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

Hi.
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.

Sep 17, 2014

Fragments of letters. 2

Today the sun shines out of my bedroom window. I cannot see it, but it's reflected on the leaves of the fence that has grown, that never ceases to grow, and that divides my house from the hotel's pool. Each leaf a ray. They sky is blue. A blue that comes straight from the case with all the marker pens I used to have as a child. But don't be fooled. It's cold. A sky like this only come with the most biting of the winds.

I say this so often that it doesn't have sense anymore I guess, but I'm not in a very good place right now. I don't know why. Simply I am not. I did two exams, they went very well by the way, and I should have studied for the third and last of this session, but I couldn't. I can't concentrate. After less than two pages the sight blurs, the voice cracks, and I just left to close the book with a snap of frustration. So I decided to not do this exam and come home until the beginning of the last semester, ten days from now.

C's birthday is coming. 5 days. I'd like to be strong enough to know that I won't write her. Ever again. I wish to know what is the right thing to do. I think at her less and less, but every once in a while something happens, someone says a thing, and she is the first person that come in my mind. And here, at home, is harder. It always is. 

Every morning, opening the shutter of my window to let in the light (since the light bulb has burned out weeks ago and there is no hope that it will be changed soon), every morning looking out of my window, I see hers. I would ask myself whether she is here or at university, but thanks to/because of Facebook, I know she is here

I didn't write for a while. Not to you, in general. Write, for me, means to dig deep, and I didn't feel like it. This is the reason for all these broken sentences, for this incoherent little paragraphs. I need to adjust myself to the white screen again, and to the black thin letters. They are like little animals. I am their God. I can decide what to do with them, I can create them and destroy them, they are completely under my control. Since I'll send them to you. Then they stopped to be mine and become yours. Or maybe ours. I haven't figure out that yet.

Sep 15, 2014

Fragments of letters. 1

July - I’m writing this sitting (literally) on my desk. Mine only for another week. I’ve never sit here. It has always been too full of stuff. But there is nothing now, nothing but a little mirror, my perfume bottle and few make up tools. A red lipstick, pale powder and a brush. I was in front of this window, few months ago. It is chill now too, cooler than an average July night. But of course, last time I had my cape/purple blanket on, now I’m wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. The old man of the opposite bulding, as always, is watching the tv, an action movie, and I can catch almost every word of it. No drunk guy. It isn’t green, this time. The night. The scent. It has the same color of my lipstick. It is asking for more, it is wishing for more. A friend send me an italian song I didn’t know before. It says something like “I began to dream with them, then the soul suddenly flew up. As a boy, you spy the kids playing and you get the urge to go out and try what you are missing, running on the grass, and you keep wanting more, and keep thinking how the hell do they catch their breath.” 

I’m reading some light contemporary novel set in LA and I miss you. My friend. 


This is being a strange summer. It’s extremely hot for a week, suffocating, and then suddenly everything becomes gray for another one. The sky, the light, the skin. And it rains, but not really, just few drops at a time. Few drops now, few drops who knows when. And in the meantime, you stand still, watching this gray sky, hoping he pours out everything once and for all. But it's like when you want to consolate a friend, and understand that he is not in the right mood to be consoled. And then, you wake up, or in the middle of the day, for chance, your gaze wonders out of the window, and you see a blue soft and sharp at the same time and every object has a new depth and every outline a new definition. It doesn’t last long, a day, maybe two. My mom loves to go to the beach, in those rare days. But for me, they are the ones in which the urge to see something else, to be somewhere else, grows and grows until it fills every corner of what I am. And so, I imagine to live in a tiny apartment in Amsterdam, where I’ve never been but for some reason seems a good place to stay. I would buy a bike, but I wouldn’t use it at start, an unknown city can be a little scary. But it wouldn’t last long, the fear.