illuminato, guardiano eterno di non so cosa
cerco, innocente o perchè ho peccato, la luna ombrosa
e aspetto immobile che si spanda l'onda di tuono che seguirà
al lampo secco di una domanda, la voce d'uomo che chiederà:

I, the watchman, the enlightened, eternal warden of something I do not know,
I seek, innocent or because I sinned, the shady moon
and I wait still for the thunder wave that will follow the sharp lightning of a question
to spread, the voice of a man that will ask:

Shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell...

Watchman, what is left of the night?

Sono da secoli o da un momento fermo in un vuoto in cui tutto tace,
non so più dire da quanto sento angoscia o pace,
coi sensi tesi fuori dal tempo, fuori dal mondo sto ad aspettare
che in un sussurro di voci o vento qualcuno venga per domandare...

I have been standing for centuries or for just a moment in an emptiness where everything is still,
I cannot say since when I feel anguish or peace,
with my senses stretched out of the time, I keep waiting out of the world
that in a whisper of voices or of wind somebody comes to ask...

e li avverto, radi come le dita, ma sento voci, sento un brusìo
e sento d' essere l' infinita eco di Dio
e dopo innumeri come sabbia, ansiosa e anonima oscurità,
ma voce sola di fede o rabbia, notturno grido che chiederà:

and I am aware of them, sparse like fingers, but I hear voices, I hear a buzz
and I feel I am the infinite echo of God
and after uncountable like grains of sand, anxious and anonymous eternity,
but only voice of faith or rage, nocturnal cry that will ask:

Shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell...

Watchman, what is left of the night?

La notte, udite, sta per finire, ma il giorno ancora non è arrivato,
sembra che il tempo nel suo fluire resti inchiodato...
Ma io veglio sempre, perciò insistete, voi lo potete, ridomandate,
tornate ancora se lo volete, non vi stancate...

Hear, the night is about to finish, but the day is still not here,
looks like the flow of time remains nailed...
But I will keep watching forever, therefore you must insist, you can do it, ask again,
come back again if you want, do not get tired...

Cadranno i secoli, gli dei e le dee, cadranno torri, cadranno regni
e resteranno di uomini e di idee, polvere e segni,
ma ora capisco il mio non capire, che una risposta non ci sarà,
che la risposta sull'avvenire è in una voce che chiederà:

Centuries will fall, the gods and the goddesses, towers will fall down, kingdoms will fall
and the remains of men and ideas will be dust and signs,
but now I understand my non understanding, that no answer will be,
that the answer to the future is inside a voice that will ask:

Shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell
shomèr ma mi-llailah, shomèr ma mi-lell, shomèr ma mi-llailah, ma mi-lell...

Watchman, what is left of the night?

[F. Guccini], [Isaiah 21:11-12]

When Darkness Brings Light

2008-07-09T23:29:00.000-07:00

A few days back the fires were torturing the hills behind Santa Barbara. The sky was painted of unnatural colors and a shy sun behind the clouds was amazingly red. Gray leaves, reduced to ashes but still intact, were making their final journey like snow flakes. Only my car did not seem dirtier than usual.

For a couple of nights there was no electricity. The traffic lights were all dark. Likewise the street lamps. Except for the noise of the cars and the screaming of far sirens, my neighborhood was unnaturally quiet and dark.

But the most unnatural thing was the amount of people on the sideways, walking around and exchanging a few words with one another. Those nights it seemed that the question "How's going" really had a question mark at the end. And maybe somebody was really trying to come up with an answer. Pretty unusual.

After the sun set, but before it was completely dark, I went to check my mail box. A neighbor came out from his door and with dismayed voice informed me that there was no electricity. I felt bad when the only words that came out from my mouth were "I see". I was about to say that such a situation, with no internet, no radio, no TV, maybe even no cell phones, but with a lot of peace and silence was kind of cool. But it would have been disrespectful for his deep grief. Electricity was dead.

On my way back I met another neighbor. I probably exchanged with her 10 words in 9 months. Somehow there was a certain familiarity with her. Her bedroom is located over my kitchen. We live in an old Victorian house and the wooden walls and floors are not concerned about the privacy, especially when it comes to the epilogue of a romantic encounter. Unfortunately my cooking skills are not refined enough to produce dinners that will draw completely my attention to what I am eating.

Smiling I asked her "What are you doing here outside?". While holding her cell phone she said "There is no electricity". I was grateful for being surrounded by so many sagacious and conversation-prone people. And, after all, the number of words we exchanged more than doubled just in one night.

I was sitting on my chair, holding my guitar in the dark, feeling the metal strings under my fingertips when Ale stopped by. We went out to smoke a cigarette. A lady living in the neighboring house asked for a cigarette. We started talking and then she invited us for a glass of wine. We spent there a couple of hours, very relaxing, sipping some good wine, guessing each other expressions while distracted by the shadows casted by the candles. I enjoyed those two ours. Thanks Jane.

When I walked back home, I was smiling. Electricity powers communication in this word. We spend time writing emails, browsing the net, fedex-ing packages, socializing on line. We message people, we give a call, we even listen to the depths of the universe seeking for messages coming light years away. And when we stroll on the sidewalk and we come across a pair of eyes no more than half meter away the best that we can do is to say "How's going". With no question mark, maybe scared that the other person may grunt something back or even try to answer.

In my dark bedroom I picked up some random shorts and a T-shirt (who knows were the pajama was?) and then I landed on my bed. Outside it was darker than usual. But in my eyes there was a glimmering candle, three glasses of wine and the smiles of two ladies. And a pleasant and relaxing chat. With no electricity.

Yes, this is for you...

2008-06-29T21:51:00.000-07:00

si fa presto a cantare che il tempo sistema le cose
si fa un pò meno presto a convincersi che sia così

it does not take much to sing that time will fix things
it takes a little bit more to convince ourselves it is like that

well, you deserve much more

[...]
tu che dentro sei perfetta
mentre io mi vado stretto
tu che sei così brava a rimanere mania

[...]
you that are prefect inside
whereas I do not fit myself
you that are so good to stay... ma*ia

Yes, this is for you. And it was here before I heard your voice again.

If

2008-06-24T22:59:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid the name of R. Kipling was immediately associated to tales in The Jungle Book. Yesterday lady Sandra brought to my attention a poem by Kipling, entitled "If". It looks like the poem has been a little bit controversial among critics and other writers. But as usual, I do not care much about this.
After reading it (several times, actually, since some verses were not clear at first - maybe not even now) I found some interesting images. Especially for somebody like me, who, like Cirano, finds pleasure in being unpleasant, who sometimes loves to be hated, who has some sharp corners. Options to keep in consideration, like making allowance for others' doubts, or filling the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run. Learning to let neither foes nor the loving people hurt you. Always finding the strength to stoop, to patch broken hopes with all the tools available. Ready to start from scratch, once again, escaping from golden cages. Making real changes, not finding peace in fake ones.

Light, with some sun over my head, a song in my mouth, and not a so short nose ;)

If

Se

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

Se non perdi la testa quando tutti intorno a te
Perdono la loro e te ne danno la colpa;
Se riesci a fidarti di te stesso quando tutti dubitano di te,
ed anche ad essere indulgente verso i loro dubbi:
Se riesci ad attendere e a non stancarti di aspettare,
O quando sono dette bugie sul tuo conto, a non prendere parte al gioco,
O essendo odiato non cedi all'odio,
E tuttavia non sembri troppo bravo, e nemmeno parli con troppa saggezza;

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

Se sai sognare - senza fare dei sogni il tuo padrone;
Se sai pensare - e non fare dei tuoi pensieri il fine,
Se sai incontrare il Trionfo e il Disastro
E trattare quei due impostori alla stesso maniera:
Se puoi tolerare di ascoltare la verita' che hai professato
distorta da canaglie per costruire trappole per gli stolti,
O guardare le cose per cui hai dato la vita, spezzate
E chinarti per ricostruirle con attrezzi consumati

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

Se puoi ammassare tutti le tue vittorie
E rischiarle in un testa o croce,
E perdere, e ricominciare dal principio,
E mai fiatare una parola riguardo la tua perdita:
Se puoi imporre al tuo cuore e al nerbo e al vigore
Di essere al tuo servizio pur dopo che si sono sfibrati,
E quindi tenere duro quando non c'e' nulla in te
tranne che la Volonta' che dice loro: "Tenete duro!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the earth and everything that's in it,
And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son!

Se sai parlare alle folle e mantenere la tua integrita'
O camminare con i re = senza perdere il buonsenso,
Se ne' i nemici ne' gli amici che ti amano possono ferirti,
se ogni uomo conta su di te, ma nessuno troppo:
Se riesci a riempire il minuto inesorabile
con gii intensi sessanta secondi di una gara di corsa,
Tua e' la terra e tutto cio' che vi e' in essa,
E - ancor piu' importante - sarai Uomo, figlio mio!

R. Kipling

Cyrano de Bergerac

2008-06-17T22:59:00.000-07:00

Cyrano de Bergerac was a French dramatist (and duelist) whose unconventional life was the source of inspiration for many works of fiction. Besides being considered a "freethinker", Cyrano is usually portrayed with an exaggerate nose.

Freethinkers (essentially) claimed that beliefs should be formed starting from science and logic rather than being influenced by emotions or other "intellectual-limiting" practices.

Personally, I would not include among these limiting factors emotions, or "non quantitative" feelings, since they usually provide a deep insight regarding life... provided one is able to read them honestly and not superficially. In any case beliefs and personal convictions should not be blindly inherited from other people or from empty conventions.

Tonight, more than usual, I have hate feelings towards cheap prophets with a short nose, who sacrifice freedom to political correctness, married to some comfortable non conformism. Prophets who preach that any point of view will do good, included those for which 2+2=5 is something acceptable. Prophets ready to imbue the life of many disciples who listen to mute songs, who dance standing still, who never get hot, but just warm, who taste like an insipid soup, who can chase dreams as long as they do not became true, who are brave enough to "change" when it is time to fight and to overcome difficulties. Disciples who learn to pontificate about forgiveness because their shallowness shielded them from experiencing true pain. Disciples whose selfishness finds shelter under a safe and undebatable blues. Tonight I hate also these disciples.

I wish I had more of the spirit of Cirano, as described in Guccini's song, pointed to me by DJ Ruggio.

Cirano

Venite pure avanti, voi con il naso corto, signori imbellettati, io più non vi sopporto,
infilerò la penna ben dentro al vostro orgoglio perchè con questa spada vi uccido quando voglio.

Come forward, you short nosed people, pretentious sirs, I do not stand you anymore,
I'll pierce my pen deep through your pride, because with this sword I can kill you whenever I want

Venite pure avanti poeti sgangherati, inutili cantanti di giorni sciagurati,
buffoni che campate di versi senza forza avrete soldi e gloria, ma non avete scorza;
godetevi il successo, godete finchè dura, che il pubblico è ammaestrato e non vi fa paura
e andate chissà dove per non pagar le tasse col ghigno e l'ignoranza dei primi della classe.
Io sono solo un povero cadetto di Guascogna, però non la sopporto la gente che non sogna.
Gli orpelli? L'arrivismo? All'amo non abbocco e al fin della licenza io non perdono e tocco,
io non perdono, non perdono e tocco!

Come forward ramshackle poets, useless singers of wretched days,
fools who earn your living on verses without strength, you will have money and glory, but no thick skin;
enjoy the success, enjoy as long as it lasts, since the public is trained and does not scare you
and go wherever you want not to pay taxes, with your impudent smile and the ignorance of the tops of the form.
I am only a poor Gascon cadet, but I cannot stand people that do not dream.
Pinchbecks? Arrivism? I will not raise to the bait and, at the end of my poetical improvisation, I do not forgive and I touch, I do not forgive and I touch!

Facciamola finita, venite tutti avanti nuovi protagonisti, politici rampanti,
venite portaborse, ruffiani e mezze calze, feroci conduttori di trasmissioni false
che avete spesso fatto del qualunquismo un'arte, coraggio liberisti, buttate giù le carte
tanto ci sarà sempre chi pagherà le spese in questo benedetto, assurdo bel paese.
Non me ne frega niente se anch' io sono sbagliato, spiacere è il mio piacere, io amo essere odiato;
coi furbi e i prepotenti da sempre mi balocco e al fin della licenza io non perdono e tocco,
io non perdono, non perdono e tocco!

Let's stop it, came all forward new protagonists, go-getter politicians,
come flunkeys, panders and duffers, fierce anchormen of false shows
that promoted indifference to a form of art, come on liberists, lay down your cards
no matter what there will always be who will pay the dues in this blessed, absurd nice country.
I do not care at all if I am also wrong, to be unpleasant is my pleasure, I love to be hated;
I have been making fun of rogues and bullies for ever and, at the end of my poetical improvisation, I do not forgive and I touch, I do not forgive and I touch!

Ma quando sono solo con questo naso al piede
che almeno di mezz' ora da sempre mi precede
si spegne la mia rabbia e ricordo con dolore
che a me è quasi proibito il sogno di un amore;
non so quante ne ho amate, non so quante ne ho avute,
per colpa o per destino le donne le ho perdute
e quando sento il peso d' essere sempre solo
mi chiudo in casa e scrivo e scrivendo mi consolo,
ma dentro di me sento che il grande amore esiste,
amo senza peccato, amo, ma sono triste
perchè Rossana è bella, siamo così diversi,
a parlarle non riesco: le parlerò coi versi, le parlerò coi versi...

But when I am alone, dragging this nose with my foot
who always arrives half an hour before I do
my rage extinguishes and I remember with pain
that to me it almost forbidden the dream of a love;
I don't know how many women I loved, I do not know how many women I had,
because of my fault or because of the destiny I lost the women
and when I feel the burden of being always alone
I lock myself at home and I write and writing I console myself,
but inside me I feel that the great love exists,
I love with no sin, I love, but I am sad
because Rossana is beautiful, we are so different,
and I cannot talk to her: I will let my verses speak, I will let my verses speak...

Venite gente vuota, facciamola finita, voi preti che vendete a tutti un'altra vita;
se c'è, come voi dite, un Dio nell' infinito, guardatevi nel cuore, l'avete già tradito
e voi materialisti, col vostro chiodo fisso, che Dio è morto e l'uomo è solo in questo abisso,
le verità cercate per terra, da maiali, tenetevi le ghiande, lasciatemi le ali;
tornate a casa nani, levatevi davanti, per la mia rabbia enorme mi servono giganti.
Ai dogmi e ai pregiudizi da sempre non abbocco e al fin della licenza io non perdono e tocco,
io non perdono, non perdono e tocco!

Come empty people, let's stop it, you priests who sell everybody another life;
if it exists, as you claim, a God in the infinite, look inside your heart, you have already betrayed him
and you materialists, with your obsession, that God is dead and that men is alone in this abyss,
you seek for truth down on the ground, like pigs, keep your acorns, leave me my wings;
go home dwarves, disappear from my sight, I need giants for my enormous rage.
I will not take the bait made of dogma and prejudices and, at the end of my poetical improvisation, I do not forgive and I touch, I do not forgive and I touch!

Io tocco i miei nemici col naso e con la spada,
ma in questa vita oggi non trovo più la strada.
Non voglio rassegnarmi ad essere cattivo,
tu sola puoi salvarmi, tu sola e te lo scrivo:
dev' esserci, lo sento, in terra o in cielo un posto
dove non soffriremo e tutto sarà giusto.
Non ridere, ti prego, di queste mie parole,
io sono solo un' ombra e tu, Rossana, il sole,
ma tu, lo so, non ridi, dolcissima signora
ed io non mi nascondo sotto la tua dimora
perchè oramai lo sento, non ho sofferto invano,
se mi ami come sono, per sempre tuo, per sempre tuo, per sempre tuo... Cirano

I touch my enemies with my nose and with my sword,
but today, in this life, I cannot find anymore my way.
I do not want to resign to be bad,
you are the only one that can save me, only you and I am writing this to you:
there must be, I know it, a place on earth or in the heavens
where we will suffer no more and everything will be all right.
Don't laugh, please, at these my words,
I am only a shadow, and you Rossana, the sun,
but I know you are not laughing, sweetest lady
and I am not hiding underneath your dwelling
because now I can feel it, I did not suffer in vain,
if you love me as I am, forever yours, forever yours, forever yours... Cirano

[F. Guccini]

I wish I had a longer nose, and a Rossana as birght as the sun... But tonight looks like my pleasure comes only from being unpleasant, from being hated, and from not resigning...

Giacomino

2008-06-08T15:54:00.000-07:00

I have a train reservation for the trip from Milan to Udine. Car number 10, seat number 96. There is still some time before the train leaves. When I seat inside after the last cigarette, the car is almost empty. If I don't have the option of having a top model sharing my seat row, then better like this.

Soon a couple of guys show up and sit in front of me (seats are arranged in facing pairs with a little table in the middle). They seem cool but, most importantly, the seat on my left is still free.

Short before the train is supposed to leave, a red haired man approaches my place. Maybe six feet tall, thick glasses and a belly that seem to witness frequent jogging sessions to reach a comfortable chair behind some desk or some office couch. His aspect is quite standard: a dark blue suite with some dandruff over his shoulders. The skin under the chin is compressed by a white shirt tightened around his neck by a dark blue tie with a regular pattern made of red and white arrowed crosses. The bottom extremities of his body are wrapped in dark blue socks and a pair of shoes without personality. A piece of paper emerges from his jacket pocket, which is pinched by a clip fixing the earphone cable for the cell. An old style silver wrist watch is almost permanently covered by the multiple layers of his attire. The hours are marked with Latin numbers.

I glance at him, fearful of losing my space. I notice he holds two bags, and he carries an umbrella. The first bag is black and austere, more suited to a priest than to a laic. But he is not a priest. He also handles a white grocery store bag, full of papers and magazines: definitely a style outlier. The age is hard to guess, something between 45 and 55. Almost impossible (or maybe just dangerous) to imagine him younger. Even if the umbrella, similar to a stick wrapped up in a bluish quilted pic-nic cloth, adds a light note to his severe look.

He has a deep voice, one of those voices trained never to bother anybody, those voices that are always warm and do never get hot. I know persons that would enjoy it: with such a voice one can speak a lot without saying much. Every word is weighted, pronounced appropriately, even when he claims the seat next to mine: "Good afternoon, I think this is my seat". He is right. The seat on my left is taken: my space is gone.

The man docks at the seat with solemnly measured movements. He is quite large and he immediately invades my space. His chubby arm sits on the arm rest and presses against me. Almost for the entire trip he will lean to the right. The few times he leans left, his right buttock invades the space under the arm rest. When my arm finds some peace my left leg is jeopardized. I figure that his oscillations (not synchronous with the train ones) are mostly caused by something in the back pocket of his trousers. He often tries to reach the bothering mysterious object with his left hand. Every time his elbow gets dangerously close to my face, without fixing his problem.

The hope that he will get off soon vanishes after his second cell phone call. He speaks a warm variation of the dialect of my region. Likely we will enjoy the whole trip together. During the first call he introduced himself as Giacomino. Giacomino is the red haired guy whose elbow is battling with mine to gain control over the arm rest. Giacomino means little Giacomo. Rather than a name an oxymoron.

Giacomino pulls out from the grocery bag a financial report that he is reviewing. The last sheet is signed with his name so probably he had an active role in writing it. The report looks very solemn and boring. Mostly a collection of financial data. I wonder if anybody will ever read it (I have been asking myself the same thing regarding my papers). Maybe he has similar thoughts. Once satisfied with the editing of the report, his vein-less freckled hand reaches an Economics newspaper inside the grocery bag. After he is satisfied with the news describing the money flow in Italy, he switches to "Avvenire", a newspaper affiliated with the Church. Here we go: I knew that there was something "pristy".

Meanwhile I gave up defending my territory. Now I am squeezed against the right part of my seat, trying to minimize any surface of contact with Giacomino. The train stops and an old lady leaves the seat on the other side of the corridor, next to the elbow warrior. He says "Arrivedela" - "See you again". A warm, soft voice to wish an unknown lady a new encounter in an unknown future and probably in an unknown place.

The last magazines pulled out from the grocery store bag are the big surprise. Their style and content bring up memories that go back to the times when I was following my mum to her hairdresser (to get an haircut that used to make my head look like the pool ball number 8). They contain some short soap operas illustrated via emotionless and glamorous pictures of models who give a pretty dull face to the main characters of the stories. The rich content that describes the unpredictable and always original events is conveyed by short sentences collected in the balloons that read out the words or the thoughts of the characters. If you are lucky, sometimes you can enjoy a generous shot of the thigh of a model or a chaste zoom on her cleavage, usually exposed by a low-cut garment, even when she works as a cashier in the local market. Giacomino voraciously reads the stories one after the other, flipping the pages with a cadence that marks the progress towards the unpredictable end. Sometimes the pace slows down, usually when the balloons are located near naked flesh. That's when I realize there is something worthwhile peeking in the magazine of my neighbor. I do that with no shame.

The final destination is finally approaching and it is time to collect our belongings. It occurs to me that I am a man who lost his battle to defend his territory.

Giacomino stands up to reach the upper racks. He unloads the carry on luggage that was preventing him from reaching the picnic-cloth umbrella. I wonder how the umbrella ended up behind my luggage, but I kindly thank him for unloading the my luggage and for placing it onto the seat just in front of me. He does not respond, staring at me for less than a second, with sufficiency, almost bothered by my courteously informal interaction. The train stops and he grasps the carry on.

I am puzzled.

Instinctively I look up and I see my real luggage still where I left it, an exact copy of Giacomino's one. He is now walking down the corridor, probably wondering why the weirdo battling for the arm rest spoke out a "Thank You" without any apparent reason.

I realize that I am also a poor observer who lost a good occasion to mind his own businesses.

Riding the Train, Several Years Later

2008-06-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

When I was in college I used to cover the distance from my home town to Padova by train. It was a very pleasant trip, mostly because of the group of friends that used to ride the train with me. Some other times the trip was more lonely, perhaps because my schedule was a little unusual. But it was nice as well. A lot of time to stay in peace, to think and to read (and sleep as well, which is always good).

Now, more than ten years later, I am on the same train, and, probably, in a quite similar situation. The landscapes that once I used to glance out of the window now became symbols, capable of evoking countless memories. Trees are not just trees, fields are not just fields, houses and stations not just buildings.

It is like entering a house that I left some time back for a long trip, finding that most of the things are still there, so that you can still call that house home. Sometimes is hard to understand if the familiar and reassuring furniture is only made of memories or it is made of things that still exist. However they seem very fascinating and alluring. The stuff resting on the ledges of the house overseas seems fake, conventional stuff bought at the cheap US-lifestyle-Ikea. However it served to its purpose, and in the past has been also appealing to the eyes and not only.

The dust has covered some expectations sitting on the shelves and on the tables at home. But it looks like the Spring cleaning has started.

Changes

2008-03-27T22:38:00.001-07:00

When does Marco change? And when he does not?

I guess I do not change when my conscious and (especially) unconscious behaviors repeat following similar patterns. Sometimes I fool myself thinking that the changes I make are truly something big and for the better, but they end up being simply the transposition of past behaviors with very minor modifications. Changes that truly leave everything as it is.

I guess I change a bit when I have enough courage to explore something that in the beginning makes myself uncomfortable because it is really new. A road I never travelled before, maybe a little bit scary! But fascinating and intriguing.

But is it actually Marco that changes? Or am I just teaching myself something new, gently pushing myself into a new experience that does not modify the essence of what I am?

I will never be anything close to a good guitarist. Or a good mathematician, or a good soccer player. But I do like to emit sounds with my red Strat, I enjoy playing with numbers and I love to run fast after a soccer ball. I try to teach myself bar chords, the tricks to make a clever proof or how to kick the ball properly. But I cannot turn myself in what I am not: a real guitarist, a decent mathematician or a good soccer player!

Again, I will learn something, but is learning actually changing? Will big events in life change me deeply or will they "just" teach me something? Will I be a different person or the same person with more experience, more educated about "life"? Will I be a pro with the life-guitar or just a normal dude with a decent technique?

I always hoped to be free to change radically. But I must acknowledge there are things about me that seem extremely hard if not impossible to change. I hope this is for the good rather than for the bad! Those are the things that actually define me uniquely.

Marco is what does not change in Marco, with his freedom, openness, fears and desires to learn and experiment things that are truly new.

Decency

2008-02-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

I do not want to expose my ideas regarding a controversial issue like abortion. Not because I do not have an opinion, but because right now I believe it is more appropriate to avoid soliloquies.

But I want to quote a piece of news (a sentence, more specifically) regarding an abortion that took place in Italy, more specifically in the Policlinico II hospital in Naples. I will try to document all the sources that I used, in the fervent hope to adhere to the facts as firmly as possible.

An agglomerate of living tissues (for somebody), or a fully living being (for others), with 40% of probability of developing a mental impairment (according to Dr. Nappi [2]) ended his journey - actually before beginning it - inside an hospital's restroom.

This is how Dr. Nappi described the episode [1]:

"La paziente aveva effettuato il trattamento farmaceutico per l'aborto la mattina — spiega il primario Carmine Nappi — ed è rimasta ricoverata tutto il giorno, perché non si può prevedere quando il farmaco farà effetto. Quando ha avvertito dolori alla pancia, la donna non ha chiamato il personale ma si è recata da sola in bagno e ha espulso il feto. È un episodio che può capitare"

This is my personal translation. It my be inaccurate as far as the medical jargon is concerned.

"The patient underwent the pharmacological treatment for the abortion in the morning - explained the head physician Carmine Nappi - and she was hospitalized for the entire day, because it is not possible to predict when the treatment will succeed. When her belly started hurting, the woman did not call the personnel but went alone in the bathroom and expelled the fetus. It is an incident that may happen".

I wonder if even a simple agglomerate of living tissue, resembling a human being, deserves a different treatment, even when it is suppressed. Should we just be reassured by the words of Dr. Nappi, chief physician, who states that "these incidents may happen"?

Again, no pro-life/pro-choice ideological battle here. Just a feeling of decency in front of death, the death of an unborn child or the death of an agglomerate of living tissue, according to one's own personal convictions. The decency in front of the drama of a woman who "expelled" what was growing inside her womb in an hospital's restroom.

I hope that the words of Dr. Nappi have never been spoken, at least not as reported in [1]. I hope this is just another case of poor journalism. If this is the case I apologize with Dr. Nappi.

Otherwise I dare to contradict him: these things DO NOT HAVE to happen.

[1] Corriere della Sera. http://corrieredelmezzogiorno.corriere.it/campania/cronache/articoli/2008/02_Febbraio/14/telefonata_aborto.shtml Retrieved on Feb 15, 2008. Author: Titti Beneduce.

[2] Repubblica. http://www.repubblica.it/2008/02/sezioni/cronaca/napoli-aborto/napoli-aborto/napoli-aborto.html - Retrieved on Feb 15, 2008. Author: unknown.

A song for T.

2008-02-06T21:30:00.000-08:00

Niente paura.

No worries.

A parte che gli anni passano per non ripassare più

e il cielo promette di tutto ma resta nascosto lì dietro il suo blu

ed anche le donne passano qualcuna anche per di qua

qualcuna ci ha messo un minuto

qualcuna è partita ma non se ne va

Apart from the fact that years go by to come back no more

and the sky promises everything but stays hidden there, behind his blue

and also women go by, some of them pass by

one took one minute

another one left but never goes away

Niente paura, niente paura

Niente paura, ci pensa la vita mi han detto così...

Niente paura, niente paura

niente paura, si vede la luna perfino da qui.

No worries, no worries

No worries, life will look after it, they told me so...

No worries, no worries

No worries, you can see the moon even from here.

A parte che ho ancora il vomito per quello che riescono a dire

Non so se son peggio le balle oppure le facce che riescono a fare.

A parte che i sogni passano se uno li fa passare

alcuni li hai sempre difesi altri hai dovuto vederli finire

Apart from the fact that I am still sick for what they can say

I don't know if the lies are worse than the faces that they can make.

Apart from the fact that dreams go by, if one let them go

you always defended some of them, you had to watch some others fading away

Niente paura, niente paura

Niente paura, ci pensa la vita mi han detto così...

Niente paura, niente paura

niente paura, si vede la luna perfino da qui.

No worries, no worries

No worries, life will look after it, they told me so...

No worries, no worries

No worries, you can see the moon even from here.

Tira sempre un vento che non cambia niente

mentre cambia tutto sembra aria di tempesta.

Senti un po' che vento forse cambia niente

certo cambia tutto sembra aria bella fresca.

A wind is always blowing, without changing anything

while everything changes, seems like a storm is coming.

Feel this wind, maybe nothing will change

sure everything changes, it feels like good fresh air.

A parte che i tempi stringono e tu li vorresti allargare

e intanto si allarga la nebbia e avresti potuto vivere al mare.

Ed anche le stelle cadono alcune sia fuori che dentro

per un desiderio che esprimi te ne rimangono fuori altri cento.

Apart from the fact that times are tight and you would like to loose them

and in the meanwhile the fog opens and you might have been living by the sea.

And even the stars fall down, some of them outside and some others inside

and for each wish you make there are hundred others that are left out.

Niente paura, niente paura

Niente paura, ci pensa la vita mi han detto così...

Niente paura, niente paura

niente paura, si vede la luna perfino da qui.

No worries, no worries

No worries, life will look after it, they told me so...

No worries, no worries

No worries, you can see the moon even from here.

Niente paura, niente paura.

No worries, no worries.

[L. Ligabue]

Strength

2008-02-01T22:13:00.000-08:00

Tonight I want to share a beautiful song by Guccini and Ligabue. You can see a live interpretation on YouTube.

I tried to draft a rough translation, but it is not easy at all... I hope I did not distort too much the meaning!

Ho ancora la forza

I still have the strength

Ho ancora la forza che serve a camminare,

picchiare ancora contro per non lasciarmi stare

ho ancora quella forza che ti serve

quando dici: "Si comincia !"

I still have the strength necessary to walk,

to still fight back so that I will not leave myself in peace

I still have that strength that you need

when you say: "We begin !"

E ho ancora la forza di guardarmi attorno

mischiando le parole con due pacchetti al giorno,

di farmi trovar lì da chi mi vuole

sempre nella mia camicia...

And still I have the strength to look around

mixing the words with two packs per day,

to be there for those who want me

always in my shoes...

Abito sempre qui da me,

in questa stessa strada che non sai mai se c'è

e al mondo sono andato,

dal mondo son tornato sempre vivo...

I always live here at my place,

in this street that you never know if it exists

and I went in the world,

and from the world I have always came back alive...

Ho ancora la forza di starvi a raccontare

le mie storie di sempre, di come posso amare,

di tutti quegli sbagli che per un

motivo o l'altro so rifare...

And still I have the strength to tell you

my usual stories, about how I can love,

about all those mistakes that

for one reason or the other I know how to repeat...

E ho ancora la forza di chiedere anche scusa

o di incazzarmi ancora con la coscienza offesa,

di dirvi che comunque la mia parte

ve la posso garantire...

And still I have the strength to ask for forgiveness

or to get pissed off with my offended conscience,

to tell you that in any case

I can guarantee you my share

Abito sempre qui da me,

in questa stessa strada che non sai mai se c'è

nel mondo sono andato,

dal mondo son tornato sempre vivo...

I always live here at my place,

in this street that you never know if it exists

and I went in the world,

and from the world I have always came back alive...

Ho ancora la forza di non tirarmi indietro,

di scegliermi la vita masticando ogni metro,

di far la conta degli amici andati a dire:

"Ci vediam più tardi ..."

I still have the strength not to draw back,

to choose life chewing every meter,

to count the friends that went to say:

"We'll see you later..."

E ho ancora la forza di scegliere parole

per gioco, per il gusto di potermi sfogare

perché, che piaccia o no, è capitato

che sia quello che so fare...

I still have the strength choose the words

for fun, for the sake of taking it out

because, whether you like it or not, it happened

this is what I know how to do...

Abito sempre qui da me,

in questa stessa strada che non sai mai se c'è

col mondo sono andato

e col mondo son tornato sempre vivo...

I always live here at my place,

in this street that you never know if it exists

and I went in the world,

and from the world I have always came back alive...

[F. Guccini and L. Ligabue]

Time to enjoy Friday night, with the strength to choose.

Roads

2008-01-30T22:02:00.000-08:00

During a chat with a very intriguing person, I mentioned The Road Less Travelled by M.S. Peck. The title of the book brought to her mind a poem by R. Frost, with a similar title: The Road Not Taken.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I understand that there are several interpretations regarding the true meaning of this poem, especially for the last verses. (Sometimes I wonder why critics and scholars struggle so much to enter the mind of the artist rather than just enjoying the memories and the emotions evoked by the poem.)

I bet what captures my attention is of no interest to the scholars... maybe it is nonsense or maybe too trivial!

But I find it curious not to read anywhere a hint about where the two roads lead (except knowing that one bent in the undergrowth... not very helpful!) . I used to think this could be a big problem.

Now I think that the old trick of focusing on one little step after the other is the key. Maybe if I will do that with enough care the journey won't be that bad in the end! And there will no need to spend much time thinking which road I took.

Goodnight Italy

2008-01-28T21:58:00.000-08:00

Di canzone in canzone
di casello in stazione
abbiam fatto giornata
che era tutta da fare
la luna ci ha presi
e ci ha messi a dormire
o a cerchiare la bocca
per stupirci o fumare
come se gli angeli fossero lì
a dire che si
è tutto possibile

Buonanotte all’Italia deve un po’ riposare
tanto a fare la guardia c’è un bel pezzo di mare
c’è il muschio ingiallito dentro questo presepio
che non viene cambiato, che non viene smontato
e zanzare vampiri che la succhiano lì
se lo pompano in pancia un bel sangue così
Buonanotte all’Italia che si fa o si muore
o si passa la notte a volerla comprare
come se gli angeli fossero lì
a dire che si
è tutto possibile
come se i diavoli stessero un po’
a dire di no, che son tutte favole

Buonanotte all’Italia che ci ha il suo bel da fare
tutti i libri di storia non la fanno dormire
sdraiata sul mondo con un cielo privato
fra San Pietri e Madonne
fra progresso e peccato
fra un domani che arriva ma che sembra in apnea
ed i segni di ieri che non vanno più via
di carezza in carezza
di certezza in stupore
tutta questa bellezza senza navigatore
come se gli angeli fossero lì
a dire che si
è tutto possibile
come se i diavoli stessero un po’
a dire di no, che son tutte favole

Buonanotte all’Italia con gli sfregi nel cuore
e le flebo attaccate da chi ha tutto il potere
e la guarda distratto come fosse una moglie
come un gioco in soffitta che gli ha tolto le voglie
e una stella fa luce senza troppi perché
ti costringe a vedere tutto quello che c’è
Buonanotte all’Italia che si fa o si muore
o si passa la notte a volersela fare...

[L. Ligabue]

[...]

all this beauty, without a leader

as if the angels were there

to say that yes

everything is possible

as if the devils were about to say no

it's only fairy-tales

[...]

Freedom

2008-01-27T17:32:00.000-08:00

Today an italian newspaper (la Repubblica) posted a very graphic photo gallery of some men wounded during the riots in Kenya.

Of course, the journalist that take the decision to post such images was pressed by his duty to inform people.

Of course people need to see a hand chopped off to understand the brutality of the violence of the ethnic war that is happening in Kenia.

Of course on the photo gallery there was no signature or name of the person that took such an enlightened and pondered decision.

Of course this person, and the entire newspaper, are exercising their freedom of press.

Does freedom of press, freedom to inform, mean freedom to overthrow the most basic principles of human piety and dignity just to satisfy the sick curiosity of a minority of readers?

Some may object: well you watched the gallery, didn't you? Don't you belong to this sick minority as well? I hope not. I was looking forward to contradict the expectations that after a few mouse clicks proved to be true.

Thanks to La Repubblica for bringing us such a thorough information. Thanks for the help in preserving the freedom of your readers.

The Beginning...

2008-01-25T22:10:00.000-08:00

Hi there. So I finally decided to start this blog thing.

The motivations? Well, as Mrs. Colegate would say, in order not to bother too much those who are still patient enough to listen to my random thoughts...

Or maybe this will became a way to provide some news to my friends scattered around the world, who are still emailing me in the fervent (and, alas! often times vain) hope to get any sort of updates!

Or maybe it is just because year 2008 has just started and it seems a good moment to initiate something new...

I already know that I will never be committed enough to keep this blog decently updated, but it is nice to try!