(«At last, he rewrote the intro!»)
You might be here by chance, but you probably know me and I gave you the link in some cunning way («Please visit my website, please!»).
I’ll make this short: sometimes I write stuff and put it here, the older that is, the more ashamed I am someone might actually read it. I don’t remove anything because one cannot simply delete things, it isn’t nice.
If you want to know who I am (in form of myth and hagiography) there’s a page for that too, just like there’s a page to write me.
What are you still doing here? Go!
Full title: “Dialogue with the Prefrontal Cortex, that is what makes humans human (or so they say)”.
Might have been published on Tassocrazia, or maybe not, I can’t remember. Maybe I was so scandalising (and crazy) that I was not published.
As Laura (the Tassocrazia editor in chief) recently said: “You were too avant-garde for them” (the readers).
«Good evening, dear Brain»
«Good evening, dear Rama» More »
Tim (Timothy Kurek) is a big guy, the kind of big you would not want to spill your drink on in a crowded bar the night you had one too many. He is very American-looking, and if you ask me I’ll tell you he wears nothing but baseball caps, short-sleeved lumberjack shirts, short trousers, and sneakers; mostly because that’s how I remember him. More »
«a maggio devo andare lontano / e il pericolo corre lungo i binari»
(«May I am to go far away / and danger runs on rail»)
– Lo Stato Sociale, Quello che le donne dicono
It’s hot, I cannot sleep, and you snore half-awake.
I toss to and fro about this weary bed¹ (whatever space you give me), eventually I give in to insomnia and I think. I think of what to do this summer, of how hot your hand on my side is, of a song by Lo Stato Sociale… You’ve stopped snoring, you breath is the only cool thing in this room, and yet the window is open.
Memories. More »
Do not fall in love with a writer.
Published,aspiring or unknown, it does not matter.
Do not fall in love with a writer.
The writer lives on nice words, stories to tell.
My soul, do not love a writer; what use can he make of a person, if not a character?
One who devotes half-written sentences to sensual pleasure, do not love ever, lest all ends in poetry.
And if you do not know what a writer is, know this: do not fall in love with one always knowing what to say, one for wisdom’s various arts renown’d, a golden tongue.
And if it is too late, if the game is over, do not trust a writer.
He will weave webs of words, trap you in a droplet of dew. If he is good he will write your role.
Do not trust a writer; or do you not know they are all bohemians, alcoholics, drug addicts, insane?
(one who does not tear reality’s veil is not a true writer)
And if you’ll love a write, pray you are an artist, or a little crazy, dare be his muse.
Close, out of reach.
Or you will be ordinary, boring, replaceable; or worse, the writer will stop writing.
Do not fall in love with a writer, make the writer fall in love with you.
My school wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t perfect at all… More »
I’ve lived with you only two weeks, and I must say we didn’t exactly see eye to eye.
Heck, that is a big understatement; I was the intruder, the nuisance, the one violating your house.
You disliked me so badly that even when I tried to befriend you by feeding you, you waited until I wasn’t looking to eat. More »
Maybe it’s an overstatement, maybe I’ve lived in Albion for too long, maybe something else, but I think this story I’m writing down today synthesises Italy (some of it) pretty well. More »