From The elements of Journalism by Kovach & Rosenstiel

"If you want to attract an audience, you could go down to a street corner, do a striptease and get naked. You would probably attract a crowd in a hurry. The problem is, how do you keep people?"

Cardiff's Arcade

My favourite actor

John Cazale. There's so much to tell about this actor that finally I decided don't say anything. Ok, I admit that I don't feel I can properly explain why I like him so much and why it's important to know which role he played in the history of the American cinema. I mean, I don't feel I can do all these things in English. Because, he was not like Al Pacino, who is fantastic and for whom you can use a lot of superlative adjectives; both are big but while Al Pacino is big in playing extreme roles, John Cazale was big in playing middle roles, most of all the mediocre. So, he had to stay halfway between the role of the very bad and the role of the very nice, the negative and the positive. He stayed between eroic people, finding himself in the grey zone: not an angel not an evil. He had to stop before crossing the borders, moving himself between two lines, in the dichotomous perception that we have of life. (I have).
I find Cazale interesting because of his middle position that makes it difficult to define or categorize his roles.
He leaves me without words. And because I like very much the silence, therefore I like him because he made me silent.

On writing 'Sometimes'

I'm still uncertain about the end. I've written The wind pushes them. I was wondering if it could be better to write something like They are pushed by the wind or The wind move them or In their movements there's wind.
Might it be better just don't write anything and finishing on the branches?
Any suggestions are welcomed!

Sometimes. A poetry in anglo-italian style. Perhaps more italian : )

Thoughts are stones
thrown in the mind
that after
drop into the body.
Sometimes
thoughts are leaves
dropped on the ground
that after
in whirls
go back up on the branches.
The wind pushes them.

This is my rainbow

My favourite actor - friend

Al Pacino was a friend of him. Pacino, who really appreciated his talent, invited him to very important audition in 1972.

My favourite actor - love

He was born in the US, Boston. He was an Italian-American. Meryl Streep loved him very much.

My favourite actor

He died of cancer on 12th March 1978. He was 42 years old.

I bought the map of Great Britain this morning

Young woman at a window (W. C. Williams)

While she sits
there

with tears on
her cheek

her cheek on
her hand

this little child
who robs her

knows nothing of
his theft

but rubs his
nose

Summer morning

It's 5 o'clock in the morning, my eyes are open. The sunlight goes through the curtains, giving me the impression that if I drew them the light might blind me. I remain in bed wondering.
If I stay here I will start to think about an unreal life - that is what I do every morning and night in bed, but it doesn't mean that the unreal life is the same every day - on the other hand if I get up I will have to think about something to do.
What do people usually do at 5 o'clock in the morning? Magazines and newspapers don't speak enough about this, there isn't any supplement about 5 o'clock lifestyle.
Long time ago I read something about who wakes up early to go to work. I remember the pictures in this book, of men, workers such as bakers who go out where it's still night. This doesn't apply in my case because there is light here.
In this 5 o'clock I'm not alone: my flatmate, who lives in the main bedroom, is speaking in a loud voice. I wonder if he is having an argument with somebody. Who could it be? Mukul, his friend and my stalker? Coul be her girlfriend, who I've never seen? Is he praying? I don't think so. However, his voice is too loud for saying important things, so my attention is drawn back to my bedroom and the sun crouched behind the curtains.
I've decided. I get up. I will lift the head from the pillow. I will remove the back from the sheet. I will put my feet on the floor feel for my slippers putting my feet in the wrong sides. I will go to the toilet wearing the wrong slippers trying to avoid banging into the opened wardrobes's shutter and I'll also try to avoid stumbling over a bulky package of winter clothes not yet unwrapped.
I will enter the toilet without switching on the light and without closing the door, once there I will think how good I am in not stumbling through my disorder. If only I didn't have that accident with my glasses two weeks ago.
I will swear my glasses fixed with the adhesive tape and then I will go to the kitchen an will spread on bread the Wilkinson jam, that here is cheaper than in Italy.

My room

This is the Charles Dickens's Dream poster that I attached to the door of my bathroom. It is showing the English writer sorrounded by all his novels's characters miniaturized. I love this picture because it is unfinished, which means that the painter let us end his work with our fantasy. But I've got a problem. When I have a shower the steam goes out spreading in my room, and I'm afraid that by the time my poster will become a rag. If it happens I will move it into the kitchen to clean the table.

The answer

What is it art? Well, the answer was on the lips of a little girl. She was climbing the stairs that leads up to the second floor of the Castello Sforzesco in Milan. The child and her mother were on their way to the art gallery.
I was sitting. I was studying Humanities at the University of Milan but during that Christmas, six years ago, I worked in the art gallery as guard. My duties were easy: to keep on eye on the paintings and in particular to look at the people making sure they didn't touch them. To touch or take photographs of the paintings was not allowed, and if someone did I had to say: "I'm sorry but you can't do that".
That's all. An easy job. I would say 'a boring job', because I think that people are more appealing as characters of story novels rather than in the real life.
My morning, as usual, was watching the number of people coming into the gallery. At that moment the little girl and the mother come into the gallery. I looked at them. The mother was vey tall, with blonde hair with clear eyes, at first I thought she was a foreigner but when I heard the woman speaking I thought again.
The little child was blonde too. She had a pretty face framed by locks escaping from her hair clip. Her forehead was broad and her sharp blue eyes penetrate. She seemed very lively.
The little girl, who was probably 5 year old, as she entered the painting room promptly let go of her mother's hand and started wandering around the art gallery pushed by a personal interest.
She moved between the paintings as if she's entered in a labyrinth. She was not afraid even of getting lost. I wasn't taken aback by the vivacity of this child, I didn't care if she might damage some paintings. I felt tranquil because I knew this child won't.
At a certain point the little girl stopped in front of a painting and said: "That's me".
She called her mother who promptly arrived. The mother looked at the painting, whose name is 'Portrait of a little girl in a late 700 family'. She noticed the resemblance to her daughter and finally admitted: "That's true, that one is you".