Food

Winter holidays are made for food, as the bacchanal tradition requires. Today I cooked duck breast in sherry sauce and pecorino. I baked the duck breast on olive oil and butter, 4 minutes per side. After that, I took them out the pan, and kept them warm, baked some onion on the sauce, and after the onion was ready, added some sherry and pecorino, together with the breast again, and served with some potatoes with rosemaries and a fresh salad. The wine was a Barolo of 2003.

Nobody ate, except me. I don't know why and I don't want to understand. Yesterday, in spite of my ferocious opposition, somebody took some McDonald's food in. Every single fries was eaten, all the green mayonnaise was slurped, all the hamburgers disappeared in no times. I feel like a stranger here. Nobody notices the ghost of Pepe Carvalho possessing my body, with all his melancholy and lust for life. Pork, lamb, horse meat, octopus, trippa, frattaglie e rognone are denied from my kitchen.

Radiohead - Jigsaw Falling Into Place (thumbs down version)

Just as you take my hand
Just as you write my number down
Just as the drinks arrive
Just as they play your favourite song
As the magic disappears
No longer wound up like a spring
Before you've had too much
Come back and focus again

The walls abandon shape
You've got a cheshire cat grin
All blurring into one
This place is on a mission
Before the night owl
Before the animal noises
Closed circuit cameras
Before you're comatose

Before you run away from me
Before you're lost between the noise
The beat goes round and round
The beat goes round and round
I never really got there
I just pretended that I had
What's the point of instruments
Words are a sawed off shotgun

Come on and let it out
Come on and let it out
Come on and let it out
Come on and let it out

Before you run away from me
Before you start unravelling
Before you take my mic
Just as you dance, dance, dance

Jigsaws falling into place
There is nothing to explain
Regard each other as you pass
She looks back, you look back
Not just once
Not just twice
Wish away the nightmare
Wish away the nightmare
You've got a light you can feel it on your back
You've got a light you can feel it on your back
Jigsaws falling into place

Global Orgasm (2)

A great success!!! From local investigation it emerged that participation to the 2nd Global Orgasm has been minimal, especially in the Eindhoven's region. People have not reacted to the call for peace. Reasons adducted were in the range:

" 7.08 am is way too early for an orgasm"
" Forgot to put it in my calendar"
"I am not interested in orgasms anyhow..."
"I did my best, but could not reach one in useful time"
" Orgasm....what's that?"

Such low participation confirms the general believe that people consider the world having the right amount of wars going on, and an initiative for war reduction is not desired. Some theorists retain that people did not want to participate to the Global Orgasm for the fear of having less wars worldwide; there is not enough scientific evidence to prove the last statement though. Next year the activists are planning a new initiative, called Local Orgasm, in order to promote local sexuality against the bad effects of globalization and capitalism.

Global Orgasm

I will be there. Please join the group.

Laptop

Two weeks ago they have stolen my laptop.

This is dedicated to the thief.

Thief, you h've got my laptop, but remember, you can sell it, dismount it and use its motherboard, exchange it for money, sex or drugs, but it will always be my laptop.
Listen to my curse, since when you'll google an address you will be sent to the wrong one, and everyphone number you will look-up with internet will be busy. May the wireless link re-direct you constantly to the Disney.com site. May your fingers be stuck in it, when you close it down, with great pain and sorrow. And may the laptop lock for at least 3 minutes with your fingers in it. May your inbox be full of chain-mail with endless animated powerpoint. May the laptop only be able to send emails with the text "I'm an idiot". May bullet list be the only paragraph style available in word. May the cursor curse you, and the pointer get the shape of a middle finger. May the language automatically change, randomly jumping between bulgarian and finnish. May the webcam automatically turn and point constantly to your navel. May the calculator return you always the wrong results, and may you believe to them. May all your MSN contact be forwarded to your girlfriend. May all your archive uncompress, reverting the directory structure so that root will always be at the lowest hierarchy level. May the laptop, while you try to show the picture of you last holiday to your parents in law, play the video featuring you desperately in love for a teddy bear. May a virus infect the BIOS, and may you, after 3 days and night spent in cleaning up the mess, see the computer format all the hard-disks and convert to DOS. May the battery fail, and the adapter explode, damaging the power net of your house. Because for wherever place you will go, that will always be my laptop.

70€

It is important to know the value of things. Books, shoes, oranges, trein rides, they all have a value. Also this blog has. 70€. As calcutated by cuborojo. Too important to be ignored.

Marika

She asked: "How are we together?".
How would I know, in 2 days.
For sure, she is honey and milk
to him,
tabasco and salt.
Beautiful
She is beautiful,
nerves and bones,
born to dance.
Fast and sharp
razor edge,
priest, killer, architect and thief.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Gomez - Notice

I stopped tryin' to write the things I don't like
And I started goin' back to where I'd been before
She said "I don't blame you I'd do the same"
Opportunity knocks knocks knocks open the door
But I think she saw through it
I see through myself
Another chance gone, won't get many more

But I'm not the only guy I know that
I'm not the only guy I know that
You never notice
The only guy I know, well I'm not the only guy I know
That you never notice

I stopped tryin' to write the things I don't like
And I started goin' back to where I'd been before
She said "I don't blame you I'd do the same"
Opportunity knocks knocks knocks open the door
But I think she saw through it
I see through myself
Another chance gone, won't get many more

But that's not the only lie I told you
That's not the only lie I told you
You never notice
The only lie I told you, that's not the only lie I told you
You never notice
The only lie I told you, that's not the only lie I told you
You never notice

I can tell you're in denial, get over it
I can tell you're in denial, get over it
I can tell you're in denial, get over it
I can tell you're in denial

He'll never return it

Hide and seek

Hide is a noun. And in it, the secret of a murder is hidden. Rebus fails to find it, since he sees too many things in Hide, the verb and the name, for instance. So, instead of trying to make connection between different events, Rebus has to separate the stories and simplify apperances. Rebus is older, without a woman, and does not listen any more to alternative rock, but only to some anonymous jazz. His alcoholism is genuine, but despites the age he is still the good guy seeking the truth in the corrupted city. Links between characters are as unrealistic as ridicolous, and the book gives enough clues for the reader to understand everything about page 100. The most erotic moment is the discovery of the picture of one of the characters, naked. If you would get some thoughts after reading that, please consult your shrink. But that's Edinburgh, not Vigata or Barcelona. If Rebus would have met, only once, with Pepe Carvalho, he would have seen what he missed in life.


Hide and seek, Ian Rankin

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

Because time is only the relationship between the way different things change.

Christophe is a kid, affected by the Syndrome of Asperger. And he is writing a book about a dog who was killed in the night. With his writing, Christophe is exploring the world of delict and mistery, and he is pushing himself over his boundaries. And the readers are reading the book Christophe wrote, and with it exploring the pure and innocent world of autism.

This novel, written by Mark Haddon, his simply terrific. Haddon is not an autist himself, but the writing is exceptional, as are all the diversion on mathematics, religion and ethic. The story is genuine, and twisting, since the reader cannot escape from forming a different opinions on facts than Christopher's own. This book is a must read.

Edoporn

While in Sicily I have met Edo. Edo he looked like this:

actually he looks like this.

95

Setting goals is a very good start in order to achieve them. Yesterday my body measured exactly 95kg, confirming a trend that was set starting from May. Measurement was made in the early morning, empty stomach, after a pee and a poo, after a good football match the day before and some extended lovemaking the night before - so this 95 could be accused of dehydratation. Nevertheless it is still a 95, within the allowed tolerance margin, and I am very happy with it. The first direct consequence of it is that my trousers, designed for my 100+ configuration, happen to glide away, incidentally exposing me to exciting situations. I am looking forward to even more devastating results.

Blue in Green

Hues of blues and greens surround me

Knowing you have found another love

Has turned me world

To sorrow

Green with envy for another

Fearing she may be the one to soar

Through life with you, can't lose these

Hues of blues in green

Lying

Nanni send me this zen anectode:

A man and his wife were invited to a swanky masked Halloween Party. The wife got a terrible headache and told her husband to go to the party alone. He, being a devoted husband, protested, but she argued and said she was going to take some aspirin and go to bed, and there was no need of his good time being spoiled by not going. So he took
his costume and away he went.

The wife, after sleeping soundly for one hour, awakened without pain, and as it was still early, she decided to go to the party after all. In as much as her husband did not know what her costume was, she thought she would have some fun by watching her husband to see how he acted when she was not with him.

She joined the party and soon spotted her husband cavorting around on the dance floor, dancing with every nice girl he could, and copping a little feel here and a little kiss there. His wife moved on up to him and being a rather seductive woman herself, he left his partner high
and dry and devoted his time to the new stuff that had just arrived.
She let him go as far as he wished; naturally, since he was her husband. Finally he whispered a little proposition in her ear and she agreed, so off they went to one of the cars and had a little romp.

Just before unmasking at midnight, she slipped away and went home and put the costume away and got into bed, wondering what kind of explanation he would make for his behavior. She was sitting up reading when he came in and asked what kind of a time he had.

He said, "Oh, the same old thing. You know I never have a good time when you're not there."

Then she asked, "Did you dance much?"

He replied, "I'll tell you, I never even danced one dance. When I got there, I met Pete, Bill Brown and some other guys, so we went into the den and played poker all evening. But I'll tell you... the guy I loaned my costume to sure had a real good time!"

------

so the matter is: who is lying in this nice short story?
-------------------------------------

It's a very good piece of contemporary philosophy, touching one of the most important subjects of modern life, i.e. cheating.

Rava & Galliano

La Zia Marchesa

Caterina is a love child. But love alone is never enough.

Nude

Don't get any big ideas
They're not going to happen

You paint you white
And fill the holes
But there'll be something missing

And now that you found it, it's gone
Now that you feel it, you don't
You've gone off the rails

So don't get any big ideas
They're not going to happen

You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking

---------------------------------
It appears that some verses have disappeared from the published song with respect to the live one. These are:

She stands stark naked
And beckons you to bed
Don't go, you'll only want to come back again

From In Rainbows - Radiohead. You can buy the album at the price you decide!

Saved

I saved some data
It's my job
I save data
Like the physician
He operated
for 7 1/2 hours
And saved my father.

Marzia

In Sicily I met Marzia. Marzia is a very old friend of mine. I know her since more than 15 years, and she is always been very special to me. Marzia insisted for me to meet Claudio, and she was right. Claudio is a special person too. First of all, he is the first of Marzia boyfriends that I like, and that´s exceptional. On top of his clever eyes, and his conquering smile, he has a clear presence. We chatted together as we were always friends, and he did not let himself being interrupted by me. On saturday we went out together, and he made fun of Giancarlo, and tears were squized out of our eyes by us laughing as idiots. It was good. It was good to see Marzia happy, and deeply in love with him. This summer they will get married. Good luck guys, all the best.

La casta

Just finished reading La Casta, a book about italian politics; there is just a journalistic research on what italian politicts costs and what kind of benefit it brings. The picture is depressing; it is not about corruption, it is about all the privileges italian politicians have given themselves, resulting in an administration disaster. Last episode was about the filing of Bankruptcy for the city of Taranto...but the list of unbelieveable things is so long, you could write a book about it. As Rizzo and Stella did.

The problem with this book is that the problem is presented, but no solution is given. Personally I do not believe this cast of politician will be able to clean themselves and adopt more acceptable guidelines, as I don't believe that with the current voting system elections could bring an opening to it. Beppe Grillo, a comician from Genua that holds his fame to his homonimy with me, believes that internet and social mobilitazion might be the answer. I am not so sure. In 1992 we had Tangentopoli and Mani pulite, and 15 years later we are worst than then.

Unravel

While you are away
My heart comes undone
Slowly unravels
In a ball of yarn
The devil collects it
With a grin
Our love
In a ball of yarn

He'll never return it

So when you come back
We'll have to make new love

Björk - Unravel

-----------------------------------------------------
Thanks to a friend I got to know a fantastic interpretation of this wonderful song, by Maria João and Mario Laginha

Charlie's Angels

I met Carmen on monday; in the evening, after a terribly long day I was waiting for a miracle to happen and give some sense to my time. So I pulled her from the telephone and forced to meet me. After 7 years. We walked through Catania´s boulevards, ordered an aperitief and walked again. We spent 4 hours together, but it looked like those were not enough. My first memories are of Carmen, calling me Giupeppe from her tricycle through the barks of Wolf, my godmather´s german sheperd. She opened herself to me and told me some of her secrets; I did the same with mines, feeling comfortable, and happy to have met her accidentally. So nice to feel so close to a person you barely contact and never see.

Giancarlo picked me up, as if he were doing it every day, as if time had never passed, as if I never flew to The Netherlands. This time we were with the two of us, and headed to the Ostello, a Youth hostel built on the subterranean river flowing under Catania. It was a Monday night; still the terrace was full of young people drinking beer and smoking pot. No girls managed to join our conversation, and we felt close and happy and proud – beer was taking power over the accumulated adrenaline of the day. We headed to La Chiave, a place where I used to get drunk on peach-vodka added-up kilkenny when I was 16, but we managed to get only to the Irish pub. And there we saw 4 angels, sitting on stools, singing their call to microphones, and flapping their wings on us. Florinda was charming us with her smiley voice, De Franco sisters were providing a simple but solid basis – everything you would expect from good pop music; Erica embraced the whole with her violin and directed by slowly moving her eyes. The music flew direct, raw and uncorrupted, and made me think of Musica Nuda by Perrucci e Magoni. Giancarlo decided to approach Erica, and asked her for permission of publishing this picture here; Charlie was nowhere to find, so Erica stayed with us and chatted the whole break. The whiskeys I drunk had their effect on my empty stomach, and I managed to make myself ridiculous again, by dancing, alone, on their final hit. Still I did not hesitate to thank them for transmuting this wonderful day in a unforgettable night.

Thanks ladies, I hope Charlie will let our ways meet again.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Translated in italian upon request:

Ho incontrato una mia cugina che non vedevo da 6 anni. Abbiamo passeggiato per I viali di Catania, bevuto un aperitivo, e parlato per ore. Sentirsi cosí vicino ad una persona con cui raramente si é in contatto é stupendo. Le mie memorie piú remote sono di lei su un triciclo che mi chiama Giupeppe, avevo credo 4 anni, e lei 1. Si é aperta con me, e mi ha raccontato alcuni dei suoi segreti. A mio agio, ho fatto lo stesso con i miei. Sono contento di averla incontrata per caso.

Giancarlo mi é venuto a prendere come se lo facesse ogni giorno, come se il tempo non fosse mai passato e non fossi mai fuggito in Olanda. Questa volta eravamo noi due da soli, e ci siamo diretti all’Ostello, che é costruito sul fiume sotterraneo che scorre sotto Catania. Era lunedí notte, e ciononostante I tavolini erano pieni di giovani che bevevano birra e fumavano erba. Nessuna ragazza é riuscita ad intromettersi nel nostro dialogo, ed eravamo vicini e felici ed orgogliosi – la birra assumeva il commando sull’adrenalina del giorno. Ci siamo diretti verso La Chiave, un posto dove mi ubriacavo a birra corretta con vodka alla pesca quando avevo 16 anni, ma siamo riusciti a raggiungere solo l’Irish pub. E lí abbiamo visto 4 angeli, seduti su sgabbelli, che cantavano i loro richiami al microfono, e che battevano le ali su di noi. Florinda ci affascinava con la sua voce sorridente, mentre le sorelle De Franco formavano una base semplice ma solida – tutto ció che ti potresti aspettare da della buona musica pop; Erica avvolgeva il tutto con il suo violino, e dirigeva con lenti movimenti degli occhi. La musica fluiva diretta, cruda e incorrotta, e mi faceva pensare a Musica Nuda di Perrucci e Magoni. Giancarlo si é deciso ad avvicinarsi ad Erica, e le ha chiesto il permesso di pubblicare questa foto su questo blog; Charlie era introvabile, e quindi Erica é rimasta a parlare con noi per tutta la pausa. I whiskey che avevo bevuto ebbero effetto sul mio stomaco vuoto, e sono riuscito a rendermi ridicolo per l’n-sima volta, ballando, da solo, sul loro ultimo pezzo. Eppure non ho esitato a ringraziarle per aver trasformato questo giorno meraviglioso in una notte indimenticabile.

Waiting

Being ill means to wait. Saturday my father has been recovered in the hospital. Preparation for the operation did not start before Sunday evening. The rest was just waiting. I did not manage to sleep much, as I suppose my dad and mom could not either. Luckily Elio e le storie tese was playing in Catania. Edo and I attended their concert, at the university campus, together with a multitude of students and fans. It was just the stupid kind of fun I needed so desperately that night, it was just perfect.

Monday woke up at 6, and drove to the hospital, where my father was waiting. At 7:30 they guided him to the surgical room; I kissed him good luck, and did not know whether that was the last time I would see him. I left my mom there waiting, and preferred to go home to wait. Operation ended around 14:30, so I went back to the hospital and waited there for the intensive care room to open its doors.

I was allowed in, and there I saw my father, lying on a bed, hanging on machines. He was conscious, awake, and experiencing deep pain and begging for help. I hate hospitals, I hate the rotten orange smell hanging around; I hate facing pain, facing helplessness, and my ignorance. I hate my fear. I could not pass out, so I opted for sweating my claustrophoby. Running away was no option, so I put my panic in the waiting mode, and counted the seconds between me and the end of this visit.

In my soaked clothes I waited for the intensive care host to help us through the bureaucracy. Medical data are still passed with huge paper directories, which are filled by hand with all kind of incorrect data. Every hospital department fills those forms again and again, and manages to credit the patients with diseases they never had, make them younger or older, and eventually changing their gender. I undersigned a number of statements, including any discharge of responsibility for the hospital; never discussed those kind of things with my father, I had no legal right in signing those papers.

Operation succeeded, and my father makes a reasonable chance of surviving this, still we will have to wait for some check-ups to confirm the good news. Went home. I haven’t had lunch, so I decided to fast the whole day and skipped dinner as well. In the city Charlie’s Angels were going to play some celebrating songs for me – but that’s the story of another post…

Lemon

Expensive items help us recognizing the value of the thing surrounding us. You might need to work harder to get them, so you will appreciate them more. Like lemons. I used to have three lemon trees in Sicily, and lemons were for free in the whole year. Every now and then I would tear a lemon leaf from the three, and stick my nose in it, just for the sake of it.

In the Netherlands lemons are a rare fruit, wanted as expensive. So when you cook, you should use the juice as the skin. As in the polpette alla siciliana, that I preparred today. An attack to the success of my diet, made of minced meat, pecorino, flower, pan grattato, persil, wine, eggs, laurie, and with the unmistakable taste of lemon in it. Recepy is not mine, so I wont publish it, but the dish is as close as an oral orgasm meat balls can get.

Whores, brothers and travels

Bordels were a place of inspiration for artists. Often whores, the most by women hated kind of woman, revealed more life and poetry than ever hidden in the life of the common man. That´s why the italian law who closed bordels at the end of World War II has always sounded hypocrit to me. Bordels are now, at least in Italy, associated with the fascism years, the pre-war era in which whores had a recognised place in our society. Camilleri's La pensione Eva is a travel into the myth's of sicilan's bordel, and the initiation to sex of a young guy. Very well written, the story flows from shyness to curiosity, desire and passion, love poetry and luxury, pity and greed. It's a good book, but I guess for the 6€ you could rent Paprika from Tinto Brass and get even a better idea of what that world looked alike.

Pepe Carvalho does not need to visit bordels. His woman is a whore, and they know how to enjoy themselves between the recepies that Pepes creates. The problem is that Charo has left him for Andorra; tired of waiting for him, tired of fighting for a place Pepe did not allowed her. So Pepe wanders through Barcellona, following the case of someone apparently suicided because of intrigues and briberies in the city building its facade for the Olympic games. Il fratellino is a bundle of stories in a book (being il fratellino the longest one). Since I have almost read every book of Manuel Vasquéz Montalbán, I had to use small stories to fill-up my evenings. But small stories do not fit Montalbán writing - too much synthesis of facts, in a style in which facts are unessential, but far more important is how one lives them.

To follow his stories Pepe Carvalho often travels, but it is never like the travels of Bill Bryson. A book about travels is something you should never bring with you while travelling, so I did not. Bill tries to follow the pattern of a trip around Europe he did when he was younger. He succedes in following his impulsiveness, his love for big cities and capitals, his marvellous literary fantasy. The guy is fun, very fun. Sometimes he is so funny that it gets boring. The book is well written and gave me the feeling of what it means being a tourist. Most interesting part was to see how being tourist changed over the years - and reminds me on how being a tourist like Bryson is, is already past tense.

Changes

Hey boy, the times are-a-changing, it's blowing in the wind. Stock exchange markets are going down, Bush mandate will be finished for good soon, Beppe Grillo organised the V-day, and world temperature is rising. So I took a look at the mirror. And saw that I changed as well. Wrinkles have appeared on my face; not only on the corner of my abused eyes, but also on my forehead. Long thin wrinkles alternate with a texture of tiny movements, irregularities, malformations. Most of my hair has abandoned me long time ago. Of the remaining ones, some have changed political faith - the most common and false conversion, from fascism to catholicism, and scream for recognition. The route is traced. After this only Viagra will follow, and after that demency, diapers and finally death. The times are-not-a-changing.

Holidays in France - III

Summer has been a chimera this year. Except for the holidays. More than the sun, more than the see drying salt on my lips, a circus has remained impressed. They announced themselves with a megaphone, mounted on a car driving at walking speeds among the mobile homes; they promised exotic animals, acrobats, magicians and clowns. They gave us a dream. To occupy the empty space of the square was a silent exercise, that took a complete sunny afternoon. The magic was inside the space of the yellow tent, hiding the impossible to the non-paying eyes.
A man, his wife, 2 guys coming from an impossible part of this world, and a young girl captured our attention for 3 hours. They did everything, from equilibrium tricks, to acrobacies, and domating wild animals. They gave us presents, they sang for us. They let us touch their serpents. They brought us somewhere else, in a place that did not exist, but was created by their simple presence. And now I am full of yellow.

To escape the hypnosis I visited the beach. The sand was fine and white, the water fresh and blue, the girls were beautiful and topless. I have never seen so many naked tits crowded in so little space. It was exceptional, I could not help but stare. Nipples, tits, navels, asses - my god! I have learned an amazing number of dissimulating techniques to allow my staring to prolong above any decency limit; some included sun glasses, or the participation of my kids in astonomically boring games which were targeting solely the contemplation of 20 years old breasts reacting to the temperature of the sea water. The most advance techniques that I developed consisted in actually staring at the very tit, but doing it so evidently that it did not seem real, or looking just a couple of centimeters below, or above, or before. Every cell of my retina has been exercised. Any form of dissimulation failed when I saw her. The silicon tit. No magazine can make justice to a real round shaped, rock-solid Si-tit. Its unsensitivity to every external stimulus, including gravity, the spherical shape, the tense nipple. Unbeatable. I turned around, only to find a 40 years woman, not a single cell of fat on her body, incredible smile and transpiring that luxury that only 40-years divorced and rich women possess, instructing her 2 horny teen-ager daughters on which boy to lock with the view of their marmorean naked bodies. Not me, in any case. Needless to say, my observations were purely esthetical.

Crying

Talking to plants is said to help them grow beautiful. Probably it helps also women to become more beautiful. We should talk to women, let them know how special they are, how beautiful we find them. Even if they don't believe us, or don't listen to us, or even if they are not conscious at all. At least, this seems the message of Hable con ella, a touching film of Pedro Almodovár that I happened to watch yesterday. I must admit, the theme is controversial, loving a vegetative woman, helping her back to life, despites everything, it is something it can keep public debats going on forever. Almodovar has chosen the way of art, and through dance, poetry, music and corridas walks back and forth through life and death, desperation and love, meaning and vanity. I must admit I cried, abudantly, watching the movie. Maybe it was smile of Benigno, or the breast of Alicia, maybe it was dancing Café Müller, or the dove of Caetano Veloso, but I could not help it.



or I was just envyous of Marco, who was able to cry at every manifestation of beauty.

Dicen que por las noches
no más se le iba en puro llorar;
dicen que no comía,
no más se le iba en puro tomar.
Juran que el mismo cielo
se estremecía al oír su llanto,
cómo sufrió por ella,
y hasta en su muerte la fue llamando:
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay cantaba,
ay, ay, ay, ay, ay gemía,
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay cantaba,
de pasión mortal moría.
Que una paloma triste
muy de mañana le va a cantar
a la casita sola
con sus puertitas de par en par;
juran que esa paloma
no es otra cosa más que su alma,
que todavía espera
a que regrese la desdichada.
Cucurrucucú paloma, cucurrucucú no llores.
Las piedras jamás, paloma,
¿qué van a saber de amores?
Cucurrucucú, cucurrucucú,
cucurrucucú, cucurrucucú,
cucurrucucú, paloma, ya no le llores

Broken

Everything seems not to work lately. My washing machine is making strange noises while pushing out the water, my new computer refused to start for a week, my old laptop is randomly giving a blue screen (but never on top of the service desk), and my old computer denied the presence of a wireless card into its system for a couple of nights. That's one of the things keeping me busy lately.

In the mobile home we were living in there was a scale, which allowed me to check my performance against the goal I set to myself sometime ago. I am about 98.5kg, which is 95kg within 5%! Encouraged by the fact that I am on target, I bought a high precision scale, which I am using regularly. I have also decided to report it on the sidebar. I think I will stay on target up to end of the year - if not I will use the secret weapon: buying and reading an issue of Libelle...

Holidays in France - II

At the end of our holiday the children make some friends and disappeared during the day. That made us discovery the concept of free time, which we filled with lectures. Since I finished my books very fast, I decided to read the books that Loes had finished, and get acknowledged with Dutch contemporary literature.

The last book I have read (I'm still reading I must admit, is Terug naar de Kust from Saskia Noort. It is one of the worst novels I ever read in my life. It's designed to be read by Libelle's reader, actually it could have been published over there in episode, was not for the fact that Libelle had better things to publish. It is supposed to be a thriller, but it is just a sequence of words describing useless details (we checked with our hands whether the tub water was at the right temperature, and then we had a bath...). Women, especially young mother, dynamic, holding their life and full of feelings, are the heroins; all villains, suspected or real, are male, since the evil is male, fortunately. Instead of being a story of threatening, misfacts and fear, is the story of a neurotic young mother, who feels justified of every single act because of her feelings. I suspect the author didn't write it like this purposely, she probably had no other choice. Reading this novel is educative, since it shows how bad a novel can be written, in absolute terms.

The second novel I have read is Tirza, written by the dutch celebrity Arnon Grunberg. Also this is a book about family life, since there is probably nothing else to write about in The Netherlands. But in this case, despite the literary prices (can you imagine, the guy won a price organized by its editor, twice!), the book is good. There's again a lot of detail, every fact seems to carry with it a deep significance; the story is slow and intense, and everything seems to happen inside the characters, even though there is a lot of things happening outside. A sentence remain impressed in my mind from this book: "sex is humiliation". In the book it has to do with the fact that the main character loved to have is dick licked after some anal sex with his cleaning lady, but it has its impact also outside that context. Tirza is a nice snapshot into family life, or maybe more than that, it is a X-ray picture, an MR-scan - you see everything what's behind the curtain.

This is the first time I read a book my wife has read. It feels strange and good at the same time. Reading is an individual experience, but reading the same book in a short time enables a very special kind of sharing.

Holidays in France - I

We visited France last week. The country looked devastated by its recent history. Locals were wandering in disbelief, trying to forget, trying to accept the reality of last summer Football World Championship. I have seen youngster playing rugby on the beach, older people looking at me with watery eyes, housewife doing housekeeping; Life goes on was sounding everywhere around me, for as you repeat a lie enough times to yourself, you'll start believing in it.

We headed south, and stopped for a night rest in Chanas, a village in the south of Lyon, not mentioned in any touristic guide, and rightly so. The place was ugly, as ugly as France or Italy can be when they try hard, when they build shopping malls and automated hotels along the highway. We ate disgusting pizze, anyway much better than whatever you could get in The Netherlands - the quality range of world pizza is amazing.

Holidays - packing

I am going. Finally summer holidays. Goal for this holiday is to understand why Pink Floyd ever dedicated one of their songs to a touristic village. I will be disconnected from the real world for 3 weeks.

iPod

Following my purpose of losing weight, today I rode my bike to work. And I took my mp3 player with me, and listened to Gianluca Petrella; at the beginning I was scared, 'cause the recension was saying Italian avantgard Jazz, and usually avantgard is the label that a recensionist uses to show off and avoid admitting that piece of music is hopelessy ugly. Petrella was everything else, experimental of course, but the way research oughts to be: some experiments will fail, but most will succeed, and by the way, it's a lot of fun. So I listened to turntables, trombones, double-bass and saxs, pianos and rhodes, all in different mixes and composition.

While riding, I realized that people might be surprised to discover I listen to this kind of music while biking, and asked myself what kind of music do the others listen to. Every time I crossed someone with her headphones on, I wanted to rip them off, and listen. Would it be some shitty commercial staff? Some 70s rock? Is it something I don't know? And, if I don't, would I want to know it, would I like the music? How much music is there out there, that I don't know, that I am missing now? Discouraged, I turned to mythology:

Delle tre la prima e’ dolce e paffuta
La seconda ha una classe infinita
E la terza un bell’andar
Leonino e muscolar, cosa devo far?

Me dicettene e’ purta’ un pomo d’oro
E di consegnarlo ad una di loro
Gia’ che c’ero n’ accattai
Quattro chili e li guardai
Belli, belli assai

Me, tu devi scegliere me
Il premio lo dai a me

Io m’addimanne e cche’, neh!
Vanno cercanno ste tre

Ho le natiche piu’ tonde del mondo
Ho negli occhi un bel mistero profondo
E io tengo un bell’andar
Leonino e muscolar, tu chi vuo’ premiar?

Statte zitte che pe’ ffa’ a’ pummorola
Comme zeus commanna int’a casseruola
Ci va il tempo che ci va
Trallallero trallalla’
Oue’ chi vo’ pruva’
Me, dammene nu poco a mme’
‘na cucchiarata, ecche’, neh
Chella lussuria che te,’ oue’
Un ultimo assaggio pe’ mme’

Poi la storia racconto’ tutt’e cose
Di tre dee tutt’e tre vanitose
Che vulettene, vois-la’!
Miss italia organizza’,
Hue’, chi vuo’ mbruglia’?

Il Giudizio di Paride - Avion Travel

Readings

Yesterday I did not feel too well - probably I was too tired of an extreme weekend, and I spent my time lying in bed reading. I finished I peggiori racconti dei fratelli Grim, an amazing surrealistic epistolar novel, in which two scholars dispute about the impact of the Grim's brother on South-America culture. It's a pearl of humor and imagination, and it is the proof that there is a Chilean literature besides Isabel Allende.


In Tre storie d'amore, di Montalban, Pepe Carvalho is confronted with the different shapes of love: an old love, a passionate love, and the absence of love. In all cases, the extreme and pure consequence of love is murder, murders to be solved passively. That's maybe why Pepe prefers cooking to loving, and lighting up his chimney with books.

Beauty

Saturday has been a special day, one of those intense ones I live for. I went to Amsterdam, to buy a new double bass, and met with Monica. We spent the day together, had lunch at the Nieuwmarkt and listened to some great tango, played by her boyfriend. Monica and I share two passions, one is music; we both can't get enough of it. Sun was warm, but wind was chill, so we spent the day putting on and taking off our coats.

Monica lives in a beautiful apartment in the Jordaan, probably the most beatiful neibourhood in Amsterdam. You can sit there and listen to some Nick Cave, or Lou Reed, but if I were you I would listen to some Richard Galliano - his version of Guarda che Luna is fantastic, and made me think of the Musica Nuda album from Spinetti-Magoni.

I left Monica waiting for something to happen, and surprised Marco with a phone call. Marco and I went to Live-Earth, where we learnt that everything we were already doing for the environment was OK, and that others should start imitating us. A good reason to go somewhere else, and discuss our existences in a Thai-restaurant. We discussed about God, her almightiness and her alsaviourness. If God knows everything, she knows also what she's going to do, so it should be very boring for her; moreover she cannot change her planned acts without violating her infinite knowledge; but she can do everything, so she is able to change the future she knows will happen. Actually, that might be even the only meaningful thing to do. God major occupation is denying herself.

Marco looked beautiful, extremely young. That was even stronger when Marine was there; it was great to see how much they love each other, smiling and looking for eachother.

On the way back I listened to "Il canto di Natale" by Vinicio Capossela, a must for everyone intending to change his life. But I got distracted; it was not her mini-skirt, discovering a pair of wonderful legs in which I could have registered my residence; neither were her eyes, circled with some liner as black as the best 60's; but she was burning for her man, and he smiled at her, and I didn't exist for them, not even as an annoing accident between Utrecht and Waalwijk. It was beauty.

The shop was closed, so I did not buy any double-bass.

Down

Going up is tiring, requires more effort, but gives a nice feeling, Then you're high, and look at the world with the eyes of the alpinist. Going down is fun, you get fast, no effort. You only need a lot of concentration and that state-of-mind of being ultra-awake. I'm down, but there's no fun in it, only being tired. I've worked 70 hours this week, and last weekend was a day shorter, again because of work. Things went well, and others not, but I feel exausted. Also because coming home I found my car bumper damaged. It's a stupid thing, but gets me upset. And because it is cold in here, summer has already ended this year - and there's no light, too many clouds, and they look at me, with anger and repulsion. They shower me if I'm biking, and retreat when I am at office. I'm down today. Too many work buffets, with tasteless food and meaningless words; too many phone calls, and meetings and smiles - never the one I want. I'm down because my father has cancer, which I have learned yesterday, and it looks really bad. Please leave your pity in the comment repository.

Fear

We visited an art exposition. Wondered around pieces of things; everything looked ugly to me. It's the problem I have with contemporary art; it's like you need to know the story, the meaning, the composition, before you can appreciate. Beauty is not immediate any more. I shouldn't complain. Myself I am immersed in a music that makes me alone. But I like it for it is immediate, and touches those strings I am not in charge of.

We left the exposition, and visited the Eindhoven's skating theather. All kids, jumping and revolting around, swimming in waterless pools, balancing their boards on their dreams. I can't skate properly. As I skate I am afraid to fall; fears blocks me. It's raining. While walking, I cover myself with my jacket: I could get wet. Fear. My mom does not dare to speak about my father's disease. Fear. And before I start playing, while counting the rhythm of the music that will be, my finger blocks in fear. I hesitate. Fear. And I look at you. I could hurt you. Fear. I could make you feel guilty. Better look somewhere else, better keep quiet. I better keep those words for myself. I raise my arm, and my coat with it. I'll walk dry today.

Ashridge

I have spent one week in Ashridge, for a company training. The course was nice, and the people I have met is exceptional. But the most impressive thing is the place. Not only the medieval monastery, carefully mantained and restored as college; and not even the gym, with its swimming pool and turkish bath. The garden attracted me the most. At every chance I would walk through it and lose myself. Usually it would start with an amazingly ordered field, or a small court full of fragant roses. Then I would reach the outskirt, and the more I would walk away from the monastery, the wilder it would become. It felt like I was exploring a forrest, and myself with it. Occasionally I would be surprised by a beautiful red-wood, or by a giant oak. I turned left, and found a treasure of unexpected grace. And then the deers would run away, looking at me as the intruder I am. It felt like being kicked out, but I do not belong there.

Today I have saluted the park. It's the last time in my life I will see it. My walk was longer, and slower; I could not let go. So much beauty in one go, too much for me. I looked at it, said goodbye, and my cheast felt empty, and my legs went weak. I'll fly back soon, I am only waiting.

Going to London

I am going to travel again to London. This time not for fun, but for business. Travelling I will move myself and some of my stuff with me, and I will leave some things behind. For instance I will bring my mp3 player with me, which I have loaded with a number of things. One of those is Alice, by Tom Waits; a nice gate to the world of Bukowski - I really reccomend it.

I will leave my double bass behind, and I think I will miss him a lot. Lately I am not progressing much, and I am ashamed of playing it; my teacher says it is going better with the bow, but my left hand is not doing its job properly. Nevertheless it looks like I am going to play soon in front of a big audience...

Marco's visit

Marco visited us yesterday. It was the first thing he thought doing after coming back from Thailand. He neglected all his other friends and family, and chose me as the first person to meet and doing something special. I am honoured.

We visited Edit, mostly an art festival in Eindhoven. The festival was especially gratis and some things were also nice. The biggest attraction was the one indicated to us by Milo, a kind of irregular time machine. If you would spent there 30 seconds, it would feel like 10 hours, and if you would spent 30 minutes, it would feel like 3 hours, and sometimes 3 days.
We saw a drama in which actors spitted at each other, and listened to a concert for 20 detuned pianos. We met Theo Maassen, but fortunately he did not recognize us.

After 3 hours, we went downtown for dinner. My butterfish was delicious, but the homemade coffeliquor was terrific! After dinner, we went for Death Proof, the last Tarantino movie. A lot of action, and good dialogs. A good movie, only the end took longer than I expected.

I sette nani

Quel mattino il sole era alto e i sette nani invidiosissimi come al solito; e non solo del sole, ma anche dei venti perchè erano più di loro.

> Alessandro Bergonzoni

Movies

Lately we have starting watching movies again. The Departed is a nice thriller, with a predictable final twist, even though very far from the conventional US action movie. Well acted and directed, keeps your eyes on the screen all time long.

Children of Men is the most beautiful film I have seen in ages. Imagine a world where human beings are unfertile for 18 years, i.e. from 2008 on. How will it look like? Children of Men tries a descriptioin. As every science fiction, today's trends are extrapolated, and whether the writer is a pessimist or a optimist decides how dark the movie will be. But this one escapes from the technological miracles of the conventional futurism, and just brings to the extremes the fragile balance on which our modern society is founded. A real masterpiece.

La Mennulara

I thought you knew me, but instead you know only a small part of it. I thought I knew myself, but my knowledge is incomplete. As for a teeth, that you don't feel until they pull it out of your mouth. So is it for La Mennulara, whose presence become evident only after her death. Her life is remembered in the memories and acts of the people around her; all fragments, each one distorted by the different characters, are put together for the benefit of the reader. The contradictions, tragedies and misteries form the parts of a wonderful portrait of a strong character, in a Sicily of the 6oths who is changing for good.

Boxmeer

Tonight I am sleeping in a monastery. After all these years of excitement and fun, I needed some rest, and some time for myself. Not for meditation, or for fastening, or for introspection, because I have been a teenager already. But to discover, once again, boredom. Boredom is a state we do not allow to ourself nowadays, still is the essence of every dog's day in this world, of every military servant. Boredom is embedded in every mediterranean afternoon. Boredom is the knowledge of having nothing better to do than doing nothing, and being unhappy with it. So, I am sitting here, completely, fully, exhaustively bored.

Border

While being in Italy, I discovered that my body passed one of those important psychological borders. My weight is above 100Kg, and more exactly my measurement showed 100.7Kg. When passing such a border action is required: in this case a celebration could be appropriate, but I am opting for a change in habits, such as to pass this border once again, but in the other direction this time. The plan includes:

• eating a lot of vegetables and fruit, on top of all the other things I already eat
• limiting the quantity of food. A rule prescribes that one should finish a meal with the same feeling as finishing an intercourse: satisfied, but wanting for more.
  
• more movement and sport. I will bike, play football and type faster.
• eating regularly (i.e. following a rule, the best one being when you are hungry)
• reading one copy of the magazine Libelle

A plan needs a goal to justify itself. My goal, who will keep me motivated in the coming months is: to have a weight of 95Kg by the end of the year. To add some scientific method, I am allowing a tolerance of +/- 5%. For the repeatability of the experiment, the target weight in December will be measured with a different weighter than the one used for measuring the starting point of 100.7Kg, and in a different location.
When target will be met, the axiom of Mass Conservation will be violated.

Vacanze in Toscana - Parte IV

Wednesday 9th, Pistoia

Pistoia is a nice town, a bit too close to Florence, which means it does not get a tourist flow, since all the tourist prefer the more famous Renaissance capital; it's a bit too far from Florence to get tails of tourist who are visiting and want to make an excursion. Therefore, in spite of its beatiful center, build around the Via Cassia - a highway dating the roman times, you will find an authentic local life. Pistoia is worldwide famous for the invention of the pistol, which owns its name to the city. The mechanical tradition continued, and nowadays Pistoia is an important train manufacturing center. Most of all, Pistoia is full of shops, and those need to be visited one by one, looking at every single good; buying and carrying staff around, with three annoyed kids, is the best way of spending a day there. Especially drugstores are characteristic. We entered one, looking for some eye-drops for my famous allergy - in the shop there was a water distributor, one of those you find in every waiting room over here - only there it was surrounded by advertising material. My children, in their dutch ignorance, started pouring some water at it, with immediate reaction of the clerck, who explained us that that water was not meant to be drunk, but only to be dispensed to customers willing to buy it. Embarrassed, I returned the filled paper glasses to the clerck, and invited him to drink it - better him than us.

Vacanze in Toscana - part III

Monday 7th May

Pisa has an irrestistible attraction power. His tower, dramatically pending, does not get straight in spite of all the tourist attempts. Il Campo de' miracoli is an authentic wonder. Everything is actually pending, not only the tower.
We entered the cathedral, where Loes had to cover her shoulders, which were clearly not made by God, and admired it breathlessly. It's a wonderful place where to spend a monday afternoon.

Tuesday May, the 8th - Saturday, the 12th, Monday the 14th

The mediterranean sea is a sea in the middle of lands, as the name says. Italy is a land in the middle of the sea, so everytime I get there, I need to go to the beach. The kids loved it. Finally some real sea, with some real salt taste in it, and waves and german tourists. In spite of the sun there was a limited collection of tits exposed; all of them were obeying to all the physics laws, the gravity one with particular abnegation.

Gli Uccelli Di Bangkok

Pepe Carvalho is pretty busy those days. Three cases are filling his time and keeping him away from Charo. A comic case, made of family arguments; a tragic case, where riches and poors are confronted by love, and in which for Pepe is more important to know which brand was the champagne bottle that killed Célia; and a redding mission, in the hearth of Asia, going after a naïve Teresa.
At the end of the trip, it seems that the only important thing to know is what kind of birds are resting on the electricity lines in Bangkok.

Holidays in Toscana - part II

Sunday May 6th - Le cinque terre

Le cinque terre, a beautiful natural park inscribed in the UNESCO world heritage fund, was our destination on sunday. We drove to La Spezia, an important NATO harbour, and took the train to this magnificent place. Monterosso and Vernazza were our destinations; Le Cinque terre are 5 small villages, carved between the mountains and the see. Reacheable only by walk and train, they constitute an oasis in the automobilistic Italy. The sea has sculptured beautiful designs on the rocks, man has build pictoresque villages facing south.




We ate icecream and enjoyed a powerful shower. Milo and Kyara climbed some of the rocks, and Julia got mad. It was difficult for Milo and myself to give an explanation to the sudden change of mood of Julia. Maybe the taste of the icecream, or the rocks, breaking the waves. We medidated about it, long enough to allow another change of mood and forget the problem altogether. Julia collected items which are difficult to find in the Netherlands, especially stones, Milo and Kyara went playing with the see.


Loes took pictures, and most of the ones in this post are taken by her (the rest can be found here). In those I look older than I used to be. More wrinkles, less air, and an uncomfortable feeling of being in a beautiful place only for visiting it, and not for staying there.

You can hardly say the same for Julia and Kyara, who posed for a session. They look bigger, but still very young.

Holidays in Toscana - part I

Friday, May 4th

It's amazing how these new cheap flight companies changed the way we travel nowadays. We went from house to house, Eindhoven to Montignoso, in just 8 hours. The flight itself took about 2 hours, the drive about 1 hour and a half. The remaining time was spent waiting. Waiting at the check-in, waiting at the passport and handbaggage screening, waiting at the gate, waiting at the stairs of the airplane, waiting in the airplane, waiting for collecting the luggage. Nowadays they do not allow you to bring any liquid with you any more, except for the ones you buy at the airport, or in the cabin itself. Clearly a way for them to earn the money back!!


Saturday, May 5th - Montignoso



Driving to Montignoso was difficult. Montignoso is not a place, but is a set of places, starting from the bold mountain, down to the beach some 20km below it. Cinquale, Piazza, Prato, Cerreto, are all part of Montignoso, and they are randomly indicated on the signs. To drive there from Pisa, it took us 90 minutes, instead of the 40 needed to cover the distance. The part in which we were hosted - we stayed at my sister's place, is on the mountain. It's not very high, but it maintains the steepness of a mountain. The village is very nice, though it has nothing noticeable. My sister's place is a house that my brother in law is restructuring. The front door is on the third floor. Via some staircases you can descend to the 2nd floor and to the ground floor. Thanks to the mountain geometry, levitation is not needed to enter the house. The 3rd floor is ready and inhabited by my sister and my brother in law, whilst the ground floor needs still a lot of work. The 2nd floor is almost ready, there are doors and windows, floors and walls, there is even electricity and water, even though the latter is always cold. Walking to the village takes 5 minutes one way, and 15 the other way. Driving takes about 10 minutes both ways, since the only viable road has to climb the other side of the valley and cross the pass some 3 km further away. We decided to descend walking to the town-hall square, where some parked cars, a marble fountain and some tables and chairs delimited the borders of a children's football field. The goal was formed by the townhall wall, delimited by a pillar on the left, and by the municipality door on the right, which when open offered an undoubtful evidence of a missed shot. Some children invited Milo to play football with them; Kyara was eating a icecream, whilst I was pretending to listen to my sister's monologue about her life problems. When the townhall clock ratified the end of the ootball match, we walked through the village, and eventually climbed back home, where Loes and Julia were still enjoying their siesta.

Julia's birthday

Julia is a girl. As any girl, she does not like getting older. Even when you celebrating her birthday in Italy didn't make her keen on blowing out the candle, as the picture shows. She expected a lot of presents, that she got. As present she requested pistaches and candies, as relieve for the feeling of getting older. Dutch celebration this saturday.

Mondanity in Eindhoven

A surprise party has been organised that celebrated my birthday! I have been surprised and happy to meet with all these people who claimed to be my friend. The company was very diverse, and represented surely the best that Eindhoven society can distill: physicists, mathematicians, pedagogs, musicians, engineers, architects. People came from all over the world, we counted more than 10 nations and 2 continents. It was just fantastic. A man in the logistic business defended the dutch way of playing football, whilst a ferocious debate concluded that monarchy is not the perfect form of democracy. While listening to the sound of a salsa band playing Felicitaciones, we drank sicilian wine, and dined deliciously. Some people could not attend, their fame blocked them elsewhere. A former manager phoned to congratulate me; a Vice-President sang happy birthday in Turkish to me (ikku kuddu....), he and his wife got trapped by climbing Arhem's mountains. A phylosopher left a message in my mailbox. A banker, unfortunately ill, left a message in my answering machine. A dancer sent an SMS, as did a former secret agent. A painter sent a messenger with presents, as a journalist did.

Presents were marvellous, including mp3 players, postcards, oils, books, money and sex. I want to thank all these persons, and especially the President who secretly and succesfully organised this.

(*) For clear reasons of discreteness, I avoided mentioning names.

Montecristo

Finished reading the Conte di Montecristo from Dumas. This novel is the story of a revenge, a tremendous revenge of a man who is re-birth. Nice book, in spite of its 2 volumes of more of 400 pages each, I have swallowed it in less than 1 month. In his writing, Dumas does not pay too much attention to the writing style, with surprising bad results every now and then: melodrammatic dialogs now and then. But he puts everything on the story, the building of evil and execution of revenge.

The books starts poorly, with good characters which are far too good, and bad characters which are clearly bad. Looks like a US movie. But things change fast, as the doubts find his way in everybody, and feelings get mixed.

A nice novel, in the end. Above all, because a legend says that the torcederos, i.e. the people makng cigars, were entertained with the reading of a book, and some of them liked this book so much, that their cigars took their name. Clearly, Montecristo are the best cigars in the world, as Pepe Carvalho smokes them in his melancholy excesses.

Anniversary

Today we celebrated our wedding anniversary. Weather was wonderful, so after a quick visit of parents and relatives, we headed to the Grote Peel. The Grote Peel is a natural park in which people is trying to preserve the old condition of a dutch "veen", i.e. the ground water is kept as high as possible (no drenage) and grass is minimized.

Those kind of "veen" have been destroyed by mining peat, which is the english for "veen".

The walk was nice and relaxings. We could not see a lot of birds, which were hiding from the heat and the tourists, but we managed a couple of frogs. Milo really enjoys those excursions, whilst Kyara can't wait for doing something more urban.

Cutting edges

Today I cut my nails.

They were a part of me.
They really felt like me, but after I cut them they were others than me.
So,
now I am a different me, at least a lesser me than I was yesterday.
You said that you loved me,
will you still love a lesser me?

But I feel the same,
only with shorter nails,
but still me.
So, I feel I am not contained in my nails.
But where then? Where am I?

I have tried to trace the boundary of myself by tracing the boundary of my body.
But, is it the right thing to do?
Those are violated daily, for instance by food.
I ate a peer today.
It wasn't me, before I ate it.
Then it entered me, and joined me.
Partially, since part of it will be expelled in a way or another,
but still, my stomach corroded it,
my guts absorbed it.
That peer does not exist any more;
I do.

What am I?

Maybe I am a process.
Like the software in a processor,
what I am is what I do.
Now I am writing this post,
so I am the post.
And you,
you said that you loved me,
reading this post,
are joining me now.

While walking I am a walk.
While sitting I am sitting.
While loving you,
I am the love,
and later I am the sleeping.

One day I will die,
as a program stops when the underlying processor breaks down,
and I will be the death.

London (2)

Daniele lives in a house in central London made of dirt. Such houses cannot be cleaned, and every attempt to do so is futile and dangerous.

Saturday was a good day to be in London. Wheather was warm, and the city seemed to explode in the celebration of this unexpected summertime. Daniele and I walked, and walked, and talked about life and procedures for happiness.

Refusing to merge with London night life, we celebrated a birthday party at Cafè de Paris; in such a poetic place the host and their invitée evoked ancient poets, and clarified existence by the myth. Daniele could not join the hymns, because of his imperfect use of the language; he adopted contemplation as a mean to enlightment.

Going back home we got trapped in the usual 3am traffic jam at Regent street, which reminded us of materialism and vulgarity.

Sunday Daniele and I said each other good-bye, promised promises that won't hold, and parted. The rest was insignificant as expected.


------------------------------------------

Post post: pictures of the poetic birthday party can be found here. Daniele and I are easy recognizable in one of those.

London

Amazing. They have water here, and food (though a little bit fattier than what I am used to), and even electricity. All those worries for nothing....

Yesterday I have seen London tower, a castle build on old roman walls. From there we took a boat to London-eye, which we didn't visit - preferring the more joyful graves in Wenstminster Abbey. I have learned that London City and Wenstminster City are 2 different cities within the same urban area, which we call London, and that the Big Ben, the Parliament as well as Buckingam Palace are all in Wenstminster and not in London city.

At night I called home, and I was asked.....yes darling, I miss you all already, we didn't see each other for about 12 hours.

Going out was easy. London is full of people, pubs, restaurants. You can drink whatever, wherever, so we ended up, unwillingly, into a Dutch-pub, where they served me a Leffe on a pint glass, with almost no foam on top! Those british know nothing about beer, even though the only thing they do at night is drinking.

In the rare occasions Daniele was not looking at women, we managed to have some conversation. He confessed me that he feels like being a number in his new job, and that London is not as exciting as a small village on the Mediterranean area. So he is slowly and painfully raising some money in the difficult attempt to come back to Sicily, and start a real life there, and for good.

Today is sunny here, and warm. We are going to play the tourists all day long.

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The computer I am using is playing all mp3 and wma files accelerated, whatever players I use for the job. I have two suspicions: an analog one (being the computer a german one, I suspect a mismatch between the clock of the audio card and the supply voltage in UK) and a digital one (the mp3 codec is an old one, probably misinterpreting all new formats). But I couldn't solve the problem, yet.

Worried

I am worried. On Friday I will fly to London, UK, and I don't know what is going to wait for me up there. According to experienced people the biggest problem is food, but I am not going to stay long, I guess I can manage for 2 days. Water is a more serious problem, but I guess I can always distill some Thymes water for drinking - or switch completely to beer (which in the past was used as water to prevent deseases caused by pollution). I will bring some battery powered devices, and a manual recharger, even though I am not sure what I can do with those in such a country. I feel like Cristoforo Colombo, travelling towards the unknown and the "uncivilized". Exciting, but dangerous feeling. I should have listened to the wise advices and never made those tickets.

Buona Pasqua

Today we searched for eggs in the garden. It was a difficult quest, requiring focus and determination. Happy Easter.

Le Grand Content

The difference is why you drink

Kultrum

How to conjugate the perfect pitch of a string quartet with the morbid thoughts of a bandéon? It's difficult especially when the logic of the answer is denied by the passion for love. Has improvisation space for some planned score? A compromise is no solution, and negotiation is unsatisfactory. At ECM Dino Saluzzi recorded his work together with the Rosamunde quartet, Kultrum.

Zero tolerance.

Farewell

Henk Jan, a colleague who transformed himself into a friend, gave me a wonderful farewell present. A CD of Satie, played by Ciccolini. It starts with the famous Gymnopédie, which, in my ignorance, I had as tune for my mobile phone. It's very intimate music. While listening to it, I declared my zero tolerance for mediocrity, a program that I would like to mantain for the rest of my life.

Sunny day

It's already 2 weeks ago, but it deserves mentioning anyhow. It was sunny and warm, so I went visiting Nanni. We went walking at stippelberg, I was carrying Julia, he was carrying Nemo. It was nice, and relaxing, and we chat about our family lives and our dreams.