Apr 20, 2014

Not of only objects a collection is made.

I've always been one who collects things. All the 50 books of the same collection when I was seven, the articles about Harry Potter when the first film of the series came out, the tickets of those Saturday nights with my father at the cinema during the middle school. But the collection I care more about it's different. It can not be hold in an hand. It can not be read, or browsed. I can't hang it up on my bedroom's walls or order it in a binder. Because I collect memories, my mother's memories.

I don't know much of her childhood and adolescence. I know she was born in a town in southern Italy where we return sometimes to visit my grandmother's siblings and their families, and that after a while she moved to the village where we still live. I know she married three months before her twentieth birthday and everyone thought it was because she was pregnant, but my brother arrived only two years later. She doesn't like to talk about her past, not with me at least. Yet, every now and then, she lets slip a memory. She doesn't know that, but I collect them, all those words escaped in a moment of nostalgia. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I find myself repeating them inside me, one after the other. Sometimes I arrange them in what I think is the exact chronological order.

When on holiday with the camper one of their cats got lost and her mother found him a year later in the same place.
When a teacher liked one of her essays so much that forced her to read it in front of the classmates and in front of the kids of the fifth grade, her brother's class, and she was very embarrassed.
That at school she never raised her hand, even when she knew the right answer.
The rag doll she sewed on her own.
When at 13 years old she cut her long long braid and her father didn't speak to her for three weeks.
When her father cut his red long bear and she didn’t recognize him.
That she used to go from her house to the center and back walking, in the same place where now there are only buildings, collecting seeds and herbs.
When she took her father's and brother's old trousers and adjusted them for herself.
That when her mother cooked steaks she prepared for herself omelette and vegetables.
When in high school she used to skive off school and spend the mornings around the city with a friend.
That she became friend with the doorman to enter the disco free.

Other times, I see all these scenes in front of me, as I were watching a Sofia Coppola's film. I see her sullen expression even on her sixth birthday, as in one of the black and white photos I found in a box. I see her dressed as a Chinese girl in the costume that she sewed for Carnival at 12 years old with the parasol we still have, somewhere. I see her walking on a field with her light brown hair, dyed blond since two decades now, slightly moved by the wind, her hands on the top of the tall plants around there. I see her dancing with her eyes closed in a large crowded room on a Spandau Ballet' song (she preferred them to the Duran Duran, I know that too).

All those memories, all those moments that have never been my memories, form the most important collection I have.

Apr 18, 2014

The terrible 3

This is gonna be just a tiny post (because it doesn't matter if I'm home and it's Easter holiday, I have a lot to study and read).

Today, it's the 3rd year anniversary of this little blog of mine.
Three years.
I had other blogs before, but they never last long.

Three years ago I was writing the thesis for my high school diploma about the role of photography. I decided for a presentation in stop motion (with the help of my friend A) and meant to share some parts with you, but never did.

The title: Troppa luce brucia il negativo (too much light burns the negative). I liked the sound of it. And this is how it became the name of my blog.

Now three years have passed. This little personal space has not became a big thing, for sure, but I'm proud of it. I shared and learnt and discovered so much (and my English has improved, I hope!)

Thank you. Thanks to you who are reading this, to everyone who follows me and leave comments. Thank you all. 

ps. I have some works in progress. Who know when I'll be able to finish them.

Apr 9, 2014

11 - Blue is the warmest color by Julie Maroh

Clementine is an average 15 years old girl: family, school, friends, a boyfriend.
But something changes when a girl seen one day on the street, with blue hair and eyes of the same color, invades her dreams night after night. During an evening out with her openly gay best friend, Clementine enters in a lesbian bar and bumps into Emma, the older art student with blue hair who had populated her fantasies for months.

The attraction is immediate and electric.
But Blue is the warmest color is not only a love story. Is a story of shame, denial, anger, insecurity. In a world full of prejudices, live their relationship will test Clementine's parents and friends and, mostly, her own ideas about her identity.

Apr 6, 2014


The week ends as it began. Slow day. Mood swings.
I open the window and turn up the volume. So that someone can hear the songs of my playlist and think I have a good taste in music. But perhaps the traffic noise is too loud.

At the door, welcomed us the same guy who had invited us. Which, as he said us immediately, doesn't live there but acts anyway as the landlord. There were still few people and we finally met the four who actually live there. Obviously, we didn't need much to confuse names and faces. The alcohol present was not the best, according to my housemates at least, but that hasn't stop Mela from drinking a little. 
And the evening past. My hair still smell of smoke.
Ila was tired, so she went to bed earlier, while Mela and I staid for another hour and then, once back to our floor, we spent another one talking on her bed. She kept saying that we should organize something in our apartment and invite them. The only thing I could think of, however, was how much I can be inept in social interactions, specially on a night like that. What makes me uncomfortable is that I become suddenly and extremely conscious of my body, of every breath, every inch, every single moment. How much space I occupy, the position of the shoulders, my sullen mouth, the excessive smiles for jokes that aren't that funny, the breast highlighted (as if it was needed) by the shirt put on the short jeans.

Open the window in the morning and find a sky as dark as the room in which I spent the last hour fantasize about a guy I've never met at a party I've never been. It's not raining right now, but any moment could be the right one. This is what happens when, for the first time in years, I allow myself to sit in the sun for a few hours. I don't know how this night will be. The idea makes me nervous.
Since yesterday afternoon none of us say anything. But Mela came home with a bottle of rum (-Why rum?- I asked. A shrug -I don't know-). So I guess we'll go. I'm  not good in this kind of things. Find myself in a living room full of people I don't know, I mean.
Ila pulls out a dress from one of the mountains of cloths, books and who know what else that multiply on and on in her room, and then she changes it with another one, even if she had said -Not the green one, it's too short, they can see everything.- Mela is in jeans and t-shirt, as usual, straight hair and a bit of lip gloss that will soon remain on the edge of a plastic cup. I wear the high waisted denim short, gray tights, the new black shoes and a soft black and white shirt from H&M. Red dark lipstick. -It's too much,- Mela says. But if I have to sit in a corner in discomfort I rather do it with my lipstick on.
A doubt assails me. -Are we sure that they wanted to invite us? Is it not that they just wanted to inform us of the party?- The true is that I heard almost nothing of what the tall guy said. Ila reassures me. So we spend an hour in Mela's room, chatting, waiting to ear enough confusion downstairs. Around 10.45 we go. And as I close the door behind me, I would go back inside.

Mela and I just go back from a class and Ila too. Five minutes and someone knocks on our door. It doesn't happen often, you have to be already inside the building to get to us. Next to the door there is a button with a small bell drawn on it. If you press it, anything sound, but the light bulbs of the stairs light up. So, the only way is knocking. But I don't ear the blows, nor Mela, despite our rooms are near the entrance. The noise of the street out of our windows is too loud and I'm already undressing. I have the shorts on the ground and the shirt half unbuttoned, Hopeless Wanderer slightly too high, when I hear Ila asks -Who is it?-
-Hi! Tomorrow night we will have a party downstairs and...-
-Girls! Come here!- Ila calls us.
For a moment I think to stay in my room, but then, with the time to make myself presentable and tying my hair, I go, joining Ila and Mela who has preceded me. A tall boy, with a big smile that makes me uncomfortable, occupies almost the entire doorway. -We told her,- he is saying, referring, I suppose, to the old lady who live on the ground floor. -She said that until 4 we can do whatever we want.- "Yeah, right..." I think. There is another guy, sitting on the railing that will be an inch and a half thick and overlooks the vacuum of the stairs. As I speak, some useless comment I forget the second it leave my mouth, a third appeared from the right, looks me straight in the face and tells -Hi!- before disappearing again, so fast I cannot make out the features of his face. The tall one continues to speak, but I got distracted and don't heard a word. -Ok,- replies Ila. -When we begin to ear the noise we come.- We salute. The moment our neighbors go down the stairs and Ila closed the door we look each other and burst into silent laughters. 
-I know why they invited us,- Ila says. -The other day I passed in front of them and I heard comments about my ass. 
-If we go, we have to bring a bottle of something,- is Mela's only comment. 

Back on the balcony, back to the sun. But this time on the easy chair brought out from Mela. And a fresh breeze that wasn't here yesterday. If is true that I'm developing a sort of meteoropathy, I might as well store the light, now that there is some. I imagine rays filter through my skin, through layers and layers of stain and sadness and repressed and forgotten feelings, accumulated over years and years of passive aggressive life and hate. Eyes closed, music, warmth on my bare arms and legs and face. There is only me in the world right now. Now. In the world. Just me. Exist. The music is almost too loud in my ears, the sun almost too hot. 
But the ball bounced on the wall by one of the guys who live on the floor below brings me back to reality. 
On the upper part of my thighs the hair are blond, so light. So different from the ones that grow up on the rest of my body. So delicate.

On the balcony, notebook on my lap, music, legs in the sun. It's not the best among the suns, but mine are not the best among the legs, so it's ok. I don't remember the last time I staid voluntarily in the sun. Aside from Milan that time with F. But it was January and it was cold so it doesn't count.
My mood keeps jumping from on edge to the other. I'm thinking that I'm becoming meteoropathic.
If I press a leg against the other the heat on the skin becomes almost unbearable. And I'm happy with myself. Because the first thought I had was not the fear that no one will ever feel the same warmth on the same skin, but that I can feel it. I can feel. 

Slow day. This morning I was in high spirit, as a couple of days now. But then I lie on the bed a couple of minutes and I woke up pissed off. I'm tired. I can't stand this anymore. Go to sleep and don't know what mood I'll be next morning.

Mar 31, 2014

27 - Ten Women by Marcela Serrano

Nine women come together to share their stories at the invitation of their therapist on a sunny Sunday morning. Each with a different background, each with a fear, an insecurity, a past, a present, to live with.

Francisca who can not get away from the hate for a mother without love; the old and lonely Manè who dreamed of a career as great actress; Juana, with a sick mother and a depressed daughter on her shoulders; Simona, raised as a Catholic, converted to Communism; Layla, daughter of Palestinian emigrants; Luisa, widower of a desaparesido; Lupe, lesbian teenager; the successful journalist Andrea who takes refuge in the desert; Ana Rosa, in charge of her younger brother and of an empty life; and finally Natasha, the psychologist, and her own story.

Each chapter a tale. But don't make the mistake of considering them as separate monologues. It is a macrocosm, the female world, seen through micro and different lenses, each part of a whole which makes them complementary to each other.

Because the women are the hope of the world. This is the author's, the chilean writer Marcela Serrano, conviction. But their contribution will change the cultural ideals, in crises, only if they will develop a new way of thinking.

Mar 30, 2014

To blabber.

I'm almost at the end of the third year . I'm in Forlì since more two and a half. It seems to be since always and it seems to be since a moment. I'm almost at the end and they all tell me to "bite the bullet". I bite it for a long time, long enough to wake up with a headache. But now I forgot how to do it .

I feel good when I resist the temptation to write her. Bad when I can't.

Even though I'm studying for a midterm test and I should focus on that instead of wasting time (reading and watching TV series, just to give you a couple of examples), I took a look at the site of the master degree I'd like to do. And I wanted to cry. Perhaps it is because I'm close to my flow, and I always cry when it's almost time for it, or maybe because I don't think I will be accepted.
My mother says I have to think positive. I don't want to think positive. I wan't to be realistic. What's so wrong in being realistic?

Oh shit, I became one of those people who can talk only about school. Oh well, today it's like this.

Mar 17, 2014

Today is not worth it

Food isn’t enough anymore.
I eat it eat it eat it
and it disappears.
Somewhere between my mouth 
and my belly or so.
I ate it ate it hate it.

Sleeping is not enough.
Open the eyes in another
same lame late morning
and the bed is warm 
and outside is cold
and today is not worth it.

A shower is not enough.
All the water of the town
of the region of the country
of the world and of the universe
- if there is some, there -
can not wash away me.

The box I oblige myself in
for 10 minutes and all my life
is not enough, not anymore.
Passionate stubborn cold 
melancholic smart realistic
idealist lazy curious
are words and I’m not.

*writing during a particularly boring hour at university