On the road again

How many visions fit in a handful of days?

 

 

defining limits

I must have missed class when these terms were taught:

patience

Pronunciation: /peɪʃ(ə)ns/

noun 

the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious

willingness

noun

the quality or state of being prepared to do something; readiness:

wait

Pronunciation: /weɪt/

noun

stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or event.

But I was definitely there and particularly focused as this one came up:

proactive

Pronunciation: /prəʊˈaktɪv/

adjective

(of a person or action) creating or controlling a situation rather than just responding to it after it has happened.

I AM GOING TO TAKE PRIVATE LESSONS. 

ecce homo

I know what barbecue they grill their meat on. What shirt, shoes and watch they wear. I know what nanny they hire to look after their children, how their homes look like, what sports they practice and what phone they have in their pockets. I know where they go exercise, what books they (don´t ?) read, what their favorite conversational topics are and what wine they drink while holding those conversations. And, obviously, I know what party they vote for.

Or do I just think I know?

Are wealthy people more predictable than non-so-wealthy men and women? Or am I just a prejudicial, superficial Censorious Sapiens that puts all and everyone into a box?

Considering my huge, innate and still quite inexplicable passion for boxes it could be in fact my need to give an order to the world surrounding me that makes me think to know “the rich”. Or maybe, quite dully, just fear of not being able to keep up. Mixed, I have to admit, with a dash of silent arrogance (“Yeah, they have money but me, I...”)

This dilemma has been tumbling in my brains in the past hours and I somehow I feel ready to abandon my “self-reassuring biases”. I think I am actually eager to do that.

Because I want to laser-cancel this idea -tattooed in my mind- that only humble people who went through struggles in life are the real profound thinkers. Those are the ones I know and highly appreciate. I will value them, their stories and inspiration as I did so far. But I am starting to recognize my mistake: looking at “the rich” and not seeing them. Not even trying. I let their barbecues, their shirts, shoes and watches, their sports, phones and homes speak to me. I should know better. There´s another voice I should be listening to. How can I accuse “the rich” of being shallow when I judge them in the most superficial way?

They are men and women, and kids. No different than me.

I like to think that there is a reason why we stumble upon people. Now I think I know why the sleek, young golfer.   

positive addicted

I found out there are phases in which one is simply...happy.
Easy to get addicted to that.

and in the end, it does come

courtesy of bro

fragile trembling leaves

Spring is not spring, this year. The buds on the trees are eager to blossom but the rigid temperatures are spitefully putting off the enchantment of the rising season. All is grey, cold, soggy.
It will come, everybody thinks, another day or two, maybe a week, but it must finally come, this spring so much longed for. I need it. We need it.
Actually, some may need it more than others. 
Two days ago I finished reading a wonderful, fierce, powerful book, a "yes book", books that change you and your view of life and of the world. 
The still point of the turning world, by Emily Rapp, is a work poured out of the depth of an aching and profound soul. 
It´s a tribute to the life of a terminally ill baby who died just before turning three. It´s the narration of a myth, as the author so eloquently explains. It´s a beautiful, beautiful book. 
While reading through those powerful pages I felt at traits like a voyeur, so intimate was the glance that the reader was allowed to throw into this unfortunate family life. So intense the empathy arisen. I often thought of a friend of mine and his son, who is also affected by an incurable and degenerative disease.
How unfortunate, how unfair, we all think in these cases. But pain, disgrace, diseases are so damned democratic: they just hit anyone, no matter how good or bad you are. I once read on social media a cynical yet funny statement: finding unfair that bad things happen to good people is like expecting a lion not to devour you because you are vegetarian.
And this is what happened to a dear colleague of mine: devoured by the lion, even though she is vegetarian, lovely, calm, intelligent, beautiful, inspiring, strong. Two days ago she comes into my office, asked how my Easter vacation was. Very good, thanks, and yours? She bursts into tears, right there, standing in front of my desk. I´m sorry, she says, sobbing, her voice full of sorrow and fear. I have Parkinson. What? Fuck! What? It can´t be! What the fuck, I screamed within myself, in a rush of disbelief and rage. And a blank, speechless face is instead what came out.
This incredible woman, whom I met less than a year ago when, to my surprise, she joined our company (wait, I thought, she is so cool, what is she doing here?) is eventually going to turn into a trembling leaf. This brilliant, independent, self confident woman is probably going to have to depend on others.
This appalling news is not giving me peace.
I can see her eyes filling with tears, I can feel her fear. My colleagues did nothing, said almost nothing. I stood up and went to her and gave her a hug. And she clung to me as if this would save her from falling. Her hold struck me as much as her diagnosis.
We are all so fragile, even though we pretend we will last forever. We are all sure that spring comes punctually, yet sometimes winter just lingers on, and on and on.

what was that word, mhmm...wisdom?!

Walking home from a hyper conversational night, I ask myself "can you trust someone who doesn´t drink at all?". I turn into my street and a wobbling human (maybe) being, as boozed as one can get, walks past me. Or tries to.

Yes, you can trust someone who doesn´t drink. Actually you should. 

No, you must.

Resolution, revolution, whatever. How´bout what I want?

I want silence, sleep, rest, introspection. And blasting music, sleepless crazy nights, hyperactivity, carefree superficiality. All well balanced. 

I want wide-leg and high waist trousers (which don´t look like my Grandma´s).

I want to share a bed solely and exclusively with men who sweep me off my feet. The lame thought “well, he´s kind of nice after all, it´ll do for now” is from now on strictly forbidden. 

I want to breathe deeply and deeply and deeply and deeply. 

I want to cancel my facebook account and use the time that I waste on reading my “friends” ´s idiotic comments to finally dive into the unbelievable chaos of my I-Tunes library and discover what music I actually like. And have. 

I want to play tennis and clap on my shoulder each time that I see the tiniest improvement and not get mad at myself for not being a late-starter Serena Williams.

I want to sing Julia Stone´s songs but not just like that, just singing, no! I want to sing Julia Stone´s songs while playing them on the guitar, myself. This may imply that I finally learn how to play an F, which currently for me it´s more or less the equivalent of saying that I need to finally learn how to wake up at 6 am and go for run before the office. I mean...easy-peasy, right? 

I want the memories, all the memories, to teach me, pamper me,  console me, warm me up,  enrich me, give me peace,  give me strength. Even if they refer to moments or people gone forever, that broke my heart or hurt me badly or made me mad. 

I want the courage to believe strenuously in every cell of myself. Even in the fat ones.

I want to keep calm, even when I am mad and hyper frustrated, even when my mother pulls the triggers of my mind and drives me mad, because I want to remember how much I love her and how stupid it is to waste time arguing about trivialities. Life is a bunch of days and I want to use them well. Very well. Absolutely well. 

I want to ride my new bike with the excitement of a little girl. Even when it´s cold and I tell myself it´s time to buy a car.

I want to keep writing letters to my precious friends, to keep writing on the blog, to keep writing. To shower with my words and thoughts, to moisturize my soul with reflections.

I want to be authentic; even if among my friends “authentic” is now a witty synonym for being a bitch. But I know I am not a bitch, I am just not always aligned.

I want to forgive, but not to be expected to forget. Forgiveness is a lesson, if you forget, you don´t learn.

I want to bake cute cup cakes and do hard-core handicrafts and melt the engine of my new sewing machine by creating hipster colorful “stuff” (I know I still cannot call my creations “clothes”…but just give me a little more time and I´ll get there).  

I want to be grateful for my life, my family, my friends, each of my experiences, my falls, my failures and above all, every accomplishments of mine, which I so much tend to take for granted.

I want to discover the surroundings.

I want to enlarge my world and life.

I want to be just fine.

And satisfied.

And cool. 

You, Thirteen, I am very ready. 

summing up the 12

New Year´s Eve baccalá, empty freezing square, faithful friend. The return to the city of over a million and the return of the ex who seems determined to become a non-ex but will eventually fail again. The birthday and the carnival, the little cheetah girl with the red nose, no pancakes, do it again, laugh. Hikes and love, the tick, his friends slowly becoming mine and his friends slowly fading away. “I just forget to buy you flowers”. Brother´s nuptial feast while excruciatingly detaching. The void, the black hole, finally the rage. The recovery. The rumpus dot net. Cheryl Strayed and Stephen Elliott. Tiny beautiful things (that I deserve). Motorbike with the Londoner. The 100-yrs-old-happy-birthday-nonna-party. Meet-up group, riding my bike against the pole at night ´cos the river is so nice, how can you not look at the river instead of looking at the street? Venice with the insane millionaire on the watertaxi, your friend´s hideous wife at the same freaking airport (please let me go). Summer (sort of). Tennis: the challenge. Internations and his roommate (please let me fucking go). High Summer (still sort of). The bbqs. Bonnie´s angry perversity. Poker, the German-Andalusian Antonio Banderas: explosion of admiration (too bad it´s too late, too bad it´s too much). The little Buddha, Happy Old Soul, Green Pedestrian Crossing.  Silence. Deuter on my shoulders, Oviedo (but you bought me cookies!)-Leon-Santiago. Trails, leaves, blisters, ocean, rain, sun, wind. The Camino friends. Lo Sprao. Awake your soul. It´s awake. Cabbot Cove and Murder she wrote. Finis Terrae. Commencement of a smile. We *heart* Emilia concert. Bocconotti. Non-awkward yet non-appropriate friend-love. Caregiver-chaos. The neverending Budget. Meeting, ppt-avalanche, workshop.  Infinity. The queen of presentations. The dimple-sweetie charming private taxi driver for a night, stinky mango Arbre Magique. Throw it away. Funfair and Funfriends. UN. The interview. Dear GentlemeNTS. (How can I possibly write that!) FFM, Goleador and falling crown. SIAM. Ah, you are going to fall for Bangkok! Not really. Birthday- (non properly delicious-)cocktail on the top of the sky. Delightful Omaba 2.0 (at the Cambodian border to the American who –unsolicited- started talking to “us guys”: “Congratulations, I have just learned that Obama won!!” “Uh, yeah. Thanks you.*pause before confession*. Actually I voted for the other guy”. Well, schade, North Dakota pastor, maybe next time…). The S-p-l-e-n-d-i-d Angkor Wat. G-o-r-g-e-o-u-s Bayon. Tears. Goodbye beloved nonna, I want to hug your ashes. Silk, sun, burn, helmet-free moped, island, mangroves, lagoons. Honeymoon. Orchids, plane, home. Jim Thompson. Thanks for friends and cranberry salad. Human spinning top. Psycho-date, Sweetheart-date. Concert-concentration. Pre-Raphaelite Florence, Adventslieder for my slow friends, no-go-glances. Lina tattoo. Tsunami club, my poor dead bike. Nearly stranger around my blanket. Where are you? I still want you and don´t want to want you. Le Amiche week end. Exhaustion. Delicious Brunello, we *heart* Eric and Oscar. And Werner. And the big screen. And the movies and bread and cheese. Tennis reloaded surprise: I am not that bad at all!  Christmas market, Christmas party with Rudolph and Wixer, Banksy-genius. Home sweet home, Christmas x3, virtual Gazelle on its way, away - to the mountains- we go. Nonna´s function. Five, four, three, two, one. Gone.  

Oh, happy year.