It was a day very much like this days that take place between the worldwide celebrated Christmas and New Year. I’m not sure if the current days or the current feelings have let this words be.

My feet stumble on the steep hill, carried on by something like a promise of breeze in warm humid days. Such joy there is with the known laughs and voices around me, with the wild raspberries just waiting for brave agile hands that can manage the thorns and hold them hostage into mouths, with the bug bites scratching while looking at a horizon of velvety mountains and a clear blue sky.

My hands are firmly caressing the grass on the side of the hill. It’s a wonderful view, an unforgettable memory in the making, a thrill for the waterfall that I will soon get to see. But beyond all that, it’s so high. So high and the possible fall seems so endless… I have built a little bit of fear inside me, as if I were into a transparent elevator. Hold on to the plants’ roots people, and try not to look down.

There it is, before my one decade old eyes… Marvel gets mixed up with annoying sounds from other people, warning of not falling into the cold river course. Nature being herself, with herself. A virgin looking place with the power of turning every person into a conqueror of a new land in a new world. A place where piano songs are born and lovers’ sweet words are kept safe for eternity.

It’s time to go back and the water won’t stop falling until the day I will return, even if it is what it seems as we go further and further away and the water’s songs can’t reach my ears anymore. The same path must be followed on the contrary direction. The hill shrank to a shorter height and the fall seems now to be impossible. Why is this? Does every experience have something to teach? Does every path become a part of us once we cross it for a first time? Does facing fear once make it get smaller each time? Do the good things always overshadow fear?

…Beautifully and not fearless, as the walk on the hill. Eventually and slowly, as the turning of a sunflower. Strong and delicate, as the waterfall.



Someone I didn’t know, with whom I had been talking to for around twenty minutes, asked me to write articles for a website, in exchange for a certain amount of money (or apples? …no specific currency was ever mentioned). I didn’t accept, for multiple reasons: The whole thing was suspicious, I’m not a professional writer, it had to be written in italian, and most importantly, the subject was -literally as the person said it- Girly (fashion, relationships, makeup, and other given definitions I don’t remember). Laughter.

I don’t even know where to start…

Perhaps I could start saying that reading the violent book passages in American Psycho was equally dreadful for me as reading the passages where the author engages on extremely detailed descriptions of clothing and designers. The first, disturbing; the second, boring. (This is not my analysis of the book, just a comparison that simply came to my mind at this moment).

Or maybe I can comment that high heels are big enemies of mine; in them, I look like Bambi learning to walk. And I can’t help to wonder why and why would women (and possibly certain men too) want to pursue a nearly tip-toe standing position that unbalances the evolutionary achieved equilibrium of the skeleton? Not to mention the fact that, while walking, you -or I- have to skillfully maintain that position and avoid ending up with your -or my- knees touching the ground while at it.

Also in the same subject, in case someone might think “oh, she must be tall, if she wasn’t, she’d love high heels”, I’ll say that I’m as tall as 1.62 m.

The fact that I will only mention the word relationships talks by itself.

Now let’s address makeup. I’ve worn makeup like three times in my life, two of those times because I was forced talked into it by my sister. What if it is a little shadowy under your eyes, or why if the sun has been a little unkind with your skin, or what if your eyelashes are not 5 cm long, or what if you have a little scar somewhere? I know some people, women exactly, that look like a completely different person when seen without makeup. Why would you want to cover yourself so much that you end up not looking like yourself? …I don’t know if nail polish is included inside the makeup category, but I don’t do that either, I like my natural pink and white looking nails.

Nevertheless, I feel compelled to clarify that I don’t look like Chewbacca. I’m pro-white teeth and pro-peelings, I have a minor obsession with plucking my eyebrows, I do like pretty cloth (dresses included) and shoes, I brush my hair sometimes… I like looking nice; but not at expenses of what a given society thinks is beautiful. Anytime, I will choose natural freckles over a fake flawless skin look, and comfortable shoes over death traps.

Beauty is subjective, and along with fashion, they both change with time, location, and the observer. And even if resistance to certain beauty practices is growing with the new generations, I will give some examples… Look at the long neck women of the Kayan tribes in Burma and Thailand, the XVIII century’s white wigs fashion in European influenced countries, the teeth blackening of traditional Vietnamese tribes, the foot binding custom in China, the plastic surgery boom worldwide (artificially smaller or bigger anti-gravity, anti-genes and/or anti-age body parts), the Japanese Geishas, etc.

Modesty apart, I may not be Girly, but I’m a beautiful woman nonetheless.

Oh, and no offense was intended… I bet Chewie is handsome for someone out there, and for himself.


There used to be, in the little green space at the front of the house where my grandparents used to live many years ago, an oversized bougainvillea tree.

Apart from being eye catching with the beauty of its flowers and the wildness that it projected due to lack of trimming, the tree was a playground… a delight when you climbed it and sat at one of the tree branches, and not such a delight when its thorns left you a scar.

I don’t know who planted the bougainvillea; I don’t know how long it took it to get so big. What I know is that it was there, very alive, dancing with the wind.

A situation started to be noticed. In the living room, floor tiles started to rise in some places, a couple of them were even broken and had to be replaced. Who was to be blamed?, the bougainvillea, specifically, its roots. The same apparently possible two options were considered and talked about many times: leveled floors and no bougainvillea (a tree that had carried, wounded and watched grow two different generations), or, purplish flowers, vegetal personified memories, and the appearance of an underground growing volcano right below the most used room in the house.

The tree won, the purplish flowers with a yellow centered eye were seen for many more summers. Some measures were taken, some roots were cut, but some other roots still kept lifting the floors. Overall, the benefit was bigger than the damage.

This memory came to me trying to think of a better way to face a current situation in my life. An oversized tree has grown in my property and, same as the bougainvillea, I don’t know how it got here, it presented itself following irrational laws of nature; even if I had dreamed of it, it was unasked for, unthought-of. It’s amazing, weird, big, special, unique and beautiful, but the thing is… it has started lifting my floors, and the tiles are hurting.

According to my thoughts, I’m also faced with two possible options. The first option is linked to something I know without being able to explain how I know it. The tree will live forever if I let it. I’ll have to do some trimming as with any other tree, and some major root cutting. This tree has the potential to be an immortal giant bougainvillea.

The second option says that it might not be worth it to save the tree, because it has been with me for little time, and though it has brought some strong delightful memories, they are somewhat incomplete. Sun and water have helped it grow; it wasn’t all done on its own. But this same sun and water, so caring at times, can be suddenly gone, leaving the tree alone, to myself to take care of. I don’t understand their actions. I’m afraid sun and water come only to make the roots grow and result in broken floor tiles in my living room…