Tag Archives: rome

Live together

This is my first free day and I’ve been writing for two hours. Some log-in problem wiped out my writing. I start from scratch, again and again. I type in words and I wipe out emotions. What I have written matters only to me, it’s not that important that it’s all gone, because it’s all in my head anyway. The head play tricks and emotions are all tricks of the head. In my family we are used to talk about death, my parents are no drama queens and they deal stoically with it all. I have seen my dad crying for a death once, it was not about his dad. After his dad had died, he was sitting in the kitchen alone, drinking tea, waiting for us to come back, so he could tell the news. As he told me, I shouted he should have phoned me instead and ran upstairs. I’m too emotional, he couldn’t be like this, for his job needed him strong. When my mom’s dad died I was living in Rome. I booked a flight and left without saying anything to my flatmates. If anybody will die or be sick in my life, be sure you won’t get this information from me. I am not able to talk about it. Asking me how things go then, it’s silly, I will tell you it’s all fine also if it’s not. Or I will not answer, as I usually do. If things go wrong, do not ask, I hate it. People love to talk about their problems, I do it as well, I tell about my everyday life problems, I tell you about my hair, about whatever bullshit, but I can’t go deep into details, I am just done like this. Like my mom and dad. They don’t talk. They barely talk to us about it, but they do things. If there’s a lesson and they have given to us children, it’s about life and humanity, and most of the people don’t get it. Wherever I turn people are greedy and selfish. As I went home for holidays, I noticed things. My dad would wake early and go to his mother-in-law to help with breakfast, since she cannot do it by herself. After that he would go have a coffee with his own mother. After that he would say goodbye to all troubles and work on the countryside. My mom visits her mother every day. They have never complained about the responsabilities they have with their parents. Not even once! If I look at other old people’s children, they are mostly not there. Too boring, too heavy. As my mom drove as much as she could to help her aunt who was dying by cancer, the aunt, incredibly attached to her properties, asked once to my mom: “why are you doing this?”. My mom said because once she had done it for her as a child (in fact she wasn’t that kind of aunt, but it was nice to say). After those few words, my aunt told my mom’s brother “beware of your sister! She will steal your house”. When my greataunt died, with no children, my mom was the only serene one, who had helped as much as she could. Three different wills came out soon after the death, furniture, half a house, and jewels were mostly to be acquired. Everybody was pissed because she has been evil in her will. Only if you’re truly pure in your behaviour, you won’t feel betrayed. My mom’s mom lives in this old people house. I and my siblings went there everyday and I never met any other grandchild, I must say not even a son or a daughter. At one point we would know many of them, we would kneel and kiss one, shake hands with another, talk with another, talk nuts with many of them. This lovely woman sitting with my grandmother at the dining table is still completely capable with her mind, but not with her body. Once I cut her food and thought what a miserable daughter she had, enjoying her mom’s house, but never paying a visit. These are people and this is life. I noticed my siblings’ attitude and manners and even if nobody ever thought us anything, we have learnt a lesson. The greatest lesson I must say, since it won’t be properties smoothing our pain when we’ll be in need.

I need to feed the beast.


I love living alone. I’ve tried twice already to get my own place, once in Rome and then here in Berlin. I’m always to poor to get anything, also if in fact I’d be actually able to pay for it. I’ve mostly been looking for studio apartments, just for a matter of money, I couldn’t afford a bigger place. I love big flats, I love to have space. When I talk with people everybody would say “one or two rooms are enough for a single person”. Why? It’s like when they see my bedroom here, which is my living space as well and they say it’s big enough. It’s twelve square meters. My parents’ bedroom is over forty square meters, closer to fifty I guess. A bedroom is a place to sleep, but this is not a good reason why it should be a tiny dark prison. My mother’s bedrooms furtniture is my great-grandparents’ one. It’s wooden and it was hand made for them. There are really fine decorations and the bed is so huge and high that when we were kids we always felt we had so much space and when we were in bed we felt we were in the middle of a square or something, since the room was that huge. We needed such a huge room for that amount of furniture. It consists of a bed, two chest of drawers (with 4 and 7 drawers), five chairs, a tall armoir with a huge mirror, an ancient chaise longue with a little piece for the feet, a bureau and and an armchair next to it and a dressing table. The furniture was built for a huge space: the dressing table has a mirror and behind the mirror there’s the picture of a dame. This furniture was decorated both sides (as the bureau, actually), so that could be placed in a dividing position in the room: from one side bedroom, on the room side more of a living space. The original furniture included also a dormeuse, but my greataunt got it. I asked my grandmother why they would have so much stuff in a bedroom and why all these seats. In the original house, where this bedroom was once, they had four rooms to host people. I was said, my great-grandmother could invite, i.e., one of her sisters to sit in the living area of the bedroom, while a guest from her husband would go to study and a guest who’s not part of the family, would be invited in the main living room. I wish I could have breathed some of this atmosphere. The main hall of my grandmother’s house had seats but we would never sit there. Times have changed, in the past the barber, the hairdresser, etc would have waited there. It was a fine family.

Well, going back to the main point: I need space. At the moment I’m being alone here in Berlin, and I do enjoy sleeping in one room, working in another room, eating in another room. When I visit my family that’s how it goes for me. I would sleep in the guest room, have a drink on the terrace, eat in the kitchen, play in the living room. I would always choose to play in the living room. It’s so huge I’ve got a nice echo and then I can sit on these incredibly old sofas, that my grandmother would say “similar ones only in that castle there”. I adore ancient furniture, it makes me dreamy.

I will soon go back to the island. I was born far away and sometimes I forget things. This summer I’ll have “my own house”, which is not mine obviously, but I’ll smoothly move from one room to another. I haven’t slept in that house in about twenty years. If I’ll look up to the vaults, they will be five meters high. I so need it! I’ve humiliated myself, I’ve lost some strenght. The island will restore some of it. I will want to change things, when I’ll be back here. In order to do that, I need to remember a few things. I need to remember how it is to live differently. I need the island and I need my family. I won’t speak english, I won’t speak german, I won’t even speak italian. I can feel some fierce feeling growing in. I need to feed it.