In the pleasant cool air, not too warm, not too cold, a man strolled his large belly without haste. In the distance he saw another one who seemed to be inspecting his navel through the light gauze of his knee-long tunic.

Hands behind his back, the first man approached the navel looking one. “Good morning, how are you today?” he said.

The other man looked up, his eyes wide open like a wondering child. As soon as he focused on the man in front of him, he squeezed his eyes into two thin slots, before opening them again, his anger flowing out of his cataracts.

“What are YOU doing here?” he shouted, his hands clutching the gauze around his navel.

The first man looked somewhat surprised. “Well, I was sent here, just like you, I suppose.”

“YOU have no right to being here. YOU greedy people destroyed my country, plundered it, took away all our resources, raped our women, humiliated our men!”

He scratched his white neck in hesitation. “I think there is no point discussing it now, is it?”

“No, I want to discuss it. YOU don’t deserve to be here, you, rapacious bastard” and pointed his black finger to him.

The first man’s hands pushed from mid-hair towards his feet. “Let’s go easy on names calling. I understand your point, but that was the past, you know. And I wasn’t even there.”

A third man came from a distance, with his hands behind his back as well. His belly was not as large, but his legs were as white as the man with the big belly. The hair covering his legs made them though look dark, creating a harsh contrast with his white gauze robe. He approached, drawn by the reverberating voice.

“It sounds like a lively discussion here. What is it about, if I may?” he asked, and nodded his head looking now at the big belly now at the navel gazing man.

“The gentleman here is quite upset about the past.”

“I see. But what’s the point now?”

“This is what I said, but he insists to make his point.”

“Yes, because YOU people should not be here,” said the navel man, his voice now a high shrill, the red strains in his eyes increased.

The big belly looked at the hairy legs. “Were you there, sir?”

He thought a moment. “Not really. I mean, I must have been a small child.”

The navel took the clue. “You left our children die of hunger, because you people insisted our governments pay their own death.”

The hairy legs looked at the big belly. “Death?”

“I suppose he means debts,” big belly said.

“Oh, right. That would make sense, yes.” He turned to the navel. “Sir, pardon me if I intrude. But borrowed money, should be repaid,” said the hairy legs, while the big belly nodded.

The navel stomped his black feet with white sole. “You brought us into death.”

“Death, again.” The man scratched his big belly. “He must have an articulation problem.”

“Evidently. Or maybe it is…what is it called? A lapse something. It takes the name from a gentleman, who is also lodged here…”

“Freudian lapse, maybe?” the big belly asked.

“Yes, that’s! Freud is the gentleman´s name. Have you met him?”

“No, not yet. I have been here for a few months and I still have much to explore around.”

“Oh, indeed. One does not get bored here.”

“Glad to hear that.”

They turned to the man, who was again looking at his navel, unconcerned by the conversation.

Hairy legs and big belly were about to leave the navel man, when they heard him shouting again.

“YOU don’t deserve to be here…” his tone was this time a trembling bass, which resonated all around.

“Sir, as we said. It was not us. We were not there. And now it is too late anyway. Relax and enjoy your stay. If you want, I have been here for a while and I can show you around,” offered hairy legs. “But perhaps you know it already?”

The navel voice resonated even louder. “I know how things are around here. Even if I arrived just yesterday, I know everything, I saw everything.”

Hairy legs frowned. “Yesterday?”

The big belly and the hairy legs looked at each other.

“He was not there either.”

“Indeed. He was not there; he is too young for it.”

“Ah, poor thing. Dying so young…”

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Post scheduling works wonder, staging life when there is none. I haven’t touched my Substack account for a month now, managing to just read a couple of comments to my posts.

I planned to work on some writing at the beginning of April, when I was visiting my mother in Italy for a couple of weeks. I obviously was delusional. I wonder by what law of the universe I split into two personality the moment I step over the threshold of my mother’s flat. I am no longer the grown-up with enough life experience to handle difficult situations. Instead, a gloomy teenager seems to resurge from the void and fight to take control of my being. Long gone automatic responses break out free from the recesses of my soul, triggered by my mother’s old and known behavior. Ignore the rational notion of knowing her character inside out. Forget any drop of understanding for her failing mental and physical health. Turn your back at everything you learned about being curious and open. You are again 19.

I was that age when I finally left home, after several difficult years where sulkiness and a certain degree of mutism were my weapons of choice to protect myself from violence which could come at any time, for a word, for a thought. It doesn’t matter that with hindsight it was not as bad. I felt it that way.

My father did not drink. He did not gamble. He worked hard and brought all the money home. Hits were in the end seldom. But the constant fear, the climate of terror, my inability to accept that as normal, made me hate living at home.

Time passes by, I grow up, my parents grow old. Despite some hiccups along the way, age and distance allow for a more amicable relationship. Growing out of emotional childhood, I can clearly see the monsters my parents were confronted with. They were not mine, nor it’s my responsibility to fight them (whether my parents or their monsters). My father’s departure in 2020 breaks my heart.

Learning about life and about me has been so far a great journey and it is not over yet. I am still looking forward to discovering new talents and exploring new ways to expand.

And yet. One step into the door and my balance is lost. On my mother’s sleeping couch my life is on hold, as if it did not dare go on in the company of that ugly teenager, who sometimes plays the grown-up. A hidden rage, which I unconsciously hide, takes me by surprise. I thought I worked through that already.

Each visit feels like a failure, a default on my own self. Sometimes the sailing is smoother than others, but I am never in control. Either my mom or my teenager self seem to hold the wheel. My other self is sleeping in the back of the car.

Despite all this, I dread the approaching end. I know it will hit me in the face as strong as a forceful slap from my father, leaving his handprint on my cheek.

My mother, the perpetrator of so much unconscious emotional blackmail, will leave me alone in the world, my mind lighter, my pockets heavier, and a huge hole in my heart.

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.“What are you looking for?” he asked his wife, seeing her busy searching the flat.

“My brain?”

“What do you mean, “your brain”, question mark? Are you or are you not looking for your brain? You don’t know what you are looking for?”

“Yes, yes, it’s my brain I am looking for.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“Gosh, if I knew it, I would not need looking for it.” She looked around with wondering eyes.

“Where did you see it, last time?”

“I don’t know. Would you help me looking?”

“Uff, ok. How does it look like?”

“Oh, not so sure.”

“How am I supposed to look for it, if I have no clue about how it looks,” he said raising his voice a notch.

“It is fairly new, I did not use it much.”

“When did you use it last time? And what do you need it for, anyway?” he asked with a frown.

“It’s election day, I need to go voting.”

“Oh, but you don’t really need one for that, do you?”

“Not really, but I always take it with me, in case someone complains.”

“Ach, don’t worry. If they ask, just shout loud the first slogan you like and you will be heard.”

“Is it so?” she asked excited.

“Yeah, try it. I did it countless time. When I bothered going voting, that is…”

On his handy, he scrolled in his Facebook profile to find an appropriate group.

“Here, take this one,” he said, “The earth is flat.” He kept scrolling. “No, this one is more appropriate: the virus was engineered as a population control scheme.”

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“Really?” she asked, eyes wide open.

“Sure, it is written here. It must be the truth.”

“Aaah, yes, it makes sense. Ok, if you don’t mind my using it.”

“Not at all, not at all. Be my guest. Who are you going to vote for, by the way?”

“Oh, I don’t know his name. But it’s that nice looking man, with blue eyes, you know, the one who used to be an actor.”

“Good choice, let’s show the fucking elite that their job can be easily done by a common man.”

“I haven’t thought that, but maybe you are right. Oh, that’s my brain,” she said, taking it out from a hole behind the closet.

“Mmm, you’d better put it back, you really don’t need it. The air is quite humid, and it might get cold.”

“Yes, you are right. I heard it gets worn out, if you use it too much.”

“For sure, see how screwed those in power are…it’s the fault of their brains, I’m certain.”

She nodded, and put it back where she found it, happy to preserve its pristine state.

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He started laughing but he soon noticed that around him nobody was laughing. A couple of persons turned to look at him, and soon they were all staring at him. He wanted to point out to that guy close to the door who stumbled badly…it was funny how his body moved convulsively while he tried not to fall on the floor, his impassive face disfigured by his open mouth and curled nose. It was funny and yet nobody was laughing. The gazes were still fixed on him, and he felt uncomfortable again, like that day when he asked a colleague at his new job how much he was earning. That time too, he felt other people’s stare piercing him from all direction. He was confused, he did not know what was wrong, but he understood that it was not appropriate. Like that time, he wanted to apologize, but he lacked the right words. What a weird place, he thought, so many unspoken rules he did not know, so full of signs he did not get, and so many people who looked all the same. But he was going to spend the next three years of his life there, and he had to adjust. The bus stopped and he stood up jumping from his seat at the last moment to get out of the bus. The exit doors almost closing on him, he managed to slide through. Breathing some fresh air, he made a mental note to himself not to laugh anymore.

The LED panel showed one minute. She knew the signal was not to be taken too seriously. Public transport companies seemed to have their own definition of a minute. She paced back and forth on the platform, as if getting warm to cover the distance from her final stop to her office as fast as she could. She mentally rehearsed the way up (hopefully the lift was working), along the long dark corridor to reach her locker and grab her stuff. How many minutes would still be left? Would she be able to quickly go to the bathroom and rush to the floor to log into the system on time? She knew that day, like many others, she had to forego the coffee and the greeting to her colleague in the other team.

Her work material under her arms, she scanned the floor to look for a free desk, with only half a hope to find something closer to the natural light. Settling for a darker spot next to a friendly colleague, she sat down with the usual feeling of constriction caused by the constant log in and off into the telephone System. Like a life-saving heart monitor, the System would scan her functions for the next 8 hours, each unallowed break minutely recorded and punished. She was though free to breath in and out as many times she wished, even sigh, and she could choose at will where to locate her breathing; The Company recommended a belly breath, to better handle difficult calls. Sometimes she took a whole complaining call breathing all the way up to her neck, in rebellion. Sometimes, she felt that was her only freedom.

This year I felt like throwing a big celebration: connections and reconnections, delicious home made food and a little indulgence. Laughs, games and surprises.

Before the party

Deep cleaning of the studio turned guest room.

First bunch of flowers on my actual b-day from my husband. His gift was an add-on tour with a guide in Yangshuo. Looking forward to it!

I spent from 8h30 to later afternoon on the Friday preparing all the food.

Menu:

black lentils with carrots, onions, a little bacon cooked in home made vegetables broth

vegetarian couscous

lasagne with ragù (plenty of meat!)

vegetarian quiche with onions, leeks, carrots and sweet potato

grilled peppers and eggplants

natural yoghurt and lemon cream with biscuits

The party

Friends also brought something for the buffet: lentil soup, tomato and mozzarella, meat balls, cheesecake, apple pie.

This good looking apple pie was delicious. Italian recipe :).

More flowers. I had no more vases!

I love games and see people playing as well. I prepared an ice-breaker to allow guests to mix and talk to each other. Despite the language barrier, it worked great.

But nobody had all answers right and won the prize!

After the party

A few years ago, there would not be any beer, wine or other alcohol left. We are all getting older…

I know we will drink more in the following months, just because we have so much at home. The temptation is always there. Grabbing a beer after a hard day will not have the barrier of having to go to the supermarket and buy one.

Luckily some guests spend the Sunday with us and helped us with the leftover food. I still had to freeze plenty of food. Won´t need to cook for a few weeks😁

Exausted but happy. It has been a long arch of creation, the party being only its peak: from one idea in the mind (let´s have a party), love, friendship and fun has been exchanged and spread around. Food, games, gifts are but the physical embodiment of creation in its many forms.

Back to my usual routine, a cleaner flat and spring flowers will delight my view for a few days longer.

Absorbed by the multitude of messages, news, pictures, notifications, advertising, chats, and the latest shopping website, she was unaware of the speed of the bus. Suddenly a sharp braking. In slow motion the younger son, standing on the platform moved on the site to avoid being hit by the stroller where his brother was sleeping. At the last moment, the older brother stretched one arm to avoid the stroller from tumbling, in vain. The banging of the toddler’s head on the floor triggered a chain reaction, a noise which reached the mother, who slowly raised her eyes and took in the scene. Her baby, screaming, on the floor. The older son, with a guilty face. The large body of the driver, who after stopping the bus, approached to check on the passengers.

“Why don’t you keep an eye on your child?” he shouted.

The toddler was now in his mother’s arms, the desperate cry of the tiny baby covered the answer of the mother. The driver grumpily kept shouting on his way back to the driver’s seat.

The mother sat back with the baby on her lap, and circled him with her arms tight, tight, so tight to give her enough space in front of the baby’s body, to scroll the magical world contained in her smartphone.

.

“It rains again,” I said spooking the cigarette smokes out of the window.

“Yes. If it continues, how are you going to work tomorrow? Can’t you take leave?” my mother asked, cutting the veggies for the soup.

“No, I can’t. I will walk,” I said crushing the butt of the cigarette in the ugly ashtray I made when I was eight or so. I went to look for my rain boots. I rummage in the closet to no avail.

“Mom, where are my rain boots?” I asked her.

“Oh, your brother was here the other day and he needed them for Marisa.”

I looked at her with open eyes. “You gave away my rain boots for him to give to his girlfriend?” I felt a sour taste in my mouth, acid shooting right up from my stomach to my throat.

“He mentioned that hers were only up to the ankle. Yours are up to the knee and I thought that in this weather it would be better for her.”

“But…did you not think that I might need them too?

“Uh, what a pain you are, I just wanted to be nice to her,” my mother said looking at me as if I were a monster.

“Don’t you know that I also use them to go to work when the rain is heavy?” I said, my voice sounding like the chirp of a dying bird.

“Walk to work, walk to work, what do I know? You are seldom here, I could not ask you. And Marisa is almost family, like a daughter. They are marrying next April,” she said throwing the pieces of vegetables in the pot with boiling water.

“How am I going to walk tomorrow in the flooded streets?” I ask, my stomach now closed by a knot.

“I don’t know. Your business. You are the one who wants to work, so you are on your own.”

“But these were my boots,” I said with a veil covering my eyes.

“I bought you the boots last year, when you had no money to pay for it, I can decide what I do with them,” she said talking to the wall.

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I turned to my heels, my entire body trembling with hatred, and once in my room, I threw myself on the bed to hide my tears of rage. It was hard enough working in that awful restaurant, under the eyes of all those disgusting men who always touched my breast or my behind by “mistake”. I grabbed my phone and then remembered that I had nobody to send a message to, since my boyfriend left me. Because I was working in the restaurant. Like a prostitute, he said.

I went to my desk and took out my savings. Drying my eyes, I counted them. A few more wages were all it took to set myself free from this hatred. I looked out the window to check the state of the streets. “No, rain. I won’t let you stop me. We’ll see tomorrow who is more stubborn.” Then I grabbed my backpack and put in a change of clothes, before I stretched on the bed, dreaming of the day where my tears won’t compete with the rain and I will gladly tell the rain: “You won, you have more, this time.”

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I would be totally cool, and not reproach him that he promised to call me last night. I would be sweet and understanding about the delay.

I switched my e-reader on, and, just to make sure I would not miss his call, I put my mobile in front of me, screen up. I briefly checked that the battery was still ok and then I immerged myself in the book. After half a page my order arrived, and I pushed the e-reader aside to avoid making it dirty. As I was busy eating and could not read my e-reader, I checked my mobile, my e-mails, my Facebook, my Instagram, my Twitter, to make sure I did not miss anything important since I left work.

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Ok, nothing. I finished my toast and took my book again. After one page a notification appeared on the mobile screen, but I could easily see that it was just an unimportant app. I focused again, but my eyes kept drifting to my mobile screen. I thought I was glad that it was not like in old movies, where women stayed home next to the phone waiting for a call. I told myself that at least I can enjoy some fresh air. Why the asshole is not calling me, though. He is already off work since ages, and he was supposed to call me yesterday. At the very least, he should send me a message. I checked my messenger, but there was nothing. I put my mobile on the table with a little more emphasis than required and started to get angry at him that he did not let me focus on my book. I read half a page, feeling my rage mounting, when a thought hit me hard. Maybe he is sick or injured and he needs my help. My rage evaporated, now replaced by anxiety. Should I call him, to make sure he is all right? Is it ok, if I call him in the hospital? Maybe he cannot answer. The indecision was by then knotting my stomach, and froze my fingers, on the verge of speed dial his number. I felt his pain, as my eyes almost filled with tears. Then the phone rang, waking me up from my anxious trance.

‘Oh, it’s you Simone, I was afraid it was bad news about Michael. He might be sick, he didn’t call me yesterday.’

‘Michael Wulf? He is not sick, I saw him at the library. We left together and he told me he was going to pick up his new girlfriend to catch a movie.’

I felt as if I buckets of iced water had been just poured down on me, shocking me awake.

I calmly arranged to meet my friend next week as a small tear escaped from my right eye. I hung up and look outside the window, hating myself for falling again.

My first video on Substack!

I will be doing a series of events about TCM and women´s health and I decided to announce it by video. Sorry that the audio is not great but before I change my mind, I better publish it.

To make it clear: the events are free and there is no need to subscribe to my Substack to attend, but if you subscribe (free version available, of course), you will be informed about the next events.

In all cases I need a registration by e-mail to be able to send the link. The e-mail will only be used once for that purpose.

Enjoy some background about the event.

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“Come, I tell you a story. Which one do you want to hear?”

“Cinderella”

“No, that’s a silly story. Two stupid girls who cut their feet to catch a man and another one who accepts to be treated like an animal instead of fighting for herself…There is nothing good in that story,” I told my niece, lowering my voice, as my daughter was right next door. My daughter of course knew what I thought about telling silly, old fashioned stories to children, I never bought any of that crap when she was little. She later accused me of robbing her childhood and made her a miserable woman because I taught her to think by herself and be independent, but I believe she turned out just fine. So, if you ask me, my experiment worked and I will use the same methods with my niece, oh yes, and see her blossoming into an open, curious, and strong woman, who does not need a man to live but can choose to take one, if she wanted to.

“Your problem, my dear, is that you work too much,” I told once my daughter as she was again complaining about her stolen childhood.

“My problem, mom, is that you made me so picky about men that nobody wants to come close to me for more than half an hour,”

“Oh, was your daughter’s conception that fast?” I joked, indifferent to her indignant look.

I know she felt lonely but who doesn’t? There will always be moments in life where alienation will take over and you have to allow it, take it as a medicine, swallow it until the pain is gone and you are up on your feet again, ready for the world. After all, we create our own solitude, that’s what I always thought.

“You are not alone,” I often tell her, “I am here, your daughter is here. We eat meals together every day, so technically you are not alone. You feel lonely, but that’s another thing and we cannot help with that, can’t we Rosanna?” My niece was at that time still a little baby, a sunny smile always illuminating her chubby cheeks.

“I like Cinderella, she has a nice gown and I like the pumpkin turned into a carriage. You not think it is magical?” my niece now asked.

“No, what I think is magical is how a brain can come up with thousands of ideas and implement them.”

“I don’t understand. What you do with ideas?”

“You do them, you get an idea and you do it.”

“Like what?”

“You think you want to eat a cookie, you go and get a cookie,” I tell my niece.

“But…but mom does not buy cookies, she says they are not good for me,” she tells me opening her small arms to emphasise the absence of cookies.

Proud of my daughter, I am. I also did not buy cookie, not very often at least.

“So, what else could you do to get a cookie?” I asked my niece.

“I don’t know,” she said with large green eyes, her eyebrows raising up funnily.

“Think harder, think about where you can get a cookie,” I insist.

She looks around, turns her head right and left. She sees a ball and she picks it up. I smile as the ball is slighter larger than her tiny body, amazed by the cuteness of this child. She throws the ball in front of me and looks up.

“This is not a cookie,” I say.

“No cookie. But…but Joshua likes the ball. Joshua has cookies, his mother gives him cookie. I give him the ball, and I take a cookie,” she said, again her small hands and arms weaving in the air as she explains her idea to me.

I laugh, and tell she got it right, that was an awesome idea. I keep the lesson about the value of a ball versus the value of a cookie for a later time.

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Life has its own way of keeping you busy and instead of the rosy picture I had in mind for this break (with sleep, art, writing, leisure meals, etc.) I was on call for duty for the Christmas dinner (grocery shopping plus making ragù and besciamella to prepare a large plate of lasagna) and was kept on hold while my mother’s health decided to get a reset for a couple of days in the hospital shortly before Christmas. The timing was really excellent: I had just switched off the light and was ready to fall asleep in the freshly made bed when my mother’s alarm went off. I love fresh bed sheets, and I changed them on purpose the last day I had to work to mark the start of the festivities. Instead of enjoying the freshness and warmth of my bed, I spent half of the night on the couch in the cold living-room, under a thick blanket which was though not warm enough, waiting to hear back from my brother about my mom’s situation.

Living far away from aging parents is nowadays not uncommon. I gave up any guilty feeling a looong time ago, but keeping worries at bay in case of an emergency feels like fighting a windmill. To avoid my mind going wild I mindlessly scrolled through Instagram stories for over three hours.…It sounds depressing, but it did help with the anxiety.

What other people do in such cases? Loved to hear back from you, if you live far from your close family!

Moving forward, mom’s emergency under control, husband’s family takes the stage. Lovely people and all. What I though enjoy less are the two days in a row dedicated to family events. I don’t care about traditions I had no part in creating. I don’t think anybody should do anything because it is expected from them. For twenty-five years I avoided going back to my hometown for Christmas because I did not like to be there at that time of the year. But besides keeping you busy, life also makes you more flexible. I still don’t care about seeing the family for Christmas, mine or my husband’s. But I now go to see one or the other because of the connection and the love I share with the two people who know me the best: my husband and my mother. I did not choose “family”, I chose my two people.

In the end, I did spent more time with my husband or myself than the extended family, I slept well most of the time, I had delicious food and emptied my mind. It’s now time to plan the year ahead and to dedicate some time to writing, with a refreshed mind.

If you can choose two things, what would you like to see in your life next year?

🥳🎊🎉WISHING YOU A HEALTHY AND JOYFUL 2026 🥳🎊🎉

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She was silent. She was looking at this stranger next to her with a questioning look. She did not really care about what he had to say. She wanted him to stop staring at her.

“I wonder why you answered that,” he said. His feet were on the chair spindle, his arms were resting on his knees as he reached one of her knees, holding it between his warm hands.

“What?” she asked, the brown lacquered bowl still very close to her mouth.

She focused again on the hot chocolate, which was warming up her inside and outside, her hands firm around the half full bowl.

“When I asked about us before. You said maybe. I wonder why,” he said scrutinizing her face.

She kept swallowing small sips of chocolate at a time. She drank until the bowl was empty, not uttering a word. She just wanted to finish her morning drink and leave that place and his intrusive eyes.

He was waiting. She adjusted her body closer to the table, and then he was not holding her knee anymore.

He was waiting, but she had no answer for him.

“I have to go,” she said. She got up to look for her belongings, a city backpack which she threw in one of the corners when they started undressing the night before. Her winterproof jacket, which made her look fat and ugly, but also safe. She was leaving. She did not want to tell him that there was no “us”. She opened the door and turned around to briefly smile at him. He was still sitting there in the same position, still looking at her with his deep brown eyes. She swallowed and held her breath briefly. She turned her back at his silent plea before she could change her mind.

A split of a second in which she could have chosen another life. Instead fear opened the door and she left, never to meet him again.

I click on the webpage. I can feel my heart increasing its beats by the seconds. I damn the internet connection, as slow as my grandmother when crossing an avenue, my mood as impatient as that of the car drivers waiting for the old lady to get the hell out of their way. Then something appears on the screen. I shout. Page not found. What the heck, my connection is dead. My hands fumble with the router with jerky movements, which does nothing to help the connection or my mood. The raising anger, at the internet, at the provider, at the landlord spreads very quickly to the world and to my own existence, one which I felt depended on this damned malfunctioning internet line. I had to know, now, how the exam went. I think about the last fortnight, where one drunken evening followed a sleepless one, stomach aches twisting my body from within. I had waited long enough, I want my life back, no, I want my future back. Back? Why did I say that? Did I not want to…move forward? Go to med school and all that? Become like my parents? As I keep trying to repair the connection, I notice my hands trembling. My heart races but now it is not because of the result of the exam. It is rather this large void that opens up in the center of my body, my throat closing so tight that swallowing becomes impossible. I sit down, appalled. With one thought, a simple five words sentence, I see the house of cards representing future, which I made so carefully all along, painstakingly, crumbling to nothing. I stare ahead of me and see nothing but a black, deep hole. Then a bip, and the screen comes to life again. Now I am more scared than ever. Scared to have failed, scared to have succeed. Whatever it will be, I lose. But which part of me?

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The voice vibrated in the room like an echo, the woman’s gaze was lost in the emptiness, her face emotionless behind a soft make-up, her lips slightly veiled by a neutral color lipstick.

The afternoon sun coming from the facing window boosted the temperature and she could smell her light sweat floating around; the writing pen slowly formed valleys and hills, sometimes opening up to heaven and sometimes descending steeply towards the earth, the phosphorescent ink on the shimmering sheet of paper made the landscape of words stands out even more:

I was born of a dead mother, I sucked her guts until I reached the light she wanted to deny me.

Dead, and I...alive.

Abruptly she woke up and realized that it was a dream, the sun-flooded bedroom was the only point in common with the surreal dimension.

She was born of a cold and indifferent mother, yes, but still alive up to a few years ago.

Her mind still impregnated by the vividness of the dream, she got up and started her usual rituals, ignoring the tremor in her hand while she prepared the coffee.

She chose to wear a middle length dress with patchwork-like pattern. A pair of large, shining earrings competed with the generous neckline which emphasized her bosom, she knew that that day the look of her interlocutors would unintentionally wander from one to the other, bringing it then back on her face, in their eyes often a slight embarrassment.

The subway car was quiet, few passengers in that day which shortly preceded the end of the year.

The atmosphere was so intimate that when she sneezed, she expected to hear someone saying ‘bless you’, but the three passengers closer to her remained silent, each absorbed in their thoughts and occupation.

A small girl was sleeping with her head leaning on her mother’s arm, and Penelope unexpectedly recalled the day she fell asleep on her mother’s bed, unconsciously hoping to receive some attention; instead, upon her return her mother scolded her severely because the kitchen had not been tied; she hurried to get up and with her shouting in her ears she took the stool which enabled her to reach the sink, and she started washing the dishes.

The subway left the open space behind and entered a tunnel, breaking the illusion of traveling towards a faraway destination.

Penelope looked at her blurred reflection in the window of the wagon, a now white lock fell on the side, almost covering the dark eye. She did not like white hair much, but it was by now a lost battle, where barely within two weeks the white roots would appear in whatever color she tried to dye her hair.

But at her age one could get around with white hair, the few wrinkles she had on her face still allowed her to look younger. It was the body who mostly took the blow of time: a ferocious menopause, an out-of-order knee, a breast surgery which subdued her sport zeal, for which she showed up with little perseverance even before. Only thanks to her height and suitable clothing, she was able to cover the scars and the extra pounds.

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“Frizzy, mealtime, come.” I bend my body and put my hands on the table to push myself up, and in slow motion I walk towards the kitchen. “I have a surprise for you,” I tell him, excited to see how it would work. Some time ago I moved his bowl to a higher counter, to ease my bending and all was well until he stopped eating a week ago. After a costly visit to the veterinary who could only observe the usual, well know problems, I realized my little Fritzchen could not jump anymore.
I take the brand-new cat feeder with a handle, fill in the bowl. I take the long ladle I left ready on the counter and use it to lower the feeder the floor, taking are of not bending beyond my possibility. Oh, my heart sings! Frizzy eats eagerly, splashing half of the food around, the same way my mother used to do when she was old. I feel grateful for my false teeth which still allows me to keep the food inside my mouth. My heart content for the two small joys, I drag my feet to my favourite blue armchair to fall in a light and blissful sleep, the unrivalled remedy to forget my aching body.

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What feels though unfair is to get a one star review from a fellow author for the wrong reasons.

A fellow author was about to release her book, I though told her, that if she wanted, I could read her book and review it. I did not mentioned any date. I just wanted to do a favour and I did not ask her to buy my book and review it.

The author agreed and sent me her book. She also by her own choice bought my book and gave a 4-stars review on Amazon.

I could not read her book as fast as I expected as I was rather busy. For some reasons though, she nagged me about the review despite not having agreed on a timeframe. When I did not delivered it when she wanted it, she changed the text of her review to nasty comments, and the star rating to 1 star, letting the overall rating of my book falling to 3 stars.

I was quite shocked about the spitful action. I tried to have Amazon deleting the review, but to no avail. They are completely useless for this kind of complaints.

I did not review her book. I did not enjoy what I read of her book untill that point, nor I was happy about her bad review, but I did not want to retaliate. I do not wish to be that kind of person.

So, my book sits among millions of other books in Amazon, unseen and with a mediocre rating. Nevertheless I am proud of having written it and even though it did not become well-sold book, it belongs to my life. I have no regrets.

Apologies if not mentioned platforms have the book available. I am doing some changes and not sure when they will be effective.

Returning East

Coffee breaks at home are a compass needle: if I can feel joy when preparing a coffee, I know it is all well. The mid-morning coffee, when the day is still long and malleable at wish, feels like a stolen moment and a life reminder. The afternoon one, is the well deserved break after work.

From the top shelf, the one with the dead ivy which I promise myself to replace with a new one each time I prepare a coffee, I would take the rectangular tin box which fits beautifully my small hands.

I would put just the right amount of coffee in the Italian moka pot, pressing it lightly to get the stronger flavour my husband likes. Despite my care, a ring of spilled ground coffee would colour the counter because precision has never been my nickname. At times the gasket would get loose and the brown liquid would spill out in drops all around the moka, making a mess of the stove. In those times, no matter how hard I tried to tighten the moka, the coffee always seems to win and find its way out.

Two small cups, two saucepans and one teaspoon, the sugar bowl. I would put everything on a small tray, adding one biscuit each. Sometimes the type he likes best, sometimes those I like best. Often enough, just any biscuits would do. The coffe would take its time to brew. I would glance out of the window and look at the sky. Pure bliss. We are home, we are safe, we are together. We would share the coffee, mostly doing small talk, sometimes getting excited about a holiday or have a deeper heart to heart talk.

The bitter taste of the coffee would be diluted by a small mountain of sugar, which would in the end mostly sit at the bottom of the espresso cup. While my brain would get a kick from the sweetness of the coffee, so my heart would get a kick from the brief moment which belonged to our common world.

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If you enjoy my work and would like to support it through sharing my posts or the pubblication, thank you!

I know how to boost my own motivation, but who does not like a pat on the shoulder and a free drink?

I don’t have a “buy me a coffee” option, but a rough equivalent would be to become a paid subscriber for a month. Or longer ;p.

I have plans for this Substack, things are taking shapes slowly but surely. Stay tuned!

Good morning from Berlin!

Autumn is here together with its cold, humid and windy weather.

I’ve already caught a cold, the most unpleasant one: no fever (which would oblige me and justify laying in bed for a few days) but general pain in muscles and limbs, which changes location every couple of days. This condition is very typical when the external pathogen (cold or heat) is associated with wind. Wind moves, and so does the pain.

Before studying Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), I occasionally had that and I was so confused. Where does the pain on my right shoulder come from, when yesterday it was my left knee, which hurt?!

Now the reason is clear 😊. I don’t have the right herbs to prepare a decoction for my present condition, but I can still try to support my body a little. Besides regular qigong exercises, especially for the limbs, I use food therapy.

At the beginning of a cold, an infusion of ginger and spring onion can help disperse the pathogen. Take 3-4 spring onions and cut them in small rings, add about 9 gr of fresh ginger (not the dry one, as it has different properties) and cook them in ¾ of water for about 5’. Then drink the tea 2-3 times during the day. Repeat the next day.

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Be careful when using ginger. When consumed in large quantities, it can create heat (like, please do not consume ginger every day).

🤸‍♀️ 🤸‍♀️ 🤸‍♀️

Back in July, I posted about how I expected the next TCM semester to be very hard.

To my surprise, this is not the case. Studying formulas makes so much more sense than studying single herbs and I am progressing faster and with less energy than expected.

On the other hand, I am putting lots of energy into my office job in these last few months. I can finally concentrate on tasks I had no time for before and even though they make my day more interesting, they also fill my brain. I have almost no energy left to study after work.

Thus, it is wonderful that this semester is not as hard as expected.

This is to say how reality can be so different from what we imagine it will be. We may create fear and anxiety only based on what is in our brain. And our brain loves to create worse case scenarios.

The result is that I am still very busy, and I can barely write on Substack. But there are days like today, when I decided to take a step back and let life flow a more natural course.

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