Nov 25, 2014


I planned to write about the days in which I took the photos I posted last time, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I can't do a lot of things lately. As for this post. I know where I am starting, but I have not idea where the words will lead me. If they will lead me somewhere.

The first time I met her, or what I remember as the first time, it was at our brothers' scout group’s carnival party. I was 5 and she was 7. The only costumes I remember were that of the boy dressed as a soldier without an arm (that’s probably why I can still picture him in my mind) and hers. She had black pants and a black t-shirt, many little ponytails with some glittering (very 90s) colors on her blond hair. She had a choker too. Until today, I have no idea what she was supposed to be. We didn’t say a word to each other.
The second time we had been relegated to the bottom of the 7 seats car my parents had back then. We were going to pick up our brothers at the summer camp. I spent the trip looking out of the window on the left, thinking at something to tell her, sure that she thought that I was too little to be worth any attention. She spent the trip looking out of the window on the right. At that point, she was 8 and my 6th birthday was only a couple days away. Again, we didn’t say a word to each other. 

I’d like to remember when that clicked. But I don’t. Our brothers were best friends and our mothers were best friends. Our fathers worked a lot, but when they were together they get along fine. However, don’t think that was just a matter of time, that we had no other choice but become friends. No one forced us to play together, no one even told us to play together. But one day, we started. And with her I had the most creative years of my life. We invented songs, dances, theatrical productions (and what's better than elementary school kids' theatrical productions?). We sewed cloths for our dolls. We created entire words and galaxies. 
They moved in my hometown when I was 5 and came back to theirs the summer I became 8. We had been friends for less than two years, but the presence of the blond, weirdly dressed girl I met that first day and of her family never really left my home. 
After that, we visited them twice, once in the summer and once in January. That last time, I cried and made a scene because I didn’t want to leave (and I wasn't the kind that makes a scene). I was afraid that I will never see them again. 

Nov 15, 2014

Oct 20, 2014

Star comes cold but I've been told I was born to endure this kind of weather.

I spent the weekend in Bologna, where my friend/former housemate Mela lives and studies now. Arrived on Friday afternoon, we walked around the center, wondered in three bookshops (where I found the Italian translation of Not that kind of girl by Lena Dunham), had a drink after dinner. Mela bring me to see what is probably her favorite place in the city, Piazza Santo Stefano o Piazza delle sette chiese (Square of the Seven Churches).
On Saturday we went to the Ikea because her housemate and her really needed few things and in the evening we went to eat a (very very good) pizza in a pub, where a bunch of different people who didn't know each other joined us.
Finally, on Sunday, after few hours of sleep, Mela and I had breakfast in the main street and walked a little more around the city before a plate of pasta and the train that bring me back home. 
I didn't take many photos, in those three days, I didn't feel like it. Most of the following pics are taken with my phone, because even if I wasn't in the right mood and even if I don't love Bologna, it's a very beautiful city, with gorgeous corners and details that deserve to be noticed.  

(not my beer, I don't drink alcohol)

Mela and her housemate live in this pretty tiny apartment close to the city center. The bulding is beautiful. The colors and the shapes. It seems more a set of a film than a real place.

Bye bye Bologna, see you soon.

Oct 12, 2014

Fragments of letters. 4

Things are going shitty these days and I recently read a series of books that have been made me miss you after a long time and last night I started to write the umpteenth absurd letter to which I know you would not answer and I keep thinking about how there are almost endless ways to communicate now but there is no one with which I can communicate with you even if I just want to say Hi.

Oct 5, 2014

Fragments of letters. 3

Being home is hard. I am afraid to stay here the whole year. I left my apartment ‘cause pay the rent and the bills of a place I don’t need anymore would have been a waste, but now I’m missing it. Not only the apartment itself, obviously, but the life I had there. The summer has not been that difficult. I am always home for the summer and I had to study. But now I’m starting to feel the weight of being home. In a week the courses will start and I will be here. 
Every morning I start the day angry at my mother. As soon as she hears that I am awake she prepares me a mug of tea. It’s a sweet thing, I know. But I am perfectly capable of doing it myself and mostly I like to do it myself. I like to prepare my tea the way I like it. I can’t tell her, of course, so every morning I swallow irritation with tea and a couple of biscuits. And this is just one thing. I hate the interrogation every time I go out (by the way, my brother never had one of those, not even when he was a teenager). I have to text her when I am arrived wherever I am going and when I come back home. She controls what I eat and what I don’t eat. I always had a lot of freedom. My parents never told me no, you can’t go there, you can’t do that. And I am very thankful for that. But my mother’s surveillance… It was too much before, now it’s worse. I don’t even know how to explain it. She has the best intentions, I know, but I get why my brothers is mad so frequently. If she hears a noise too loud, she immediately asks you what was it. She checks what I wear all the time and if I have something different from what she thinks I should wear (as she has a said in it), she begins to nag me until I hate the clothes I have on. At that point I had two options: give up or go out with what I choose anyway, being conscious all the time of my clothes and what it is wrong with them. And she and my brother always talk about the same things, most of the time I repeats the same answers without even pay attention. I am feeling terrible guilty, writing this things, but every other day I find myself mentally scrolling the list of all the things that irritate me. I had to bring them out at some point, or I would have exploded soon. 
But what scares me the most is the mental place I am every time I stay home for a while. It's like all the energy is sucked up by this house, this village, this whole region. There are things I want to write but can't force myself to put down anything. What scares me the most is that the more I am here, the more I find hard to get out. 

I feel lonely. It is certain not a new feeling for me, but after the last couple of months in Forlì, weeks so vivid that seem more than a dream than reality to me, I now feel... Blank. [...] I keep waiting for things from people I know that won't give me them, and this makes me a little more bitter every time. I promised myself to stay away from who only hurts me, but it's not an easy promise to keep. 

Sep 30, 2014

That time I did not speak.

- The color you like the most tells something about you,
he says.
- And the colors you wear influence the way you feel.
- I usually wear blue,
she tried.
- Yes, I usually wear blue.
- If your color is blue you are sincere and honest and a good worker.
he says.
She asks
- And green?
His hoodie is like a ripe lime. 
- Green is the color of the heart, of love,
he says pounding lightly the right hand on his chest.
One, two, three times.
- Not red?
- Oh no.
He seems to have been waiting the question all his life.
- No, red is being attached to the earth, to the ground. To your roots. Actually, orange is the passion, the sex.
I don’t know if any of this is true.
All I know is that I want to believe every word he says.
I stay silence.
But inside I am thinking
“I longing the color of the light itself.
That pink gold of the early hours of the day.
When the house is quite and everyone is still sleeping and the rays coming from the window draw a world you think you know since childhood but you don't. 
What does this say about me?"

Sep 28, 2014

Hush, I said there's more to life than rush.

I just spent two days in Forlì for Ivano's graduation (yep, another one of these).
Friday has been a full and especially long day, but I was very happy to be back, even if only for that short time, I needed it. I missed the conversation I used to have there. 
I can hardly stop talking.
In the evening Mela dyed Ivano's hair purple, the color of our faculty, 
 And at night, a cold cold night, we celebrated a little more.
After few and troubled hours of sleep (thanks to Mattia who hosted Mela and me for the night), we had breakfast all together and I came back home, back to my bed, which I don't plan to leave soon.
Few mornings pics at Mattia's place
 Ivano's new hair at the sunlight.