Tag Archive: musings

Buon 4 luglio a tutti gli americani!!!

A me tocca lavorare oggi 😅


Oggi è il primo giorno che riesco a fare assolutamente nulla da almeno sei mesi a questa parte.

Ho passato il weekend in ciclo continuo a dormire e mangiare, sono riuscita ad andare sottopeso per lo stress ed ho fatto veramente fatica a stare su questa settimana…

È finalmente arrivata l’estate, quella che al mattino presto non ti fa respirare ed a mezzogiorno ti inchioda all’asfalto pronta a farti friggere, di notte non ne parliamo nemmeno…una lotta che non ha storia.
Sto iniziando a pensare di dormire nella vasca di Loki.

C’è che sono ancora in fase rem, l’unica cosa che mi ricordo veramente, che m’interessa sta decisamente troppo lontano per essere raggiunta.

Mi fai sorridere, tracciando un cerchio intorno a me, lasciando questa giungla di cemento indietro mentre le ruote della Chevrolet fischiano in un tramonto a 30°.

E Lana, oh la contralto darling…she knows how to find the core of all my emotions.

Sa portarmi dove sei tu.

Back home.

“No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.”


I’ll always be a chrysalis, saving my colours for a better, sunnier day.
In summer I shall sleep in the darkness of my homeward woods, lulled by the cries of the prey.
Shadows and shades of green, peaceful slumber for a never-would-be butterfly.

In winter ego is the furnace of my worlds.
I write to shape them, countless rules bound to my imagination.
I am living hundreds of years just by finding the best path to turn on.
From night to morning, stoking up the flames.
Never once lonely, always thrilled by the chase for perfection.

Still I am the orchid that will blossom but never flower, untouched by time.
In wintry silence the blooms will dry up and fall, nourish the soil where I took root.
I don’t need many things to survive but the ones I consider vital I shall always protect.

I hear the marching flood.
I still fear the black irate waters in my dreams.
But now, like that damned river, I found my sea.
This year the strand is nearer and someday I will return ashore.
Of steel will be my veins and pleasant I shall be no more.


There are no words today.
No idiom capable of describing my state of mind.
I’m happy *and* sad.
Reminiscing and reaching out.
Beginning and End.
Future and Past.
For one day there are no wrongs.
For one day I find joy and peace.
This day you are the one I never knew and found myself loving beyond everything else.
Good Luck, Brother.
Good Luck, Sister.

The first days of November are purity itself to me.
No false promises when daytime gets so much shorter.
The sun is only a disc of molten lava over the red mist.
Leaves draping a path of mud and dew and lush green grass in the place where my mind always is.
The below zero mornings when the sky is like spun glass and everything lies under a white sheet, gold light on the treetops climbing up the walls of my room.
The Search beneath the naked trees for the last ripe fruits, treasure of months behind us.
I love the smell of the woods, the burning hearth, the cup of tea fuming in my cold hands, the sound of the buzzards in search of prey, the silvery water spilling from the rock, sound of wilderness, soft moss silencing my boots, squirrels raiding nuts, my breath in clouds while walking the road of Old.
The wintry peaks so far yet so close in the crisp air.
Cold knows how to paint the hills and find me a moment in time worth to remember besides every line of all my many favorite books.
This is the time in the year where I look around and I don’t say a single thing.
Such is the power over me when winter comes: I find myself again.
This year of all my Years, is the sweeter so far.


And now I’m on a big jet plane,
with my briefcase crammed in my veins
I’ll be the first to toast
to my rotten soul

Somedays I dream
And somedays I find
Somedays I sing
And other days I stay silent
Some nights I ask myself what I left behind
And all the echos of doubt recede like mist in October Mornings.
Train lulls into a peaceful slumber of Amber…
In my mind’s eye you’re seated in front of me.
After so many years, so many seasons gone
Still there like the Sphinx and her riddles

[actually written Sunday afternoon in a painful moment of clarity]

I’m feeling misguided anger but for once I’m hesitant to act on it.

I’m not happy to see things taken, but I am, because old valuable pieces need to live through many human existences and see happiness and prosperity anew every few decades.

With this thought comes the realization that I’m lost to this new shade of future: it’ll be of course a place into time but I’ll rarely see it and through the life of someone else.

Still know that I’m happy of a happiness without warmth but deep-seated in my blood.

Brother is unknown to me and only now I discover how lost, how true, how damaged a blood bond could be with carelessness. (my absence of thought, impudence, impulsiveness and egotistical tendencies)

That’s why I shall love the punishment and I’ll never ask in any way or form.

To me, for me there’s only left a still, quiet place to look from and nothing else.

I understand Brother, and you won’t hear me say a hurtful thing.

Be happy, Brother of mine and live this new difficult life ahead of you.

In the past I always said I never wanted a brother and now I see the foolishness of my ways, the idiocy.

I’m a wreck but I still wish you happiness, truthfulness and goodness.

Absolution is something I will never receive nor do I really want when too many bells have already tolled.

Il Cassetto nel Cassetto

Un Mondo di Parole

Tea Leaves and Reads

“As always, one of her books was next to her.” ― Markus Zusak

Simone Morana Cyla Official Blog

Blog ufficiale dell'artista digitale Simone Morana Cyla.

Mathew Lyons



"What a guy, what a fool am I, to think my breaking heart could kid the moon"


«Sono una figura di un romanzo ancora da scrivere, che passa aerea e sfaldata senza aver avuto una realtà, fra i sogni di chi non ha saputo completarmi». [Pessoa]

Matteo Gianino

Photography Portfolio

Ps: Fun & Travels

Blog Idee viaggio

Fools Journal

Magazine di cultura: letteratura, fotografia, arte, moda, queer life, eventi, musica, cinema, attualità

Dimension Gate

"All worlds, all of time are yours to explore"


Cose che mi piacciono trattate con semplicità.

Gio. ✎

Avete presente quegli scomodi abiti vittoriani? Quelli con la gonna che strascica un po' per terra, gonfiata sul di dietro dalla tournure? Quelli con i corsetti strettissimi e i colletti alti che solleticano il collo? Ecco. Io non vorrei indossare altro.

April is such a Cursed month

Permanent wounds that never heal.

Matt on Not-WordPress

Stuff and things.


...di più equivale a straparlare.


God Hates Us All!

Il Nemico Utile

Exoriatur Lumen Quod Gestavi in Alvo

Fools Journal

Magazine di cultura: letteratura, fotografia, arte, moda, queer life, eventi, musica, cinema, attualità

Anette Olzon Italia

Your first Italian source about Anette Olzon


0, 1, 2, ecc. - si.tormento@gmail.com

Show me a garden that's bursting into life

I'm contemplating thinking about thinking

Kathryn Dawson Photography

"Vision is the Art of seeing the invisible" - Jonathon Swift -

Briciolanellatte Weblog

Navigare con attenzione, il blog si sbriciola facilmente

the m0vie blog

an Irish nerd's eye look at the world of film

TheCoevas official blog

Strumentisti di Parole/Musicians of words

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

music, poetry, musings, photography and philosophy from a woman who found her way back home and wants you to come over for a hike and a cocktail.

F. H. Hakansson

F. H. Hakansson - Writer


Ventitrè estati, ventidue inverni. Immaginare storie. Scriverle con un lapis su pezzi di carta ingiallita. Scappare lontano. Viaggiare con la mente e con il cuore. Sognare una casina bianca e un giardino pieno di rose. Leggere un libro. Guardare il mare. Ascoltare in silenzio la voce dei propri pensieri. Affacciarsi su un balcone e guardare l'alba. Fotografare un istante e conservarlo gelosamente nel proprio cuore. Fumare una sigaretta su una vecchia sdraio verde mentre guardo le stelle. Immaginare qualcuno dall'altra parte del mondo. Colorare di giallo la mia vita. Giallo. Giallo, perchè è prima del rosso. Giallo, come un limone. Giallo, come la mia canzone. Giallo, perchè disturba. Giallo, come qualche miliardo di stelle.

The Harry Potter Companion

the story, the beauty, and the magic of harry potter