The Old Man
This is a writing experiment I did back in December 2003. It's not really good, especially translated (as my English knowledge may be good but it's not astounding), but it's the beginning of a sort of series with other three posts, so here it is.
The Old Man, he did say everything about it. He predicted everything that is happening now. The Old Man, hiding behind the mask of a human derelict at the borders of society, dwelling inside that slumb in the furthest outskirts of the big city, living a life of survival in the harshest conditions a town could provide. A border man, in brief. I remember being gazed by his almost blind eyes, those gaps in his yellowing face. Then he crimped his nicotine-stained beard, and made the suggestion of a sneer, showing off his black and yellow teeth. A yellowing man, in brief. Yes, he predicted everything, but I did not believe him. Does it matter now? Despite knowing the chain of events, I have not opposed it. I can't act anymore on the past, I can only count on this little window on the present, hoping I can influence the future. I can still almost feel in my mouth the bad taste of the Old Man's coffee. Next, he turned the cup upside down leaving it to dry upon a heater. Everything was coated with such squalor, that the heater itself would have begged a trash pelmet rather than that hut, if only it could speak. Once dried, the cup was moved by his arthritic hand from the lurid metal of the heater to the filthy wood of the table. "Do you scry into coffee bottoms?" I asked. He gazed at me, or so it seemed, and showed again those teeth that looked like the keyboard of an old crazy piano. "Yes... it's.. it's what I tell everybody... but actually... yes... to you I can also tell the truth" the Old Man told spitting around, spacing sparsely his words, and then with a sudden move of his arm he swept the table surface. The cup falled but did not break, it encountered some rotten rubbish that saved it from the hard reality of the floor. The Old Man went on: "I... I scry into the bottom of the eyes."
He didn't lie.
now on air, anyblog international
Well, at least one of you noticed before this official news release came around.
I was struck by an idea. Yeah, well, shit happens... As I said, I was struck by this idea: writing my blog also in english. That's it, give a more or less free translation of each and every post. So, from now on, "Blog Qualunque" is also the Anyblog. But why? I can almost hear you say (well, really I don't fool myself, I think noone gives a damn about it :) ), and such is my answear: why not? Yeah, I admit I'd like to have some international visitors, but that's not the point. The point is to write in english, because it's something I like to do. That's it. No more, no less. As follows from rule I.2 of my manifesto. And, who knows, maybe it could also help me improve this English of mine. We'll see. In any case, apart from translating what I'm writing at the moment, I'd also like to move here some of the old Italian posts (those preceding my move to Altervista). Surely I'd like to see translated the Writer's posts: texticles (none other than small texts 
) written by me when feeling in a writer mood and scattered around the blog. In any case, I retain myself the right to translate freely, and at times I think there'll be either small or even big variations in the english version...
But let's change completely tone and subject, and let's talk about comething completely different. First of all, I live in Rome. Yesterday evening I had to go out and reach piazza Barberini (an 8 and a half km route), by scooter as usual. But then, just at the doorstep going out, it struck me, and I slapped my forehead. The scooter. It was at the mechanic's, the muffler stuck up with burnt oil. I thought a little about it, then I did what I later joked about being the most logical solution. I went by bike.
I know many out there, scattered through european or more in general foreign cities, may find it not so surprising. Alas, Rome is not really bike-friendly. Firstly, it was built upon seven hills, and many more surround the original center of the city. So it is a matter of going up, and down, and up again, and then, you guess it, yet another time down. Next, there are really few bike tracks, and none at all in the center. Last but not least, well I'd say drivers are not really kind and merciful... But the heck with it, I seize my right to tread my city by bike, with the same (if not even more) rights a car or scooter driver has. I'm among you all, let's see what you can do.
Ah, my bike. Me and my bike. We are really much like a boy and a girl: we dated through all of the highschool, then for one reason or another we split up after the first year at university, seeing each other occasionally; every now and then we have had some backfire, at times for a few days, at times for longer, but always ending up splitting again; there's been some quarrel, it has happened I could not count on her when I needed it, or that I treated her bad and she remained offended for days. Three days ago, abandoned as I said before by my scooter, we met again and the passion was rekindled. It's not over yet between me and her.
In any way, after this short pink-shaded digression, let's get back to my little jaunt. Well, going there was good, but getting back was even better, something awesome. Also because the trip began at half past three in the morning. Well, rambling through a city like Rome, at night, empty, feeling the asphalt swiftly gliding under my feet, earning every single meter of this metropolis, taking my time, with music in my ears... it was like one of those movie scenes, where the protagonist just goes on and the spectator (and in this case they both coincided with me) is overflown with pure music. Beautiful. Really, really beautiful. Rome at night is urban poetry only waiting for eager eyes to read it.
... sure, well, I woke up quite weary this morning...
Void
What follows is a tribute to a short story I read a long time ago, something written by a friend of mine. A sort of remake in short.
It began two years ago. I opened my eyes after the long night, and nothing shoved itself before them. Not the light hanging from the ceiling. Nor the bookcase near the bed. Nor the chair. Not even the bed was there, the emptyness was total. I was alone with myself. And so I remained. Something like three or four hours passed, I don't know. It was back then that I learned. The first to reappear was the chair. With a great effort I managed to reconstruct it, splinter after splinter, nail after nail. It took me twenty minutes at least. But eventually it was there, hanging in the empty void with me. Then I decided I'd rather have an island to cling upon in all that nothingness. The bed would be the next. I began with the simplest: blankets and linen. Next I filled them with the mattress, I placed the wooden sticks upon the frame that followed them, then the metal legs. the bookcase was the hardest. Every single book had its own identity I could not treat lightly, every one required its time. So I spent the rest of the morning giving substance to the emptiness between the shelves. Compared to the latter the dresser was really simple, also because my wardrobe did never even come near being original. And next the writing desk, end the big cupboard, too. Quite satisfied, I leaned from my bed to let my look fall into the empty infinity below, as deep as my mind could concieve. It couldn't be left like that. Tile after tile I made the floor too. Next thing was to erect the walls, while closing the box with the ceiling turned out to be simple, subtracting me to the view of that vast sky which really was everything but a sky. Next, hinges and shutter, came the door. Only then it became possible for me to get up.
Since then it goes on like that. Every morning. I must recreate my room. And not only. The whole flat, and if I have to go out, also the lift, the exterior of the big building in which I live, all the people I meet, the car. nothing exist at the beginning of the day. I have to remake everything. I can't go on like this anymore. I have to remember evry single detail, or else I could fail, and what then, what would happen? I... I can't everyday rebuild everything from scratch, I stay at home more and more. Or in my room, the whole day. I can't carry this anymore. I really can't carry this...
the manifesto is up
After much labour and not so few errors I had to correct, and exploiting a pivot funambolism, I upped the manifesto of the anyblog, which has been by my side for so long. But, alas, it's time I'm out of at the moment, and I can't build a post out of it. I must go. As for now, click on "Manifesto" up here.
Ehm ehm
So, what do ye think, o ye who hereby wander?
Just to show off the potentialities of this astounding new technology, I'll just shoot you a splinter, that is a fast and furious entry to be read on the right.
And also, why not a good poll? Do you like this brand new template?
As an Italian would say, it makes the constipated defecate (0 votes)
Hmph, there are better around (0 votes)
Yeah, well, not bad (0 votes)
Woah, that's awesome (2 votes)
Template? What are you talking about, cruciates? (0 votes)
Here it begins...
Hahahaha, here is the first entry of this new era!!!
That's it, here the Anyblog project is born. A weblog in two languages, italian (in which I've been blogging since september 2003), and english, into which I'll translate my post whenever I can.
As for this one, the corrisponding entry in italian said:
"That's it, the anyblog becomes independent. I have to go out, so longer introductions will have to wait."
Italiano