Windmills Jungle

11.18.2014

Boom Boom

There's this thing about explosions: you never really expect them.

You can wait for a bunch of good explosions for a very long time, still they always catch you by surprise.

You're just there, in your smiling world with your ordinary life.

You actually wonder when the next boom is going to be heard..

I't been a while, there's too much silence, too much peace in the air..

You almost give up waiting for it.

Then all of a sudden, when you less expect it, the sky gets darker and darker. Finally the shining shimmering lights turn down and the numbness and lethargy of you soul are broken, like fallen idols.

The rumble of the thunder, the boom of the detonation:

you finally wake up.

You finally see everything and everyone's true colours.

There's this thing about a silent soul shattered by a thunder,

A dark sky torn in two by a light explosion..

You get wounded. But you also get stronger.

8.15.2014

Bonifacio and Its Explosions

11.15.2014

Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.

Les Deux Plateaux, more commonly known as the Colonnes de Buren

Cour d'Honneur of the Plais Royal, Paris.

11.03.2014

All the World's a Stage

Life Without Art is Stupid.
Paris, October 2014.
With two precious friends.

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with a good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything".
W. Shakespeare

11.02.2014

Promises are made to be broken.

I promised I would write.I promised I would find something to tell, to describe, to express.
I promised I would be in touch.
I broke my promise.
But a lot happened and I just felt I had to simply live it. Experience it. Feel it. Evetually I would start to write again.
It worked: I am happy.

But where is my life now?
I am with my Sir. And I couldn't ask for anything or anyone better.
I have more shoes. But they are never enough.
I have the same friends, but they are closer than ever, more precious than ever.
I have been to Corse and to Paris.
I am spending my Christmas holidays in NYC...
I realised I am a material Italian girl, who seeks a British attitude and dreams American dreams.

I realise I don't want to do anything I am not willing to do. And I won't.
I am currently a fan of House of Cards and I could die for a new episode from the Sherlock series.
And I am not ashamed of that.
In my car there is always a song by Beyonce. Sorry, again not ashamed.
At the same time I now know that nothing really calms me down as a cloudy sky when I'm hiking in my mountains. That I just need a book and a coffee in a silent place to feel myself, to feel happy. That the best hotel of the world is the tent with my Sir under the stars, close to the sea. That what makes me alive is not the dinner in the ultimate chic restaurant, but my thirst for knowledge and my curiosity.
Two faces, one free soul.
I despise people who always need to put me into a category.
And if you do not know who I am or how I am ... I could'nt care less.

I have an idea.

This blog - four hands.

Two dreamers sharing the same dreams.

Cooperating yes, but also watching the same mad world from two different points of view.

WindmillsJungle is now all pictures, nonsense, and (my) happy - still - cynical - and - skeptical attitude.

It may lack a touch of color. Innovation. Inspiration.

..... A formal invitation is on its way.

Time for a new blogger?

5.06.2014

Constellations

First pics with my new camera...

What does silence look like?!

Still seeking words to express what's inside. In vain.

Let flowers speak for me, for themselves.

And choose silence.

4.25.2014

Sips for a New Beginning

It's been a while...

Actually it's been more than two months since my last post.

A lot has happened.

A lot has changed.

And, as it often happens, I preferred to choose silence over a dozen of empty words.

My whole life has turned into some cahotic frenetic stressful overwhelming race against time, with two jobs and a university course I'm not taking care of (or at least not as much as I would like to).

My cat left and my heart broke into thousands of little desperate pieces..

Then he came back, and I really felt overjoyed.

My bestfriend left and my heart cracked. But it did not broke, since I was and still am really happy for her.

Then she graduated and I felt overjoyed once more. proud of having her in my life.

My Sir proved to be a perfect gentleman more than once, and my heart has never been so full of love before.

My camera died, but I am now 26 years old and my wonderful beloved parents celebrated me with a shining brand new Nikon 5200 reflex camera.

Yes, it's true.

And this is it: Out of the blue, on the most important holiday day for this country,

My inspiration simply came back to me.

I feel tired and worried. But I feel passionate once again.

And grateful.

“You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.” ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Complete Sherlock Holmes.

1.27.2014

Waiting for Godot (in Siena)

"Well? Shall we go?" - "Yes, let's go".

"They do not move."

Sundays are difficult. Something like a tragicomedy by Samuel Beckett.

It can be hard to have all that free time, and really don't know what to do with it.

Sometimes you find yourself with a whole sunday-day to use,

and the only thing you can do is wondering and wandering,

with indecision,

... waiting for Godot.

"Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! (Pause. Vehemently.) Let us do something while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us!"

Waiting for Godot by S. Beckett

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