Category: JOURNAL

In A Bit

JOURNAL, PERSPECTIVES May 29, 2019

For days, I’ve been asking for a sign to my future self

hoping my teeth won’t get stained for the coffee, for the ash, for the gin .

Here’s to thoughts thought halfway

that never seem to let me decide when to go right and when to go left

at the crossroad I want to take the wrong way.

And all I want to do is be still before making the wrong choice

And all I end up doing is look for the answer at the bottom of this glass

hoping things will fall all into place

filled with rocks that are never big enough to hide me.

And I never said I was good at giving advice

but I’ll be waiting there,

Upwind

Da giorni chiedo un segno alla me del futuro

E spero che i denti non si macchino di caffè

Di cenere

Di gin

Un brindisi ai pensieri fatti a metà

Che non mi lasciano scegliere fra destra o sinistra

Al bivio che vorrei prendere contromano

E tutto quello che vorrei fare è mettere tutto in pausa prima di fare la scelta sbagliata

Che sono i guai che vorrei fare 

E tutto quello che faccio è cercare le risposte nel fondo del bicchiere che mi da la risposta sbagliata che sei tu

E ne finisco un altro sperando in un’altra risposta

E lo riempio di rocce che non sono mai grandi abbastanza da nascondermi

E non ho mai detto di essere brava a dare consigli

ma forse una parte di me ti aspetterà sempre lì 

dove non ci raggiungeremo mai

Controvento

I wanted to Be a Radio Presenter

JOURNAL May 13, 2019

While in the car with my brother driving for halves of hours,

I remembered of a collection of words I locked in my bedside table years ago and thought I’d turn that collection into a radio programme called :

“The Halves of Hours of Silence in the Car”

 One of those pieces goes like this.

Luckily, the radio program was just a thought, and nothing will come of it

Or else imagine the boredom of a program about twenty-year-old thoughts on the sound on changing gears and sneezes.

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Mentre me ne stavo in macchina e mio fratello guidava e guidava

per delle mezzore, mi sono ricordata di una collezione di parole

che tenevo nascosta nella scrivania

e pensavo di farne un programma alla radio che avrei poi chiamato:

Le Mezz’ore di Lunghi Silenzi in Macchina.

Ho trovato un pezzo che fa più o meno cosí:

Per fortuna non se n’è fatto nulla

o sai che noia un programma alla radio che parla di pensieri ventenni

sul rumore delle marce che cambiano e starnuti.

How to Fold

JOURNAL, PERSPECTIVES May 2, 2019

Ever since I was a tiny human,

I wanted to learn how to fly before how to stay afloat,

that instead of balancing on a bike I wanted to drive for miles,

That if I could, I would fold all things like t-shirts and put them

in two boxes,

one for the neutral tones

and the other one a cliff.

And that one time that I dragged my lazy bones to therapy,

I left forty-five minutes earlier,

with an emptier wallet and my collection of uncertainties still impact

as if they were my groceries list.

Because in my head,

there will always be somewhere nicer, a warmer sky, longer sunsets.

But instead of disrupting my sleep mapping a way to that happy island,

in a place where you can’t afford the luxury of sadness,

I learnt a way to stop self-sabotaging the ship that I am.

È da quando ero un piccolo uomo che prima di imparare a galleggiare volevo saper volare,

Che prima di stare in equilibrio sulla bici volevo guidare per chilometri,

Che se potessi piegherei tutto come camicie due scatoloni,

Uno per i colori neutri

L’altro un dirupo.

Un’unica volta sono riuscita a trascinarmi in terapia,

ne sono uscita con 45 minuti di anticipo, meno soldi nel portafoglio

e ancora la mia lista di incertezze

come se dovessi farne la spesa.

Che nella mia testa ci saranno sempre un posto migliore,

un cielo più tiepido, dei tramonti più lunghi

Ma invece di pensare ad un modo di andarmela a prendere,

quell’isola felice,

in un mondo in cui non ci si può permettere il lusso di essere tristi,

Imparo come smettere di sabotare la barca che sono.

australia

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL March 1, 2019

Months of marble and silk

Warm bread and instant coffee

Nights in dorms sharing your sleep with strangers and tangling dreams

Ideas like ash on the balcony, talking about nothing and about it all

And long sunsets

The money running low and the wine at the end of the day

The planes we almost missed

The skin almost sunburnt

Tired feet and eyes filled

But most of all

These months have been a full heart.

Mesi di marmo e di seta

Pane caldo e caffe istantaneo

Notti in camerate a dividere il sonno con sconosciuti e sogni intrecciati

Idee come cenere sulla terrazza dove si parlava del niente,

dove si parlava un po’ del tutto

E lunghi tramonti

I soldi contati e il vino a fine giornata

Gli aerei quasi persi

La pelle quasi bruciata

I piedi stanchi e gli occhi pieni

Ma soprattutto

Questi mesi

Sono stati cuore che si riempiva.

Found At Sea

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL November 21, 2018

Spend a minute remembering the baptised golden days,

deep-fried in melancholy when all you can remember of them are all nicest details rather than the rollercoaster they’ve been,

 

raise a glass in memory of all the minutes spent fantasising seasons to come,

fingers crossed they’ll be brighter, softer, fuller.

 

Pour the flour on a plain surface, create a hole in the middle,

bung in water,

the hope that all things will work out

and the pinch of indulgence of the small hours spent on a rooftop to catch the first light of the day while the music is still playing in your ears.

 

 

All in all, adulting can be quite an entertaining thing to do

to kill time

between a Sunday morning spent at the cafe down the road

and the next improvised change of plans.

 

 

 

So I tie this old pair of sneakers

and walk home through this muddy path,

to the sound of the ocean,

 

 

and fall asleep to the idea that you can feel at home

when lost at sea.

 

 

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Passa un minuto a ricordare i giorni che battezzi d’oro,

ben conditi con sorrisi melanconici di cui riesci a ricamare soltanto i dettagli più dolci invece delle montagne russe che sono stati.

 

Alziamo i calici in onore dei minuti trascorsi a fantasticare le stagioni a venire, tenendo le dita incrociate che siano più leggere, rotonde.

 

Quindi spargi la farina su un piano di lavoro pulito, crea un buco al centro,

unisci acqua, lo sperare che tutto vada bene e un pizzico di abbandono alle ore piccole su un tetto qualsiasi a vedere il sole che si sveglia mentre la musica ancora fischia nelle orecchie.

 

Che alla fine dei conti, diventare grandi non è poi tanto male come passatempo fra una domenica mattina al caffe’ all’angolo e il prossimo cambio di scena.

 

Scivolo in questo vecchio paio di scarpe e cammino lungo questo sentiero di fango sulla voce dell’oceano e mi addormento all’idea

che a forza di sentirsi persi,

si finisce col trovare la via di casa.

 

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Not What I Wanted, But Butter

JOURNAL November 5, 2018

On Sunday,

I thought I’d give myself a shot at baking.

 

I walked the isles of the supermarket,

bought all the ingredients,

went home and followed the recipe.

 

Step. By. Step.

 

 

The result was

– for the umpteenth time -,

a burnt mess.

 

 

But this taught me a life lesson

and I won’t barter a precious life lesson

for a well-baked banana chocolate muffin.

 

 

And the lesson learnt is that even when you follow rules,

that doesn’t always take you where you wanted to get.

 

 

 

Some may call it laziness of buying a balance like grown-ups do,

some others inability of complying with the suggested grams of sugar,

 

 

me, I just call it serendipity.

 

 

 

Because things may not always be what I was hoping for,

 

 

but better.

 

 

 

 

By the way,

my muffins sucked.

 

 

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City

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL September 7, 2018

After 10 weeks,

Max and me decided to leave the tropics and move back to the city.

 

The rhythm is faster,

the noises louder,

the people different.

 

 

We found a place in Surry Hills

– little residential corner just below where the skyscrapers and the bus lanes collide.

 

 

There’s a supermarket down the road where I stop by in the morning

                                                                                     to get almond croissants,

 

a park with a rugby pitch in the middle

and a bottle shop a few steps away.

 

 

There’s no heating, the fridge is often empty and the stairs are steep,

      but it feels good to have a place to call home.

 

 

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This island I call home

JOURNAL August 15, 2018

After three months on this island I call home,

I see how lightheartedly I left home and all things I could trace by heart under my fingertips,

landed on the other side of the world to untangle my collection of knots,

and gave myself a one-year-long break from growing up, snoozing alarms and expensive pilates classes.

 

 

I’ve finally realised that you don’t need to have it all figured out yet,

that if you want to go from A to B, you don’t necessarily have to go through the paved path, that it’s o.k. to stumble into wrong jobs,

long-term hostel stays

and people who won’t stick around.

 

 

 

So here’s to another handful of months of temporary jobs, cereals for dinner and

late nights spent booking flights.

 

Here’s to giving myself another shot to prove myself wrong,

because maybe,

after all,

not all things are meant to be the way you were taught. 

 

Because maybe,

after all,

you can change the flow of your days and find your way to reach point B

whatever,

wherever,

whoever

that is.

 

 

 

It can be fun letting go of right and wrong, a stable income and a balanced diet,

and trust your guts.

 

 

You may end up in the right place

 

at the right time.

 

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10 Days In

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL May 16, 2018

Moving to Australia is definitely one of the most bat-shit crazy ideas

I’ve ever had the guts to follow.

10 days in,

I’m still living in a hostel,

picking the combination of clothes out of the suitcase sitting in the corner of this room,

while the girl sleeping on the bottom bed is still in her dress from yesterday’s night

and the 40-year-old man is half drunk from his unplanned pub crawl.

And despite the air chilling my bones,

the $12 for a drink and still getting lost around these streets,

the thought of being on the other side of the world doesn’t feel so scary

if you find your bunch of people to talk to on a balcony,

all things light like how you like your tea or if it’s okay to wear slippers to go out, tv series and learning to find your balance.

So here I find myself,

leaving the thought that flying halfway across the world wasn’t a matter of stubbornness,

but the evolution of me turning into me,

scratches

and bad habits

and tattoos

and questionable taste in late night music altogether.

10 days in and I can’t say I feel at home,

but a step closer to how I’ve always liked to things to be.

It’s mad how comfortable you can feel around people you’ve only shared

a handful of days with.

 

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Friends will be Friends

JOURNAL April 30, 2018

I don’t know with mathematic certainty

or fortune-teller’s accuracy

when this need for popping the bubble I’ve been living in started

 

– indomitable thought that there’s something more, out there,

something different from the mould I’ve known.

 

 

But for some combination of inexplicable reasons I can’t call by a name

and these selfish dreams of mine,

stubbornly stuck in the upsidedown way I see the world,

like a messy succession of impulsive moves and the inevitable coming to familiar conclusions and tastes.

 

 

But I often found myself piling up thoughts and locking them

in a drawer I’d forget about,

opting for the usual jeans, the usual sentences that don’t let show

that perpetual veil of days with no risks, but forever lacking a bit of salt.

 

 

Fuck it to the stillness of the flow,

time diluted in lukewarm relationships and orgasms let halfway,

articulated in grey skies and mid-season jackets.

 

 

So I bought that plane ticket I was terrified to buy.

And I came to the conclusion that maybe it’s hard for me to buy the idea that I deserve better than this foreplay games I’ve been playing

to keep me distracted

and my days filled.

 

That maybe there’s more than days lacking salt and common places.

That maybe it’s not too bad to fall into the mud of If’s and But’s.

That maybe this mould of life without unexpected turns and tough lessons isn’t as bad as I’ve pictured it.

 

 

And so I took a run,

and started to believe that maybe the emptiness under my feet when the sea gets deep isn’t that scary if you turn it upside down.

If I think that not knowing what’s waiting for me out there, where others haven’t swum so far, can be the best gift I could give myself.

 

 

So here I find myself,

laying for the last night in my bed

– knowing by heart the voice I make when I cry

and the way I sing when nobody’s listening.

 

Ready to take a deep breath and see it by myself,

what the hell is waiting for me there where my eyes can’t see.

 

The things that scare me the most are also the things that make me the happiest.

 

Who knows what’s hiding where people don’t have the guts to swim,

where some don’t find the heart to come back from.

 

 

Europe’s been the perfect playground,

Australia I’m coming for you.

 

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