White pages

When I was ten I decided I wanted to be a writer.

There is no particular reason why that happened - I remember looking at the white pages of a note book and thinking that I really felt like filling those pages. It was a mixture of excitement and sadness - because I remember thinking that those white pages were waiting to fulfill their destiny. Though I suspected my output might not be the best those pages could do, I still felt that doing nothing was wrong.

The first thing I wrote was a fantasy story. The baddie was called Singer- after my mother's sawing machine. It is the usual hero tale (the hero was called Erik, with a K) with a twist: at the end you realised that the quest Erik has completed to allegedly kill Singer was actually designed to free Singer from his prison - genius. At the end Erik realises that all the people he has eliminated on his way had been good guys trying to stop him from doing the wrong thing.

I wrote my first poem when I was 13. It was an atrocious mess called 'Life' (La vita). For some reason I shared it with my Religion teacher at school - a priest whose name escapes me now. Don Something.
He never commented on it.

Other gems include the short book written by my late good friend Misael and I. It was called 'Perhaps' (Forse) and it was the story of a group of friends that grow up together and then meet again as adults. It is meant to be a delightful weekend in a cottage in the middle of the Italian mountains. Unfortunately one of them is totally nuts and tries to kill them all off. It was actually a good story, and I quite liked the way it highlighted the fact that sometimes when you share something really intense with someone the price to pay for that sense of belonging and closeness can be quite ugly.

It is only when I started studying modern Italian literature at school (Ungaretti, Montale, etc) that I felt compelled to take my writing hobby more seriously. It occurred to me that poetry could do something very special: it could take pictures with words. Like good pictures it required some sort of structure, tone, harmony. The Italian language offers a number of poetical structures, which all fall under the discipline of rhetoric. I immediately liked the way you could use number of syllables, rhymes and other stuff to create that tone and musicality to accompany the 'picture'.   Rhetoric can then be seen as a medium rather than an old fashioned tradition. It is the instrument that created the music to accompany the picture.

And like good picture the best bits are the ones that are not immediately evident when you look at them. They just 'become' in the eye of the observer, telling them all those things that exist behind the surface.
It is the same of looking at a painting and feeling a certain way even though you don't know why.
I like writing poems where all the verses are visual snaps that tell stories that words cannot tell. Somebody who wrote a review on a poem of mine once said something nice, she said that my verses defy the boundaries of  tradition. I had not quite realised until I read that review that that was I had been trying to do without knowing.

Some great teachers have helped me along the way, like Gabriella. Beside being a great teacher she is also a successful writer. She always believed I could do well, and pushed me by introducing me to some great writers, taking me to Rome on a TV show and other ways. She was very disappointed when she found out I was to become a mathematician.

My greatest inspirations include Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, The Great Gatsby and Eugenio Montale's Ossi di Seppia. All of them share an anachronistic view of the world which I have found compelling. The opening line of Mrs. Dalloway to to date to me is one of the greatest strokes of genius.

Over the years I have written a few things. My prose has ranged from amateurish to ok to crap (of note my first English novel- The Categorical Imperative- none of my friends managed to read more than a few pages and to be honest I cannot really blame them).

However, my poetry has done well. I started writing poetry regularly in May 1997. I know it because my first 'new gen' poem was called 'May'. Since then, for a few years, I wrote a lot. It was my way to say things I did not want to talk about.
My mother - or shall I say my agent- kept finding stuff I had written and entering poetry contests for me.

The poem that got me most recognition was Amico Re (King Friend), The title comes from a note my school mate wrote on my year book in 1999. The poem is about the end of boarding school, and the final acts of all the dramas that took place on the Rilke path. I won quite a few first prizes in national contests with that poem - the funny thing being that none of the judges, and perhaps myself included - really know what those verses really mean.

Traffic Lights

If they asked me what I do not enjoy about living in Sydney, I kid you not one of the first things that would come to mind is 'crossing the road'. I am not sure how this all came to be, but it feels to me that traffic lights in Sydney have been designed to play with your mind and turn pedestrians into lunatic freaks. I have slowly become one of them. And here is why.

Firstly, it takes about the time that it took for the Ice Age to melt away for the sign to turn green in some roads. Crossing places like William Street, Oxford Street, or some specific parts of George Street in the CBD might well mean that your commute is increased by 10 minutes. The people that trail these paths often learn this very quickly, so it is not unusual to see people running like crazy in their suits or heels not to miss the chance to cross some of these roads. This is not an exaggeration:  at 8am Sydney is a city of people running to cross the road before the light goes red! If they don't is because either they are tourist or the road they are trying to cross is an 'easy one'.

If you add to this one of the most significant legacies of the massive Italian immigration waves to Australia in the 50s-70s i.e. bad driving and speeding at people crossing the road, you can see how  things can go mental. This lethal cocktail means that near misses are part of the daily commuting experience.

Secondly, the light does not turn green unless someone pushes the button. It is an unspoken contract that the pedestrian closest to the light should take care of this ever so important task. Failure to do so might result in another geological wait at the crossing. Most of the times people know this and they do press that damn thing - a few times for good measure. But if they don't, oh boy, you see rage washing over people's faces. Even the yummy mummy might go insane. When this happens, people make their way to the light and start pushing like there is not tomorrow, as loud as they can, possibly making eye contact with the impostor. Sometimes I fear they might push the lazy fellow commute under the bus to teach them a lesson (not that I ever felt that way...).

I could write a book on the typologies of people that do not push. Luckily studies have shown that only 1 in 250 people belong to this category. It is a serious sociological phenomenon. But let me say one thing: you know who you are non pushers! So do we. There is so much forgiving one can manage on Monday morning under the rain, especially is one is crap at umbrella management (i.e. that skill of buying, keeping, not losing and remembering to take an umbrella when it is raining outside).

Thirdly, in numerous cases there is a massive lag between the pedestrian light going red and the corresponding traffic light going green. I am not talking two seconds. I am talking thirty. The worst offender in my experience is the crossing William/Palmer. As soon as the pedestrian light goes green it starts flashing red. If you do not know any better you would not believe that you still have three minutes to cross. And if you do not know this, you have about 5 minutes to wait before you can cross again. Come on guys, get your alignment right!! Most Sydneysiders have learnt that crossing the road is an art where you need to take into account both pedestrian and traffic lights, and then  make a judgement call on whether any Italian descendant will try to run you over in between.

Finally, there are the anomalies. These are the pedestrian lights that do not follow any rule. My favourite is Pitt and King in the CBD, where the light goes red, green then within a second red and then green again. I have given up understanding why - and I am not complaining: that is an easy road to cross.

 

Pyar, mohobbat aur dosti ke bina jeena bhee kya jeena?

Pyar, mohobbat aur dosti ke bina jeena bhee kya jeena?

Love and friendship make the world survive,

like a door that opens when all doors are closed.

For me the love you share is just like that door,

it's made of many memories, mental pictures I've taken:

nights in at Cosway Mansions,

laughter at the Volunteer,

a surprise Christmas tree, nights on a dance floor

and days out in the snow, and Sunday night fear.

It's made of things that have not yet happened, the moment you'll share.

No love should not be celebrated,

because love and friendship make the world survive,

and whilst one thousand things around us might change or disappear

your love and all your dear friends will always be there.

[wedding peom for Gavin and Mishail, August 2012]

A road of roads

Since the 5th May this year it feels like I haven't stopped a second. Work has taken me to New York, Hong Kong, London and Singapore and then back to Sydney, in a whirlpool of meetings, face time, self selling, arguing with colleagues, seafood Laksa, experiencing one of toughest times in the 360 year history of my company,  spending time with friends including a random glass of champagne in a hotel room, not enough time spent with friends, missing Patata, surprises like those surprises that come out of a box,  and dozens of hours spent on planes watching movies, listening to Glee albums (somehow they seem to be the right backdrop to my flights), writing unfinished poems and promising myself that I will indeed become that exceptional human being I was always meant to be. In between I turned 32, we have had guests and family over and we faced summer, winter and eternal heat and I took my mother to see Mamma Mia. She stood up and danced. Before that I saw a sunrise that reminded me of South Africa, listened to a taxi driver telling me that women drive either too carefully or recklessly whilst speeding down a busy Asian street, and thought that I was not sure whether I liked being called 'sir' and then pondered for half an hour on why that made me uncomfortable.

It is strange to compare winter 2012 to last year's. Last year I was in full on hibernation, watching all series of Buffy in our rental flat and waiting for summer to come. I watched Buffy like there was no tomorrow, and the night outside was dark and the cars circled us all over again, leaving us on an island of traffic and light. We watched Buffy. I like the series with Gloria as the antagonist. She $hits all over the other baddies.

Blue Mountains

For the Queen's birthday public holiday this year we have opted for a mini break to the Blue Mountains.  These are a beautiful national park 1hr 30minutes or so drive from Sydney, to the west. They are called blue because the eucalypti forest secrets oils that in the heat evaporate and this mist reflected in the sunlight appears blue.

It is a great place for trekking or just relaxing, and being so close to the city it is a good option for getting away from it all without having to stress too much about it. There is also some sort of Old England charms to the towns in this area, which have got some great tea rooms and cafes that offer great scones and food.

A key destination in this area is the town of Katoomba, which can also be reached easily by train. Katoomba is famous because of the Three Sisters, a 900 meters or so beautiful rock formation towering over the Jamison valley. The Aboriginal story tells of three sisters that were turned into these rocks by their witch doctor father in the attempt to protect them from an evil attacker. Then the father lost the 'magic bone' that he used to cast the spell and so the poor little girls are still waiting to be turned back into humans. Quite a few holes in this story, if you ask me, but nonetheless it adds charm to the local folklore.

We took the 900 steps down to the valley (known as the Giant Steps) and then indulged in an easy stroll to the scenic railway - the steepest funicular in the world, which we took to go back up again.  That was enough nature for one day, so we had a delicious boozy meal in a lovely restaurant (Echos) with breathtaking views of the valley.

I love that fact that Sydney has got so many weekend destinations around it - which is special because Australia is so vast that many places are so far from each other so depending on where you live you might have to drive many hours to reach something cool nearby. Sydney's proximity to the Blue Mountains, as well as the wine region of the Hunter, or the rolling hills of Kangaroo valley, make this city somewhat more special.

A chance in life

As my friends know very well a key event that shaped my life forever was winning a scholarship for the United World College of the Adriatic in 1997. I won one of the four scholarships that the Sardinian government had reserved for talented youngsters in the region.
Marta, Emauela, Elisa and myself were the lucky ones that year who made it after a few rounds of interviews.

I seem to remember that thousands and thousands of Italian students took part in the overall selection process, for about 20 actual places to study the International Baccalaureate in this boarding school. The number is probably exaggerated- for Italians often like to make things look more dramatic. What is not exaggerated is that a shed load of us fought to our very best to get a chance to escape our normality and our destiny and grab this opportunity. Attending this school meant opening the door to a world of opportunities that would never manifest themselves ever again.

The selection process was full on, and ranged from just academic tests all the way to group leadership challenges, role plays and interviews with psychologists and governmental representatives. Of those long days I remember a lunch at Valburger (a dodgy fast food place in Cagliari) with other candidates that seemed so much more self confident that I had ever been, meeting someone who would become one of my best friends, having five minutes to prepare for a role play were I was to argue that embargo was a justifiable way to drive policy when I did not know what embargo was, having to connect nine dots with three consecutive lines, being asked about Pythagoras' tetraktis, Marta in a leopard skin shirt,  meeting Gabriella (the most inspiring teacher I have ever had and that I wish would have 'forced' me to follow my real passion in life), being around a lot of people who seemed to be bright and determined, going to church and asking God to help me (something that I do not do often), and a feeling of massive fear and emptiness at the end of the process.

The final round was held at the school itself, near Triest. My dad and I took off on a trip filled of hope. I perfectly remember leaving home, my stomach filled with butterflies and nerves. My family could not quite  afford the air fare, so we drove to the North of Sardinia, took a 12 hours ferry to Genoa, and then drove all the way to Venice and Triest. Dad - bless his soul, told me that was not the last time I was gonna make him drive those roads.

He was right, as he often was.

If I had not made it, I would have not gone to university in London, I would have not traveled the world, I would not met the most important people of my life who have shared my journey with me , I would not be living in Sydney in the job I do and I would not be dreaming in English right now.

The moment that changed my life forever came on a June morning in country Sardinia. I had just spent two weeks waiting for a letter - waiting for the postman to turn up every day on his scooter and put me out of my misery.  The skies were so blue and the sun so hot. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice without being able to move.  Every day without news was a day that pushed men further and further into fulfilling what my life was meant to be about rather than what I could dream of doing and being.

A telegram was delivered that day and my brother said it was for him. That moment, I understood that I had been rejected.My heart sunk. Ten second later I was crying. My brother had opened the telegram and realized that it was actually for me and that I had been accepted.  The telegram was written in English and said that they were pleased to inform me that I was one of the 20.

I will never forget that moment. How I felt, how life felt like it was opening up like a miracle had just happened. There a moments like those in everyone's life. It's the moment an Australian boy or girl jumps on a plane to kick off their oversea experience in Europe, it is the moment we discover a passion that will dominate our lives, it is the moment when what you did, said and thought resulted in changes that you could have never have imagined and that modified everything forever. Those are our key cross roads, and each of us has not got more than two or three in our lives. Those are the moments when real change happens and make all other changes possible.

My friends take the piss out of me because I talk about those days a lot. My friend Emma asked me whether I had gone there for 10 years, rather than  2, cause I seem to have an unfeasible amount of stories to tell about that place. However, the reason why I do is that I cannot help but feeling fortunate and thankful for that miracle to have happened. In many ways that was the beginning of my life.

Sydney after Hong Kong

Dawns over the Australian desert are made of fire, like a hellish landscape of incredible and distant beauty. Below, dark clouds like sponges soak up the last drops of  night. From outside,  the plane must look like an angel made of iron making its silent way somewhere important.
As I return to Australia after two weeks away it hits me again how remote and in many ways untouched this place is. It hits me how attached I am getting to it.

The last week in Hong Kong has been fabulous. Asia never fails to charm with its alien beauty, encompassing heat and engaging buzz. Hong Kong is the strange child of China, a world made of skyscrapers stolen from a jungle that still tries to prevail and that licks at the city with its disorderly green tongues. Eagles fly outside the window of my office on the 58th floor.  I wonder if life will take us here.  

The world is changing.