Tag: my tiny atlas

In A Bit


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,


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


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.


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


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.


CORNERS April 3, 2019

I’ve discovered Sicily at that time of the season where people still walk around with coats and hands in their pockets

And that’s how I like to discover places,

when nobody finds the warmth to get out of bed and the wind blows

And that’s how I found it,

A bunch of cities unafraid of its rough roads,

Approximate parkings,

Ever-late trains

and the sea.

There’s something about Sicily and its cracked walls,

its roof of stars of that kind that you won’t find in flea markets,

the shutters down until mid-morning.

Ice-cream for breakfast,

Tired feet

and the stomach full of carbs

and butterflies.

La Sicilia l’ho scoperta quando ancora la gente se ne va in giro con il cappotto e le mani in tasca

E mi piace scoprirli cosi i posti, quando ancora nessuno ha voglia di uscirsene dal letto che fuori soffia il vento

E l’ho trovata proprio cosÍ,

Un mazzo di città che non si vergogna dei suoi viali sconnessi

Dei parcheggi approssimati,

dei treni in ritardo

e del mare.

La Sicilia è bella con le sue pareti crepate,

col soffitto di stelle che non se ne vedono spesso e con le serrande abbassate fino a metà mattina.

Le granite a colazione,

i piedi stanchi

e lo stomaco pieno di carboidrati

e di farfalle.

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.














































































































Hong Kong

CORNERS, TRAVEL September 22, 2018


A month ago,

my father gave me a ring and asked


I’ll be in Hong Kong for a couple days, do you want to join ?




11 hours on a plane,

and I was there.



We spent our time wandering the streets of Causeway Bay,

the Star Ferry to the other side of the river,


and trains

and buses,


visas to cross the Chinese border,

kids in uniforms,

old men smoking in construction boots,

smuggling of bags,

cheap cigarettes.


The salty air from the sea,

the clouds promising the arrival of the typhoon.




Hong Kong is a contradiction of colours

and a quick combination of flavours,


who would’ve thought that

street markets fit so well

in the skyline ?


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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




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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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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