A Jump in My Chair
Thunder, a jump in my chair, pasta on my trousers. I smile. Sixteen years ago, on a riverbank, the same sound meant something else entirely.
MyNotes
These scribbles, my kaleidoscope of thought, shall reveal the way I perceive the world.
Latest posts
It's 22:53
At 22:53, I move through space and time, between my home, my memories and the people I love. Then, at 22:55, I return. Here, now.
My Fog
An old, blurry photo brings back the memory of a walk through the thick fog - a protective blanket where the world fades away, sounds are muffled, and the only certainty left is your own thoughts.
Señor
An unexpected meeting on a hot morning, between a slow backup, an offered coffee, and the contagious serenity of someone who knows how to be grateful for life.
The Black Mug
A black mug, never used in 22 years, outlives the park whose name it still carries. A coincidence, a moment of weightlessness, and the quiet pleasure of feeling lighter.
Winter is Over
A blood pressure cuff, a worn folder with someone else's name on it, and the walks to the pharmacy through the freezing air. Winter is over, thankfully.
The Lock
An empty wardrobe, a rescued pendulum clock, and a lingering scent in the kitchen. Closing a door, forcing the key a little, and leaving a piece of life behind.
My City
I spent years trying to return to my city, only to understand that what I was looking for had disappeared long before I did.
The Red Envelope
A red envelope reopened after many years. A few pages, too many questions.
The Last Shift
A forgotten cotton swab in an old cabinet brings back the memory of a terrifying afternoon on the road, the indifference of crowds, and the quiet dignity of a stranger's last day at work.
Anatoly's Mother
Anatoly's mother waits for her son's messages with the quiet, stubborn hope only a mother can have. In the space between one phone call and the next, war enters the house through silences, small gestures, and the unbearable weight of what everyone already knows.
I'm Still Guybrush
A jolt before dawn, a terminal waiting in the dark, and the Monkey Island soundtrack pulling me back to a warm summer evening in 1991. The screen has always been my safe harbour - it just took me thirty years to understand why.
Two Seashells
A chance encounter with Ivan Graziani in the mid-nineties, a nod I didn't deserve, and the years it took to understand what he already knew about our sea and the places we leave behind.
The Usual, Thanks
A snowy drive to a meeting that turned out to have nothing to do with IT - and a pizzaiolo who understood politics better than the politicians.
The Scent of Denial
An anonymous white bottle in a 2001 photo brings back the sharp smell of adolescence - of treatments, hidden shame, and the night I looked in the mirror and finally saw what everyone else already had.