Res, Publica

I can feel Her softly rubbing
kind caresses on the leaves,
while She flows around the knots
of unruly, coalesced weaves.
As the night birds' hushed sounds
pave the way for a new dawn,
She's pelting all the gutters,
and lushing the wild lawns.
She comes to wash the cobblestones
and muddle the dry sand,
She gifts new life to greeneries,
She quenches many lands,
a myriad creatures scuttle
under Her watchful eyes
to look for food, drink, shelter,
so social knots can tie.

She's falling on the noble,
as She hits the poor of heart,
just as much on a hipster
as on any work of art,
She covers the teenager
and his faith in life that starts,
She wets the middle-aged ones,
while She jeers at all their doubts,
to Her our very eldest
smell o' freshly remade cots.
She sprays the madly fit,
and the plumper ones as well,
the drenched bum in the thrash can
is Her son as any man:
there is no bias in Her,
for everyone She quells.

But god I really wished for Her
to lend a helping hand
to me, my doubts, my pantomymes
that carolers retell.
Of course She doesn't listen,
it's obvious She cares not:
the night is rolling on
and I'm still without a plot.

She pays no heed to differences,
nor cares of who you are,
your heart's contempt is meaningless
to Her you are no star;
you see, She's mother nature:
it would be smart to play for par.

And Alas! here I am,
the dark has turned to light,
the lazy birds are waking
to Rain's most ancient rite.
Alone with many questions,
of answers I have few,
and all that is here left with me
is Her tapping on my roofs.

Vancouver, prime impressioni.

E' maestosa.
Arrivi dall'aereoporto, sopra un ponte sul mare, da sud-ovest (piu' tardi scopriro' che per quelli che vivono qui, sinistra e destra non valgono come indicazioni stradali, solo le direzioni del compasso qualificano come tali. Esci, e vai a ovest per due blocchi, poi nord per uno.).
Stupisce ovviamente il profilo della foresta di grattacieli.
Stupisce ancor di piu' la parallasse: paiono solo attaccati.
In realta', mouvendocisi a fianco si scopre che c'e' luce, e spesso molta, tra uno e l'altro.
A Vancouver il cielo e' sempre visibile, se ne prendon generose manciate in ogni dove, che sia lattiginoso e piovoso, o blu intenso e striato da nubi lontane, o plumbeo e carico di nubi basse che tagliano i grattacieli come lama calda nel burro.
Ci vuole di camminare, pero', per apprezzare di piu' la citta'.
E' tutta un saliscendi, mai noiosa, quasi mai prevedibile.
E c'e' acqua, acqua ovunque.
Pare che ogni palazzo, casa, edificio, non abbia dignita' se non offre al pubblico una fontana, con cascate, disegni, luci colorate, e il caratteristico persistente scroscio.
Un'ode continua a madre acqua, financo nel centro piu' commerciale della citta', dove lavoro, e vivo, che la notte si svuota di tutto, tranne che di noi lavoratori assiepati nei condo (palazzine da 30-40 piani), e delle guardie giurate.
Ma da qui, da qui, si vede l'acqua, quella vera.
Si puo' scorgere il porto, purtroppo per me solo da una finestrina, da casa mia.
Le miriadi di barche bianche, che punteggiano il nero delle navi da container, immense tartarughe da trasporto.
E piu' in la', dove l'acqua cede alla costa, a ridosso della riva salgono le montagne.
Rapide, verdi, marcate solo ai piedi di qualche callo d'umana fattura, e intonse in cima.
Lassu', in alto, c'e' la neve.
Forse questo weekend riesco ad accodarmi ad un gruppetto che va a sciare, vedremo...
La gente, almeno qui in centro, e' cordiale e serena, ma sempre molto presa per i propri affanni, e di corsa.
Dovro' poi incominciare ad uscire e guardarmi intorno.
Poi qui dietro c'e' Stanley Park, dal profumo pungente di resina di conifere, che si sente anche passandoci in macchina, tanto e' intenso...
E il ponte di Capilano, a un quarto d'ora di macchina da qui.
Pero' s'e' partiti sull'allegrotto andante al lavoro, e la sera quando esco son cottissimo, e devo correre a ninna (io, di tutti...) presto che il giorno dopo di solito e' ancora piu' ilare...
C'e' un birrificio con una ottima IPA, ma le altre birre che ha sono un po' cosi', quasi senza personalita'.
E il posto e' comunque troppo grande per essere intimo, peccato.
Pare che tutti, da queste parti, sian piu' stonati di me, dal sessantenne col cane in ascensore, al commesso del seveneleven, con cui ho dovuto usare i gesti oltre all'inglese per indurlo all'azione coerente.
Non capisco ancora bene, e ci mancherebbe, il carattere di Vancouver.
Pero' per ora e' assai piacevole.

Heavencouver

There's no need to lift a finger for me to reach the sky,
already I am in it: so high my mouth runs dry.
Sitting at the lacquered table of the breakfast room
my gaze wanders farther than I care to assume.
A feeble sheet of glass is all that stands
between me and the beauty of these plentiful lands.

The thin solid strip rapidly cedes
room to what Mother Water needs
so to grant Vancouver eternal claim
to rightful honors and the Olympic flame
standing silent guardian to trees and rain
and rocks and soil, and the vast seaplane;
to all the creatures that with Man may share
Nature, her bounty, her gratitude and her care.

Non capire.

C'e' di mezzo la strada.
E' tanta roba, lunga, e un po' di piu'.
Una cosa cosi', imprescindibile, ineluttabile, inevitabile.
C'e' da farsela.
Altrimenti non si capisce la distanza.
Non piu' dell'innuendo da zoccola,
con tutto il mio altro cervello che svalvola,
coglione com'e', come e' giusto sia,
per questa che appena se la tira, e non e' manco sto granche'.
E io fava, ch'avanzo a pube spinto,
e -diononvoglia- la invito ad una birra in un posto tutt'altro che intimo.
Cosi', senza pressioni, al meglio si tromba, al peggio ci si leva di culo in un minuto.
Invece no.
Flirtare sino alla sera prima, e mi sparisce nel giorno che conta.

Nono, fermo/a.

Non sono pirla, i giochi li conosco, e manco male.
Ed adoro giocare la mia parte sino in fondo, che vada in gloria o tragedia, ha pari intensita', indi valore.
Ma ho trentacinque anni, e la domanda vera' e' leggermente diversa.
Dato il poco che so e capisco, mi ci devo cacciare per forza ed amor d'azione anche quando sento la puzza da lontano?
Forse una sana sega non sia meglio, in fondo?
Al costo di perder Avventura?

The Hours - Pt. III

So, again the same question emerges:
I didn't wish for this, still it happens before my eyes.
I will be changed by it, in ways I cannot foresee.
Is then Chaos winning over wishing?
But how could order arise from chance?
Once, maybe twice. But every time?
What is then the name of this inertia pervading our universe?
What makes chaos coalesce into events?
What?

Connect

Long, very.
The day, the night, it matters not.
I wait, and the wait is long, very.
Prelude to a bounce, says my self,
just being busy, while you're not, says my ego.
All I really look for is to rest
safe, steady, right in the eye of the storm.
And from there to spread my arms out
and touch, and understand through touching,
the whirling winds that are shaking,
once again,
the foundations and walls and roofs and windows of my puny shelter.
As doomed to failure as it may be,
I find impossible to resist the urge.
Reach out: connect.

The Place outside of Time

Engulfed in sweet molasses,
dried by kisses, confused by caresses;
alert, silent vigil on a restless night,
failing to realise
that a morning would not come.
Held tenderly in the gloom,
cracking lips
scouring chlorine from her skin;
trembling fingers gently probing
the surprises of her curves.

In darkness I got in,
by darkness I walked out
from the Place outside of Time.

Deep at the blackest end
of the longest night
flashes her lingering scent,
flickers an impression
of the arches of her lips,
glow the pulsing beats
of the moist shrine
surrounded by her hips.

Skittish

I'm there again.
In that place between past mistakes
and new opportunities to make new, bigger ones.

Why am I doing this again?
It's not to measure myself against new challenges.
It's not purely out of frustration either.
I'm doing this because it's all I have come to know,
It's the one way I have practiced in the past few years.

Sure sign of character stiffening with age.
I may be cocking this big time,
Or I may come to find a place which feels right to me.

I know it not, yet, of course.

So I add black fear to my usual restlessness.
And hope that some good will come of it.
Fool.

A Lament for Marco

You used to toy with me,your favourite silly midget,
running, nearly without touching the ground,
and yet you strode away at impressive speeds.

You stretched your long legs, and left me behind,
shouting the name of your favourite athlete,
the one you so much wanted to emulate.

You smiled, and joked, and laughed,
your gentle eyes shining so bright
as to conceal the scar on the side of your head.

You were able to spread mirth to others,
in the face of that ugly beast
that kept gnawing at your endless vitality.

But yesterday you got distracted
and the beast got you.

I will have you in front of me
for each and every step i'll ever take
with my running shoes on.

You are not an inch away from the eyes,
a smidge away from the heart,
Alive and full of joy as ever.

Immigraniada (we're coming rougher)

Push, squeeze,
compress us.

Be lavish in wasting our humanity,
smother our lifetimes with no regrets,
Scorn us for the flavours of our roots.

Abhor difference,
seek homogeneity;
trade your freedom of thought
for perception of safety.

Since vases do communicate,
the requital will be humongous.
We're coming rougher every time.

Dicotomia

Il lavoro di una vita,
e gli errori di ogni giorno.

The Crucible

A peculiar moment,
an atom of time,
a myriad questions
coalescing to a singular point.
Mumbay beckoning:
I AM.

The Wanderer Pt. III

Surprise!
Wandering, endlessly in search of the new and unexpected,
DOES have its benefits.
Such as chance-meeting two very, very good humans I like to call friends, already,
and opening up to them, half-drunk.
Seeing them attentively listening, even understanding reasons and ways.
That is my definition of Happiness, them the personification of humanity.
Shoes patched up, tiredness forgotten, optimism bubbling again.
Thank you, you two.

The Wanderer Pt. II

Wandering does have side effects, unfortunately.
There is such a thing as tiredness,
creeping up through my worn out shoes.
There is boredom, which scars my bent back,
the whip held by the hands of uncountable experiences.
Having gotten so high, so soon, has a heavy, heavy price to be paid.
Social dynamics I've seen too many times,
and know and can read so much quicker than others,
make me old before my time.
It's difficult, very difficult,
to try and push the boundaries of my own little garden,
when that garden is many a mile across,
and each attempt to push takes creativity and energy:
first to recognize a path to the boundary,
amidst the thickets and dead trees making it harder by the try,
and then the energy to attempt another heave,
where the force needed, and the direction of the push,
can make me fail when applied wrongly,
but do not guarantee any result at all when applied correctly...
It's a game of huge expenditures, and no certainties.
Risky, and unrewarding.
Yet, yet it's an unavoidable necessity,
if I want to keep on living.

The Wanderer

Perchance,
I've seen this already.
Perhaps,
a few times over.
I wandered a bit, you know?
Places of the earth,
of the mind,
of the heart,
of the soul.
I'd say you can stop
whispering,
shaking the head,
calling me strange,
fool,
socio-path.
I know those names,
I made them mine
a long while back.
Petty price to pay,
when grabbing life by the horns,
knowing it will grab back.
It's simply the lack of newness
that bores me
to inconceivable depths.
It sure is my own fault.
So get over it.

The Cynic

I am a Cynic, there's no denying the obvious.

It becomes stark the moment I meet the vainglorious.
I see those as petty animals, only half human, lotus eaters, lovers of their self.
And it's right then, when it bursts in a million hot needles.
Searing pain criss-cross my soul, white heat swells in my conscience.
Pure, unmitigated rage.

Accomplices of the degraded society we live in, do you not see your hand in the works to give it continuity?
Makers of the fat icon you then adore, do you not understand?
The reek of rotten is oblivious to your nostrils, the feeble attempt to stop time leaves no bitter trace on your palates?
Fixed in a point in time and space (silly, futile!), do you not realise you'll be gone before the next blink of the eyelids?
Can you not see the wrinkles growing around your eyes, your breasts succumbing to gravity?
And what is your answer to it?
Conjuring up an image, acting like there is no flow?

I'd shout in your faces, slap you hard on the cheeks to put some sense in your heads.
But it's not for me to educate anyone, so I walk away with any pretence of judgement, and go scrubbing your pots in the kitchen.
Knowing they'll outlast you.

The Jerk - Pt. II

Closing my eyes,
I wield the power of creation.

The Jerk

Through mimicking,
It achieves.

The Voice

I turn around,
my usual prance
where beers abound:
perhaps by chance,
out of nowhere,
The Voice is there.

Her beaming smile
contains no guile,
Those jasper eyes
now show surprise,
the gaze, so intense,
is right on me, without pretence:
she has never once
beheld me askance.

The space between us closes:
her smell, like damask roses,
stops my beat
and chokes my breath,
just before she makes the choice
to release her golden Voice.

The space of an "Hellow" to rapture me
in a place where i am floating free:
as festive bells chime their kind warnings
on an Easter's spring glorious morning,
I'm brushed by the sound of her gentle Rs,
rolled in bundles, glittering as stars
dripping like welcomed mountain dew
condensed out of the sky's deep blue
at the early break of dawn
on my dry, forsaken lawn.

The sweet, sweet tones of her phonemes
bind me tight to a constant dream:
that I may drink for long to come,
like a small kid suckling a thumb,
from all the sweet The Voice creates
until, if ever, my thirst satiates.

The night has come: I'm wide awake.
As we part ways and company,
The Voice is guilty of larceny.
For I walk empty and parched again,
whatever was it's hard to explain,
and there's one thing that makes me ache:
I do realise
The Voice committed heinous crime!

Vanity Fair

There I was,
surrounded,
unsettled,
a slightly gaping mouth,
with eyes
I couldn't close,
and ears
I couldn't plug.

Amongst some beauty,
real,
so much was out of whack.
To them,
is likely just a game.
To me,
it screamed of
badly containable Vanity.

Flies,
all there really was,
buzzing wildly
around the light.
Or was it shite?

Unfinished,
diminished,
deformed,
huge eyes,
empty hearts,
fluttering details
in front of some glass,
never quite a mirror.

I walked,
just before the puke.
No, I mean,
Thankyou anyway.

The Clown and his red nose

A night started
with theatre,
continued
with drama,
and ended
with a clown performance.

Open-scene applause!
I can only
Gracefully bow.

All I'm left with,
though,
it's memories
of what might have been
and a bruised, red nose.

The Abyss

It's not
like one can stop
time,
by staring
into the abyss
of the past.

Il Telo

Preferirei essere un quadro,
che un telo da cinema
buono solo per la proiezione
degli altrui desideri.

E' che si deve fare
con quel che s'ha.

The possible futures

I'm but a beggar
of possible futures,
which keep coming back,
to me,
as lost pasts.

Perdita di memoria a breve termine

Eravamo cosi' stonati,
che il rumore delle macchine
in Via Porpora
suonava come il Mediterraneo
sulle coste rocciose di Augusta
nel millenovecentonovantaquattro.

Wisdom and Folly

Oh wise,
hast thou no pulse,
thine ascetic
heart
turned aseptic?

Weeping,
withering,
writhing and waning.
Thine blood shrivelled to sand,
no fruits left to bear?

Exert control,
conjure illusions:
for at that time,
while fast asleep...

- wanton dreams came! (Away, Away!) -

...another one
hast held her hand.

The Sea

First came the smell.
That clear scent of living things,
the tang of algae and salt
assailing
my nostrils and tongue,
along with the sting
of shells and fishes:
There's the Sea,
close by,
and it bears a story
worth being told.

I screamed, and shouted.
Flailed my arms,
acted the fool.
The Sea
Listened
in near silence.

Then came the growling sound
of rolling,
encroaching waves
gently lapping
the dry sands
of my conscience.
"What was that again?",
I wondered.

And it was already too late.

For the tide is upon me now.
And I should run from it,
as it slowly rises:
the tips of my toes,
first,
the bridge of my feet,
the ankles
then.

I am a midget
that can't swim:
the end result is clear.
It's by now at my knees;
still there is a way out.

But as I look upon you,
oh Sea,
engrossed by the chaos
which gave you shores and meaning,
I am lost in contemplation
of your deep blues,
your shallow greens,
your turmoiled whites.

And up you rise,
stating no intent,
claiming no purpose.
Yet you have me by the hips,
now,
and I really ought to escape.

The warnings are there.
The red flags you shake
with impetuous motions,
letting me know
that you have an Ego.
Showing me the bodies
- still alive, if barely -
of others you enthralled
with the lure of your depths.

Now neck deep in your waters,
I feel no fear.
Only the need
to finally say goodbye
to a life past,
the desire
to drown
into thine salty-sweet humours,
oh Sea.

Hence I smile,
spring my arms out wide,
and take the plunge.
I know,
I know you'll have a care,
beloved,
unruly Sea.

The Hours - Pt. II

It has to be down to false perception.
It has to.

Has wishing for something the power to create it?
Does the wish itself bend events around its singular purpose?

Is a wish a transatlantic boat that cuts through the waves of time,
leaving ripples behind?
Do we have such power?

Or is it more akin to a water flea,
skimming over the surface while it's nice and calm,
and drowning into it when the going gets tough?

Is it down to intent,
or is it the mixing of a myriad chances,
seemingly playing into a man's desire,
only because he cannot see
the myriad other ones playing against it?

Is it us, in other words,
seeing a pattern where none exist,
simply because reality is unfathomable,
and we need to survive it?

So what's the answer:
taming reality into false cause-effect simplicity
or
embracing chaos while letting go of control?

I keep furiously biting my nails.

The Collective Organism

How could I not See,
Who had Deafened me?

What has kept me Numb,
What did sour my Taste?

Who did plug my Smell,
How could I not Feel?

Ego is just The Mask,
The Self but an Illusion,

Mordacious in my steps,
I missed the Revelation.

Elation bubbles now,
and will forever more,

discovering I am Naught
but a bit of the Grandiose.

The truth has swelled completely,
it's clear as day's first light:

Humanity is not Many:
for we are kin of Cells.

Each with their own task,
we Are and fleet away.

Persistence we can't find
unless we Leave our place,

as Multitudes have done
and Countless will, again,

to New and Unforeseen:
of us but a small Trace,

as times and times Dictate.
I'm left with but one Hope:

before our very End
that we shall try and Learn

to stop our childish Squabbling,
and grow to make Amend.

High Voltage

I live in Asymmetry:
the means by which charge is built up.

The farther life stretches me,
the more thunderous will my lightning be.

Exorcism N. 1: The Parabola

It starts from Surprise:
An open attitude to the world of humans makes for the base ingredient.
The marvel at having been found by another beautiful, intelligent, connecting human being, makes for having been taken aback all of a sudden.

It raises to Hope:
The projection of my needs upon that human being.
The transfiguration of a very finite essence into an all powerful, all good, demi-god.

It itches into the first Doubts:
The early attempts to communication fall short.
A rethink of my strategy is in order.
It has to be me.

It grows into apparent Understanding:
We phase a bit, I open up and do communicate.
She seems to get more things nearly right, all of a sudden.

It peaks into Love:
I give her a night of Love (capital, L), she receives a night of "very good sex" (citation, here).
I give myself entirely, and never get caught, not even in bits.
But it is a night of very good sex, what a comfort that is.
She obviously isn't aware of the price I am paying.

It rapidly decreases into Insult:
Got a foot over the heart's door, and that's way too invasive.
Sex is over, my head standing as a beautiful mantelpiece by the Owls and Deers.
Nothing's due anymore.

It changes into Abuse:
I am useful, limited to her needs.
What is lurking here, behind the beautiful image?
Why am I being thrown and tossed, shaken and ultimately whipped into doing what she wants,
and that alone?

It becomes Strive, mine, for her, or her image:
I out-try myself, find new meanings to patience and understanding,
condone, pardon, forgive the lot, and pay the price myself.
I can not let go of her.

It Ends as it ought to:
I lose patience, spit it out as for what it is,
She closes, and drops me dead in the blink of an eye.
Someone as fascinating, but more useful, has come around.
Time to revolve the doors.

There's no turning a Parabola into a perfect Circle.
'ave it, you twat: you deserved it.
Really this is the fool's corner.

Ridere...

Le lettere d'amore (chevalier de pas)

Fernando Pessoa chiuse gli occhiali
e si addormentò
e quelli che scrivevano per lui
lo lasciarono solo
finalmente solo...

Così la pioggia obliqua di Lisbona
lo abbandonò
e finalmente la finì di fingere ai fogli
di fare male ai fogli...

E la finì di mascherarsi dietro tanti nomi,
dimenticando Ophelia
per cercare un senso che non c'è
e alla fine chiederle:
"scusa se ho lasciato le tue mani,
ma io dovevo solo scrivere, scrivere
e scrivere di me..."

E le lettere d'amore,
le lettere d'amore
fanno solo ridere.
Le lettere d'amore
non sarebbero d'amore
se non facessero ridere.
Anch'io scrivevo un tempo lettere d'amore
anch'io facevo ridere;
le lettere d'amore, quando c'è l'amore,
per forza fanno ridere.

E costruì
un delirante universo senza amore,
dove tutte le cose
hanno stanchezza di esistere
e spalancato dolore.

Ma gli sfuggì che il senso delle stelle
non è quello di un uomo,
e si rivide nella pena di quel brillare inutile,
di quel brillare lontano...

E capì tardi che dentro
quel negozio di tabaccheria
c'era più vita di quanta ce ne fosse
in tutta la sua poesia;
e che invece di continuare a tormentarsi
con un mondo assurdo
basterebbe toccare il corpo di una donna,
rispondere a uno sguardo...

E scrivere d'amore,
e scrivere d'amore,
anche se si fa ridere;
anche quando la guardi,
anche mentre la perdi
quello che conta è scrivere.
E non aver paura
non aver mai paura
di essere ridicoli;
solo chi non ha scritto mai
lettere d'amore
fa veramente ridere.

Le lettere d'amore,
le lettere d'amore,
di un amore invisibile;
le lettere d'amore
che avevo cominciato
magari senza accorgermi;
le lettere d'amore
che avevo immaginato,
ma mi facevan ridere
magari fossi in tempo
se avessi ancora il tempo
per potertele scrivere...

©:Roberto Vecchioni

Leggero', nel tempo a venire,
queste pagine ricche di intensità,
slanci e cadute.

Riderò di me,
amaro,
a riempire il buco lasciato da te.

Blinded

Blinded by too much light,
I am now in the dark.

Still, feeling with my hands,
I gain a new kind of sight.

Stupidity

Like a blind man, awkwardly,
I poke, probe and prod.

Willing to be part of the solution,
I make myself the problem.

Trying to understand,
I only ever manage to tire the hell out of you.

If only I could leave you alone,
like the careless, selfish, old bastard that I was,

knowing deep within you'd be better off,
or not caring about you at all anymore,

without a second thought I would.

Stupidity isn't about being able to do so:
stupidity is telling you I can not.

The Intoxication

"I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of fire
Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
And in the flames
Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire

This desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

And as she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realize that nothing's as it seems

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of rain
I lift my gaze to empty skies above
I close my eyes
This rare perfume is the sweet intoxication of her love

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in vain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this

Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower
This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the fall"

©:Sting

The Fool pt.2

In the end,
I did indeed
make a fool of myself.

ah well.

Onward and upward!

Seasons

Because

well
Because i fear terribly to get way too involved sentimentally.
hence lose reason.

So far, you're just like Mother Nature to my eyes.
which one does not possess.
You're Beautiful, of the kind with a capital B.
and i draw joy from it.

when from autumn, winter comes, amen to it, end of colours. it's Mother Nature.
it does hurt, but can be survived.
another autumn will eventually come.
but if I get too emotionally involved, if I end tied up, well, then it would be pretty different.
then it would hurt too much to see the season go.
i wouldn't want another one.
i would want precisely the one just come to pass.
that very one, not any other.
and for such things, well, you need some good time to heal.
time i don't have.

The (wrong?) Instructions

Oh come on.
Stop the mooning,
quell the riots,
leave the abandonment,
bring in reason,
and go back being free.

...

Of the magic?

The Fool

"Are you Gay?", you asked.
"You are a Sociopath", you stated.
"You're mad, plain mad.", you enthused.

Well, I can only answer that I am simply a Fool.
A Love Fool.

Vorrei

Vorrei conoscer l' odore del tuo paese,
camminare di casa nel tuo giardino,
respirare nell' aria sale e maggese,
gli aromi della tua salvia e del rosmarino.
Vorrei che tutti gli anziani mi salutassero
parlando con me del tempo e dei giorni andati,
vorrei che gli amici tuoi tutti mi parlassero,
come se amici fossimo sempre stati.
Vorrei incontrare le pietre, le strade, gli usci
e i ciuffi di parietaria attaccati ai muri,
le strisce delle lumache nei loro gusci,
capire tutti gli sguardi dietro agli scuri

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...

Vorrei con te da solo sempre viaggiare,
scoprire quello che intorno c'è da scoprire
per raccontarti e poi farmi raccontare
il senso d' un rabbuiarsi e del tuo gioire;
vorrei tornare nei posti dove son stato,
spiegarti di quanto tutto sia poi diverso
e per farmi da te spiegare cos'è cambiato
e quale sapore nuovo abbia l' universo.
Vedere di nuovo Istanbul o Barcellona
o il mare di una remota spiaggia cubana
o un greppe dell' Appennino dove risuona
fra gli alberi un' usata e semplice tramontana

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...

Vorrei restare per sempre in un posto solo
per ascoltare il suono del tuo parlare
e guardare stupito il lancio, la grazia, il volo
impliciti dentro al semplice tuo camminare
e restare in silenzio al suono della tua voce
o parlare, parlare, parlare, parlarmi addosso
dimenticando il tempo troppo veloce
o nascondere in due sciocchezze che son commosso.
Vorrei cantare il canto delle tue mani,
giocare con te un eterno gioco proibito
che l' oggi restasse oggi senza domani
o domani potesse tendere all' infinito

e lo vorrei
perchè non sono quando non ci sei
e resto solo coi pensieri miei ed io...


©:Francesco Guccini, Vorrei, 1996

Vuoi?

The Unexpected

Which powers, I wonder, conjure such events?
Chaos alone can't be this powerful.
Luck, well, I don't believe in.
A supernatural being, I'm afraid, I don't believe in either.

What then?

What can turn a night where I do not wish to search, into a night where I am found?

I have been told by a very good and wise friend that I should definitely NOT think about it, and just let go.

Right.

If only I could find sleep,
or could stop bouncing between the wish to scream in happiness,
and that of shedding tears on the inevitable, eventual loss.

If only I could rewind to yesternight,
choose a different spot at the brewery,
not wish for a cigarette,
nor ask for company while smoking it.
If I just chose to stand,
or met someone else and fluttered away in chitchats.
If only my words were not what they were,
and yours were different too.
If only your eyes were not so deep,
your beauty not so radiant,
your without not such a mirror of your within.
If only I didn't ask for one more goodbye hug,
and you didn't brush your lips against mine.

Then I could erase you.

Unexpectedly I can not.
And unexpectedly I'm not my own anymore.

Thank you.

Serendipity

Dark, almost ten in the evening,
the sound of passing cars on the autobahn
dirtying the artificial light of a monitor.

I can still smell vanilla,
perspiration and humors
like if you never left.

The sound of a passing tram,
down below,
reminding me of duties
I imposed to myself
in the name of achievements.

And all I feel is the distance,
tugging,
like an overstretched umbilical cord,
aching, the pull already too hard to fathom.

How, on earth, skies and depths,
did I manage to latch on to you
like so?

Most importantly,
how did you?

Answers I may one day find,
if only you were to stay
close,
if you only were not to ever take myself away from myself.

Serendipity finally here,
there with your hugs
I miss the moment they stop.

Left and Leaving

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.
The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say " I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.
I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.

©:The Weakerthans

To you all, each of you individually, which I had the bliss, the luck, the surprise and joy to meet here.
Warmth, genuine, priceless, human richness I'll take with me long after this day.
Long, after this pain in my chest will have finally dulled.
Thank you for it all.
Thank you.

The foolishness of the Mathematician

Why ask numbers to talk,
when it's us being the numbers which talk?

La triste rinuncia

Le luci dentro al buio sono andate via
e l' allegria comprata è già sparita:
il giorno dopo è sempre la malinconia
che spezza la magia di un' altra vita.

La forza che ti lega è grande più di te,
l'anello al collo si stringe sempre più:
non dare più la colpa al mondo, o a lei,
per la rinuncia triste a quello che non sei...

Lo sai cosa vuol dire stare giorni interi
a buttar via nel niente solo il niente;
fai mille cose, ma sono sempre i tuoi pensieri
che scelgono per te diversamente.

Son stanco d' aver detto le cose che dirò,
di aver già fatto le cose che farò,
ma è tardi, troppo tardi, per piangere ormai
sulla rinuncia triste a quello che non fai...

Credevo l' incertezza possibilità
e il dubbio assiduo l' unica ragione,
ma quali scelte hai fatto in piena libertà:
ti muovi sempre dentro a una prigione...

Non è la luce o il buio, né l' ero ed il sarò,
non è il coraggio che ti fa dir "vivrò",
è solo un' altra scusa che usare vuoi
per la rinuncia triste a quello che non puoi...

Non voglio prender niente se non so di dare,
io e chissà chi decidon ciò che posso,
non ho la voglia, o la forza, per poter cambiare
me stesso e il mondo che mi vive addosso...

E forse sto morendo e non lo so capire
o l'ho capito e non lo voglio dire.
Rimangono le cose senza falso o vero,
e la rinuncia triste a quello che io ero...

©:Francesco Guccini, Canzone della triste rinuncia, 1974

The Night Pt.2

It used to be the time of mysteries and marvels,
time for waking up to look out of the window and listening to night birds,
or watching dawn approach with that untamable sense of purpose.

When, i wonder, did it become just darkness and dreamless sleep?
Is it just a coincidence, or is it an inescapable pattern?

I'll need to watch over myself, and out of the window, more.

One Great City Pt.2

The Notre Dame Cathedral in St. Boniface.
Looking towards SW on the Red River.
And looking straight East: tracks of boots on snow over the river.
Crossing the Provencher Bridge.
Looking under the Bridge: black ice.
More ice under the bridge.
Looking back towards the cathedral.
Snow Bank.
Wasteland.
Yes, Snow as well.

The Night

She comes without a warning, for it's not the absence of light.
I wished.

It's a gallery of the might have beens,
my own paintings down a hallway,
twilight of what I lavishly spent,
buying myself nothing but lessons still to learn,
mistakes I'm still eager to repeat.

It coalesces into faces, mostly one,
for that's the one that had been able to teach me the most,
but they shimmer and vanish,
leaving me with a subtle anguish,
a sweet torment,
a curse towards the arrow of time.

So I drink a glass of wine
looking for relief,
but finding only more vivid dreams,
more of what I have no guts to tell myself by myself.

I'm a coward, after all.

The Morning

A...l...a...r...m...
Shit, it's morning already.
Adrenaline rush, not reawakening.
There's no light, what time is it?
Reach for a window.
Damn, will you look at that? It's so thick!

Ok, think about this.
Coffee, yes. Coffee.
No, shower first.

Stairs, watch the bugs.
No bugs, good.
Bathroom: what a mess.
So typical, hey?
Clean it quick, you bought the willow basket, you dick. use it!

K, now what?
Yes, shower.
This hot water smells sickly sweet. i need to talk to the landlord.
I wonder if i smell like that to people.

Large, soft, hot spray: perfect.
And another small nap under the shower.

Out, too hot, need to turn the vents down.
Dry up, a spray of that, a brush of this, ready.

Ok, i'll walk it.
This may hurt.
Nah it won't.

Base Layer: clean. Check.
Jumper: Clean. Check
Socks: Used once. Check.
Thick or thin? Thick LongJohns: Clean, Check.
Middle Layer: dirty as fuck. Check.
SwishPants: Clean. Check.
Mittens, Hat, Neck Warmer, Boots, Top Layer: Check.

Duh.
Too much. Must get out quick.

Ciggy, where is it?
Oh, damn, i forgot the coffee.
No time now, roll the ciggy.

Out i go.
Light the ciggy.
Puff, puff, puff.

The down jacket open, mittens on the neck.
Still comfortable.

Puff, puff, puff, what's on my nose?
Puff.
It sticks, whatte?
bah.

What's tugging at my beard, now?
Puff.
grin.
Puff.

Puff.
This is done.
Good, starting to feel it.
Mittens up.

Nah, what the hell, these are too small.
See that, what the fuck is going on with the thumb, there?
Ah, yes, Matt did this with his own.
Ah yes, makes sense, and of course it works.
Ok, bearable now.
Ah, jacket.
Damn, wrong move.
I should have closed that one first.
Ah well, i can manage with the straps.

Can i, now?
Oh come on!
Fucking useless.
I wish i was a native right now, oh , here, done.

and how could i not feel THAT one?
Where's the hood?
There, damn mittens.
What's about the fur the.. Gah!
That hurt.

Ready now, though.
Step up.

Long, by the cathedral, the way.
Well, remember the past.
The trick is not to count.

And sure as cupid's arrow, here we are.
Cross.
Damn the queue.
Smell this, thank god it's unusual around here.

Ah, the bridge.
Finally.

Oh dear goodness.
Black, shiny.
Deep and dark, through a sheath of temporary rock.
Deep under the black stuff it moves, it's alive if encaged.
I'm breathless.

Umh, forks?
Nah, twit, the right.
Ah, true.
This, and then, there.
Cross.
Yeh right.
Oh come on, i'm walking into this, have mercy for christ's sake!
Whatever.

So now is that way.
Oh really. We're by it again.
Good, it'll be for a while.
Not so good, though. can see shit.
Ah well, i'll feel it.

I'm burning.
Damn the crossing.
Thirsty.
Ah, that's easy, fool.
Ahahahahahah!
SO pure.
And sticky, damn it!
Ah well, does the job.

And down she comes.
Layer after layer after layer after layer.
Pouring, really, if it only could.
Alone, here.

Very alone.
think of something profound. this is a chance.
bliss.
her resting on the bench, curling up by the trees, swimming around me, tugging, poking, slapping.
I Love her.




must get to work.
resolve.
passion.
but hollow without her.
i can see her from the windows.
go then.
grin.

Thoughtful...

...for a change...

Serendipity that one hug too far.

Teachers

I met a woman long ago
her hair the black that black can go,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Soft she answered no.

I met a girl across the sea,
her hair the gold that gold can be,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Yes, but not for thee.

I met a man who lost his mind
in some lost place I had to find,
follow me the wise man said,
but he walked behind.

I walked into a hospital
where none was sick and none was well,
when at night the nurses left
I could not walk at all.

Morning came and then came noon,
dinner time a scalpel blade
lay beside my silver spoon.

Some girls wander by mistake
into the mess that scalpels make.
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to break.

One morning I woke up alone,
the hospital and the nurses gone.
Have I carved enough my Lord?
Child, you are a bone.

I ate and ate and ate,
no I did not miss a plate, well
How much do these suppers cost?
We'll take it out in hate.

I spent my hatred everyplace,
on every work on every face,
someone gave me wishes
and I wished for an embrace.

Several girls embraced me, then
I was embraced by men,
Is my passion perfect?
No, do it once again.

I was handsome I was strong,
I knew the words of every song.
Did my singing please you?
No, the words you sang were wrong.

Who is it whom I address,
who takes down what I confess?
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to rest.

Oh teachers are my lessons done?
I cannot do another one.
They laughed and laughed
and said, Well child,
are your lessons done?
are your lessons done?
are your lessons done?

©: Leonard Cohen - Teachers

Are my lessons done?

Rosalinda

"Ma oramai siamo tutti e tre grandi, possiamo rimboccarci le maniche perché noi tutti, a una certa età, siamo soprattutto figli di noi stessi. Il segreto è continuare a pensare ai propri amori e affetti come fossero piccoli, vederli bambini. Io mi ripropongo di farlo sia con i miei fratelli, sia col mondo intero per veder crescere una terra migliore di questa, che è fatta solo di adulti con dentro troppo cibo"

...

Depth, cueing.

Frothing sounds draw deep curtains:
thunder cues,
behind each flash of lightning.

Oh.

I put my head, heart and hands to Deadline today.
With success.
A-Hoy!

(Manifest)

"I want to call requests through heating-vents,
and hear them answered with a whispered, "no."
To crack the code of muscle, slacken, tense.
Let every second step in boots on snow
complete you name with accents I can't place,
that stumble where the syllables combine.
take depositions from a stranger's face.
paint every insignificance a sign.
so tell me nothing matters, less or more.
say, "whatever we think actions are,
we'll never know what anything was for."
if "near is just as far away as far,"
and I'm permitted one act I can save,
I choose to sit here next to you and wave."

©The Weakerthans

The Wind

"Oh The Wind, The Wind is blowing,
through the graves The Wind is blowing,
Freedom soon will come:
it will come from...
...the shadow..."

©: Leonard Cohen - The Partisan

How could, of all things, a Canadian chap accompany me down memory lane, to listen to my grandfather's stories about resistance once more, right when I go out with a German in the continent of the "liberators", escapes me.
Still, this is what happens.

And it's The Wind the reason why Leonard is so present here: today, this evening, tonight, a storm is brewing somewhere so far, so, so close.
Simple sound assonance, or more complex, deeper, significant echo?
The Wind, The Wind is blowing.
Searching, pulling, scratching, pushing, livening, itching, annoying. lifting, refreshing, tossing, spreading, beloved, mixing, changing, messy, electrifying, renewing, inspiring Wind.

-pause: rolling one, I think I could use it -

-re-pause: don't quite know if I could use it, to be honest, but I sure like it. -

Ninth floor: I can see it clearly, right in front of me, brewing energy, giving shape to lightning (what a feat that one is!), unloading the weight of countless sins.

And this is it: I walked it.
The path of criticism towards the very hand that just started feeding me.

No, more than feeding me: making me nearly supernatural to the unwary around me.
Lavish tips, abundant meals, smart looks, AFFORDABILITY.

And a puke.

Will I resist? Will I kindly oblige? Will I look for atonement? Will I relish the chance?

Will I?

One Great City!

Late afternoon, another day is nearly done
A darker gray is breaking through a lighter one
A thousand sharpened elbows in the underground
That hollow hurried sound, feet on polished floor
And in the dollar store, the clerk is closing up
And counting loonies trying not to say

I hate Winnipeg

The driver checks the mirror seven minutes late
The crowded riders' restlessness enunciates
The Guess Who sucked, the Jets were lousy anyway
The same route everyday
And in the turning lane
Someone’s stalled again
He’s talking to himself
And hears the price of gas repeat his phrase

I hate Winnipeg

And up above us all
Leaning into sky
Our golden business boy
Will watch the North End die
And sing, “I love this town”
Then let his arcing wrecking ball proclaim

I
Hate
Winnipeg

© :The Weakerthans

Hope to hate you soon enough, Winterpeg.

Coming back to Life

"Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
And where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun

Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And I headed straight...
into the shining sun"

© : Pink Floyd

A twist,
A sudden turn, in a very long, steady, hard-headed walk.
Years gone and lo!, a light finally shines.
Have this.
Uhhh, yeah. (and a moan, and a groan!)
Did I not tell you I was a middle-fond runner,
down deep, to my very core?
Planting the seeds as I ran ahead,
panting,
sweating,
feeling my body hurt.
No stopping it,
relentless going,
unwavering belief in poor
-indeed!-
means.
Seeds, I planted.
Only, seeds of a kind you didn't know of.
Thanks for your lack of belief in the planned (foolishness!) path,
for your defiance of my small self.
It would seem I survived you.
Scarred and somewhat disfigured may be,
but, as yet, untainted.
Uhhh yeah,
it'd seem I survived despite you.

The Drop

It ain't the gusts of wind whipping my face
that bother me.

It ain't the breakneck speed of the fall,
no chute to slow it down,
that occupy my mind.

Nor it is the knowledge there'll be a touchdown,
I am worried about.
It's the sheer cliff I fell from
(or I had been pushed from; or I stepped away from, myself)
I am longing for.

The sense of loss is not tamable,
and can't be fathomed.
The cuts,
deep,
to the very heart of me,
as only who shagged (shared with?) me for year upon year could,
and by -a deaf and blind- god would,
wound me.

The scars, older,
overlooked back then,
keep festering now:
scars?
Bleeding, infected wounds.

Doubts: a long, dark tunnel,
and no assurance of light shining at the end,
uncertainty that keeps tugging at me.

Yanks,
pulls,
pushes
and punches
keep me on my, very own, toes.

And it is I which looked for them:
new, unseen skies to test myself under.

Laying the blame worries me not.
What keeps me awake
is finding an answer,
to explain the sheer drop.


L.

The Show

The tent was well up, visible to everyone, why did I doubt a show was in order?

Chicken, first, or the egg?
Was the show for a reason, or there were reasons for the show?
Did it come from within, or from without, in other words?

One thing's for certain: what I evade during my waking hours isn't left behind.
It just sleeps.
Then to assault me when I lower my guard, be it willingly or else.

To puke, now, would surely be misunderstood.
Sure as hell, though, alcohol wouldn't be the reason.

Fuck you too, dear, fuck you too.

The binge

What now?
Being educated by composure?
Being taught moderation?
Being fucking annoyed over my own expressions of my very self?

I ain't sorry if it was discomforting.
I ain't sorry if it was too much for you.
I ain't sorry if i asked for comprehension, and got ways to be helped.

Did I, EVER, asked for any of those?
Your help disgusts me, your ways, your moderation bores me, your achievements are signs of painful mediocrity to me.
Ignorance, breeding preposterous solutions to problems you know nothing, nothing at all, about.

Reach, reach the fuck out.
Out of your limits, out of meaning, out of concern, out of reason, out of responsibility, out of thy, bloody, self.

Be, for once, and once only, fucking light!
Do, for once, enjoy.

I guess not.
Control, control, control.
But a heart-stroke and you're out.

Try control that, you twat.

For those about the whinge...

Hello!
Sun shines, Coffee's ready, a new day's dawned.
Wake the fuck up.
Or just keep sleeping.
It really makes no difference to me, just as long as you stop the bloody whinging, for the love of holy peace!

Lele

The Hours

Time.
Flowing like a river,
it gushes and spits,
it slows and steadies.

These, though,
these are THE hours.

Alone, me, myself and I,
Reasoning on the what ifs,
on the what if nots.

Thinking, hard, on the next move.

Guessing, no certainty in there,
what might be next to come,
if anything at all.

What to do?
What not to?
Where will i be in ten years' time,
if i chose this?
And what if i chose that?

It's way too easy to choose for the immediate.
It's the ripples through time
that scare me to no end.

No presumption of control,
And still (hence?) the fear.


Like throwing a rock down a mountain slope.
Irresponsible.
Still, what choice is ever left?

Blame me for my wakefulness.

L.

Light, Pt. II

Why are things colored?
There are three causes.
Repeated over and over,
in innumerable variety,
they create our colorful world.
Light is made in the yellow glow of a candle.
Light is lost when sunlight filters through stained glass.
Light is moved when the sky turns into a crimson sunset.

The king - P. II

Wish I may
Wish I might
Have this I wish tonight
Are you satisfied?
Dig for gold
Dig for fame
You dig to make your name
Are you pacified?

All the wants you waste
All the things you've chased

Then it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there's no one around

Just want one more thing
Just to play the king
But the castle's crumbled
And you're left with just a name

Where's your crown, King Nothing?

I wish I may
I wish I might
Have this wish I wish tonight
I want that star
I want it now
I want it all and I don't care how

Careful what you wish
Careful what you say
Careful what you wish
You may regret it
Careful what you wish
You just might get it

Then it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there's no one around

Just want one more thing
Just to play the king
But the castle's crumbled
And you're left with just a name

Where's your crown, King Nothing?

The king

What makes one?

The richnesses?
A kingdom?
Winning wars?
Neither.

The disposable postulants!

Hence the continuous, discomposed, scraping for more.

So, so, so sad.

Silly me, thinking it might have been anything but.

Let there be Light!

Lights,
small,
cute,
bendable,
twistable,
strong,
weak,
directional,
diffuse,
and whatevernot.


Not a fart of one
that may light
my way.

Bloody hell.

manichèo

"agg., s.m.
1 agg. TS st.relig., relativo al manicheismo: dualismo m., scrittura manichea | agg., s.m., seguace del manicheismo
2 agg., s.m. CO estens., che, chi considera la realtà come dipendente dall'azione di due principi o enti opposti, tra cui esiste un contrasto insanabile."

Now, now, come now.
Is it really all in here?
Or is it just a comfortable simplification?
How could someone like this be ever curious,
enjoy anything but himself,
appreciate life, its flavours,
its colourful differences?

Me, I've got me shitloads of limits,
but for the love of peace,
don't ever fucking dare
belittle me so.

I viali della vita

Londra, tarda sera, anno duemilaquattro.

Una donna parla con un'altra al telefono.
"Lei? Quella al matrimonio? La tettona? Ma certo che la ricordo!"
Si gira verso di me ed il mio amico, lui un pelo piu' stranito di quanto non lo sia io. La chiamata la sta effettuando dal suo telefono. "Eh oh, ha davvero delle tette ENORMI, come volete che la chiami?" Un battito di ciglia, ed e' di nuovo impegnata al telefono. "Oooooh si! Quel tipo. Matrimonio, anche lui. Quello fico, si?" Ora tocca al marito d'infilare la testa, appena preoccupato, nella camera da letto dove siamo seduti. "Tranquillo, caro, Mi sta raccontando del matrimonio", gli fa, con la manina flaccida a segnalare scampato pericolo. Gli occhi di lui si alzano al cielo, in finta disperazione."Ah, le donne e la cazzo di Coronation Street", per poi tornare alla gravissima discussione tenuta appena al di fuori della porta. "Insomma" chiede la donna all'altra "Se lo scopa? Ma dai? Ma no! Aaaah. Beh, allora va bene!" per poi girarsi verso di noi, mezza mano sulla cornetta "Beh, lui ha avuto bisogno di un pochino di pratiche persuasive. Non molte, non preoccupatevi. E' che e' giovane...".
Ma certo, noi proprio preoccupati non eravamo.
O meglio, IO non lo ero.
Non era il mio telefono quello da cui stava chiamando Baghdad.
Era il suo.

La speranza

"La speranza e' aver fiducia nelle curve."

Don Ciotti

The avenues of Life.

London, late evening, year twothousandandfour.

A woman talking to another woman over the phone.
"Her? That one at the wedding? The booby one? 'Course I remember her!"
She turns towards me and my friend, him more bewildered than me. It's his phone she's making the call from. "Well, she has REALLY big boobs. What else can i say?" The blink of an eye and she's back at it. "Oooooh yes! That guy. Wedding as well. Handsome one, yes?" Now it's the turn of her husband to pop a slightly worried head into the bedroom where we all are sitting. "it's allright, dear, she's telling me about the wedding" she waves to him. His eyes roll in mocking despair."Ah, women and the damn Coronation Street" and he goes back to the very serious talks held just outside the door.
"So" asks the woman to the other woman "Is she shagging him? Oh did he? No way! Aaaah. Well this is good then!" and she turns to us, half a hand on the receiver "He needed some persuading. Not much, mind you. But he's young...".
Of course, we didn't mind.
Or, well, I didn't.
It wasn't my mobile she was calling Baghdad from.
It was his.

Da qualche parte si dovra' incominciare...

Eccoci.
Nuovo blog, nuova vita (2.95 euri scontata. made in china.).

Potrei scrivere un sacco di scemate, credo pero' mi limitero' ad un saluto di molto canonico e per nulla divertente.

Work beckons, so I'd better get at it...

Lele