Tag: find yourself

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.

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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No good at keeping secrets

JOURNAL April 23, 2018

And maybe one night

when the air starts to feel warmer

we’ll all end up with glasses of discounted wine in our hands, climbing stairs to a rooftop

and olive stones crumpled up in white napkins

 

 

Like our talks on getting your skin inked without planning it,

long road trips

and real good friends you won’t see in years

 

– too wide for our eye bags filled with sleep to redeem and money to buy our summers of getaways to talk about on those city rooftops.

 

 

And maybe we’ll all end up wandering with no deadline,

leaving the office filling our days to give them all a fil rouge to follow,

some sort of bad excuse to hold tight to when having breakfast on a weekend with people curious about your way of phrasing your purpose, now and here.

 

 

 

Here’s to train rides with the sun setting fire to the sky of an April morning,

a man playing with a game boy on the seat next to mine,

the quiet promise of a flight booked in the secrecy of the night – not a word with anyone but your circle of trust and some strangers met along the way of those last days in your mother town.

 

 

Here’s to flights to be on time for,

months of improvisation and watering yourself along the way – it’s important to keep your curiosity alive and your roots well tied.

 

 

Here’s to days passing by without making much noise,

without weighing your body changing with landscapes outside the window of a house that you’ll make home in a new neighbourhood,

to the people to let out and those who’ll swing by and to those who’ll stay a while longer,

even when the glasses are empty and the clothes stained

with the scars you tried to hide.

 

 

Here’s to the stories to weave in yours,

and arms to fit in,

without losing the fil rouge you’ve been searching for in this tangle of thoughts you crafted in those times spent pondering and getting all wrapped up into it,

 

letting that fucking fil rouge slip from your fingers

– because too cautious,

because too scared to seek what you deserve.

 

 

Here’s to coffee paid with coins weighing in the pocket of your jeans,

falling into tiny bad habits to use as icebreakers

in hostels in the outskirts of unknown cities,

 

to the nights alone and those spent tracing new shapes and skins and voices in the space of a caress,

to burn them onto your mind and carry with you along the way.

 

Here’s to another glass emptied in your lungs craving for some fresh air,

the one you’ve been trying to swab with stories in mid-air and uncultivated love stories.

 

 

 

Here I find myself,

with a ticket bought in the secrecy of a midweek night,

 

holding tight to the promise I made to my 18-year-old self  of trusting this fil rouge

found right where I knew I’d find it,

within me.

 

 

I can’t wait to go get what this crazy ass world has to offer.

 

 

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Throw me a Bone

JOURNAL March 30, 2018

A song I play quite often goes like this

” Throw me a bone,

Don’t be scared of what you don’t already know “

And I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it,

at first sight, it sounds like something trivial.

Over time and with all that’s come through in between,

well,

this doozy started to make a real nice sense.

And the sense it started to make has a pinch of melancholy within,

especially to someone like me –

who weighs words and commas and all the smallest details.

I’ve dreamt about this faraway land.

pictured it in the tiniest of details,

from the disposition of plants in the house

to how long it’d take me to get to the beach.

Stupid little things, you may think,

My happy places, I dream.

But for some reason, I don’t seem to grasp, that I don’t seem to baptize.

Here I am, still picturing it in its details,

this far away land,

repeating myself to sleep that maybe there’s no need to fly to the other side of this world to find myself at home,

to find my way to the balance I crave.

That it’s not the view from my window or the shades of the sand under my bare feet that’ll make me happier.

That what I need is already within me.

Some fucking where, flooded under these piles of freedom thoughts

and idealizations.

And so I distract myself with simple things

like weekend getaways,

restaurant dinners on Fridays

and subtle vices

– to swab this thirst of mine I don’t find the guts to shush

nor to water.

But then I think to myself that damn yes,

the view from my window and the smell of the ocean and the way to the beach and the shades of the sky, they all make a hell of a difference,

especially to someone like me who doesn’t want to give up wondering,

not even when the alarm goes off,

not even now I see I’m making some hell good paintings of these faraway dreamlands.

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Full breath, Dive deep

JOURNAL March 20, 2018

I find myself in this paradox of a day, between these canals

the sun making my eyes look ajar,

like sullenly,

 

drinking hot tea

and biting a good attempt of pastel de nata

the wind tangling my hair

 

on an early weekday.

 

And just like this,

I find myself with my legs crossed under a table too tiny for my uncoordinated manners

and I don’t have a clear picture

nor a draft of the path to go,

no sign suggesting whether to turn right or keep stumbling on those familiar errors

that my head doesn’t seem to let go.

 

I don’t have a clue about where I’ll be

or how I’ll fill those hours between goodnight kisses and a quiet breakfast before the house awakes.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be doing things any other way,

not following the tricks given by who knows me by heart,

but following stars calculated to spans

and approximate sums of the shades of coffee in the mug

or of wine on the lips.

 

 

It’s time to take a full breath

and dive deep.

 

I’ve got a swimsuit under my jeans.

 

 

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