Welcome to my blog. 

Here are my thoughts collected. 




Letters from the Johnny’s pub - Imaginary stories of rock music

Books, social and communication 

Music and events - Notes and insights

Books Translated - My books translated into English

Short Stories My short stories

Utopias Between dreams and reality

Debate - Controversy and a bit of malice

Super Cashiers - New humorous format on supermarket cashiers

A leaf


When a leaf falls from a tree, with the same synchrony, in a million places happen a million different things. Big and little events, ordinary and unusable.

That leaf will keep falling with the same cyclic nature for the next seasons, for the same reasons; not that lead, alas, but another and another one again. I stay here observing it, following its soft trajectory, thinking of those millions of other events, big and little, ordinary or not, that happen in a million of other places.

Humanity suffers from a collective Alzheimer whose weight is unaware. It is difficult to set the size of a historical memory, but I suppose its duration is increasingly shorter. A memory, even the most tragic one, is a duty we run from for disparate reasons, leading from opportunism to dishonesty, from suspicion to indifference.

Children of the shortcut and faster path, of phenomenality and trend, prophets of speed of execution and practical advice, our overbearing need for a stage where to perform even without skills is the panacea of a limitless hedonism that only provides one place on the earth that obviously is for the winner.

The discreet fall of the leaf is there to remind the limits that we prefer not to take into account. Remembrance looks dangerous and the memory is painful, as well as for what is represented, because it reminds us that we will pass and of us will remain the anonymous or a never-elevated bust, even if it were, it would be unknown.

The sun warms the colours of late autumn. From the point where I stand, looking beyond a long row of stone pines, there stands out on the optical plane the profile of the Aqua Claudia, year 38 AD. My thinking is distracted by the playing of two Labradors chasing each other in the area used for dogs. I smile and look at my watch. It is time to come back.

Along the tree-lined avenue, a carpet of dry branches. I walk up, another leaf comes off and it seems to me that it extends its descent, like a wave. I say goodbye, I do not even know to who or what, but I return my respects, I collect it and keep it in my pocket.  



Speaking of Cesare

220px-Om symbol.svg

Everything always begins before the yoga lesson. You arrive in advance, sit on the carpet to prepare for relaxation; the defenses are down, we make a small talk waiting for the lights turn out leaving only a lamp to seal our chit-chat, then dispersing them into the darkness. It looks like a forum, we are facing each other but we are ready to break away from the world and the facts of the day spent, at least for an hour. It's a necessary time oasis in chaos generated by the frenzy.

A girl from Vicenza moved in Rome is looking for work. Work is ennobling, but we are all children of the plebeians. If it really ennobles is to be demonstrated: work takes much of the day, holds us hostages to live and takes off, slowly or not, the joy of living. The solution, if possible, is not to become addicted of a gear, because work actually takes off a precious thing: the time for oneself.

This concept doesn't concern who makes a job he/she loves because feeling gratified by his occupation is a way to work with less frustration; If anything, he/she must beware a society which doesn't facilitate who's passionate about everything he/she does and is forced to do that much, but not more. Different and more complicated, of course, is the life of the unemployed. If you don't have perspective, everything is okay, but everything is wrong, because that's the moment you become a slave.

Slave: what a bid word! Digital slaves, reachable anywhere and anytime, maybe just to receive a message in whatsapp which warns: you are out, we do not need you anymore.

The girl from Vicenza knows something about it. Before arriving in the capital, she stayed in Naples and is in the city of the gulf someone suggested her the solution: remove whatsapp from the phone in order that no one can warn her of any dismissal. It's not a solving plan to remain in work, but It's a strategy to confuse. In Naples are all accidental singers and philosophers. The girl from Vicenza, with her Nordic accent, is unbalanced in a difference between Neapolitan and Roman workers, clarifying a commonplace sees the Neapolitan living of expedients, but they will always be busy in something; the Roman, instead, if he can avoid working, he does it so gladly. Roman, according to tradition and popular belief, does nothing, but he does it better than anyone, and the experience combined with the application refines its practice.

Actually, in the system we live, it's fundamental to minimize the possibility of making errors: who does little, makes few mistake; who does nothing, doesn't make mistake. The Roman knows it well. We can't know what Caio Giulio Cesare would think about his fellow citizens. The life of the man who had to look out for his adopted son had already been complicated.

And speaking of Cesare, a dilemma is born: the Roman is so lazy who drives the foreigner to wonder how Rome has expanded up to conquer an empire.

I'm sure that, past two millennia, the Rugantino inside the Roman being, still needs to rest and relax from the old battles. Like us, here, in the yoga room. Lights go down. We are ready. Shut up. Legs crossed. Om.


I am the Devil

crossroads sm2

Dealing with our demons is not easy. Egocentricity should be regularly denounced.


The more I find myself and the more I disgust myself.

The more I look for certainties and the more I find ruins.

The more I invoke peace and the more I collect threats.

The more I live life and the more I die slowly.


I climbed a mountain to dominate from above. From a hill I saw the deserted city burning in the sun of summer, all around pervading a nauseating stink coming from the sewers. There was no more water, every source was drained. It was the city of the dying, a metropolis in which the mediocre ruled and where if you had no more skills, the greater were opportunities you had. All were masters in getting away from responsibilities. People, to be no less, took them as an example and everyone was afflicted with an exaggerated sense of personal importance, accusing of each other of a presumed superiority.


I isolated myself to understand. In the desert of my desolation I was often overwhelmed by despair and sometimes I cried.

Coming to the famous crocicchio of crossroads, I met a well-dressed man. The jacket was white and even the pants. He was wearing a black shirt and a red tie, a wide-brimmed hat and a carnation in the buttonhole of his jacket. He had sparrowhawk's moustache. He looked like the guy who came in without asking for permission and who presented himself without a call. I waved a greeting with my hand.

 - Hello – he said – I'm the Devil. You surely may have heard of me.                                                                                                                                      

- I'm just a project, I'm still an embryo.

- Welcome inside you. Are you sure you want to continue?

- I'd say so.

- Do you need company?

- I wanna be alone.

- As you want. If you need, call me.


Feel like home


In the last few years I have had the distress of a long list of things I don't like to do, with the consequence I don't know what satisfied me. Only now I can understand what I want, I suddenly realized it or maybe I always knew it and I didn't see it.

There are days similar to a detachment from freedom, because the rhythms your heart has to resist seem unbearable and you think you don't have time for the spaces you love.

By nature, I've always become familiar with the corners than the roundness. Sometimes it happens to me to be in a place hoping to leave it as soon as possible. Typical feeling of who is inadequate, dissatisfied, unrealized. I felt I was in the cage, pressed in schedules and depressed by the torments. Work absorbed all my time, my energies, and I've always been indifferent.

For habit I walk fast, stacking up asphalt without looking around me. One afternoon, while I walked through a carpet of yellow leaves along the streets of my area, I thought about all this. I felt that walking, I disposed of the accumulated frustration. I stopped myself in the square gardens. Old men was playing cards. Dogs were running across the flowerbeds. A little girl was learning to ride a bicycle and a group of caregivers was talking pushing the wheelchair of the assisted disabled. Secluded, near the trees, two teenagers exchanging romance. If it was an impressionist painting, its name would be "late afternoon". I breathed deeply and I relaxed myself. All that life was flowing in front of my eyes and I was inside it just watching it.

I stood up from the bench and continued my walk. I arrived in front of my first home, not far from the current one, and I was staring at the small balcony. the clothes was hanging and the window was well-lighted. I always used to pass it without thinking I had lived there in the early years of my childhood. I felt in perfect balance on an imaginary axis. I was at home.

Now I like rest myself looking at the living terraces full of plants. Walking by the bakeries by tasting the sweet scent which blends with the salad one. Breathe the atmosphere of city farmer's market. read on the benches at the park. I am delighted with the presence of excellent pizzerias and the certainty of continuing to try them without deciding which one is the best one. It keeps me alive, all this life I had never calculated, what I want is here - it's always been here - around me, a place to get rid of my tortures, making my life a piece of art.


Dot Space Dot


Suspended between the show of the world and the show business without distinguishing the discrepancy, I assist with lack of motivation of the slow flow: even the most accurate GPS could guide me in the right direction where drive at. It's a euphemism defining all this "show".

Last night I dreamed of my father who ended his earthly experience one morning two years ago, after a long illness.

When death knocks near you, it changes the punctuation of life and, despite this seems a fight to keep away the moment of detachment, is a vain fight. It's the only certainty and the only real fair thing.

In truth, life is simple: we know we have an end point (we only don't know when) and we should fill the empty space down to there.

I think about all those who have carried their secrets into their grave, who believed to be right even if he/she didn't. I think about all those who, persevering in their comforts, appeal to the revisionists: In the end, they will think about all. I think about who was an hero, just for one day...or a thousand. I think about who didn't see that day. I think about those who bring existence on a stroll, convinced it's socially useful to be able to download it as a tax. I think about those who have run to chase and show themselves, to impose and cheat, to those who slim down their bellies, fattening their ego.

I'm not sure there is eternity, but we all know there's an after us and about that after there's no possibility of intervention, every artifice will be useless.

As long as we travel along our way, we go from one point to another one. Nothing more and nothing less. That's how for everyone, no one is more wonderful than his neighbor. There's only one thing to decide on how to fill our own edge, walking barefoot on the paths of every sacred day.


Rider on the storm


I've always been a chronic immature, in the balance between the gears of passing time, a body which inexorable fades and the surrounding environment which judges my movements.


Who am I really?

What I let shine through and what do I hide?

How do other people see me?

Who would I be?


Dilemmas. In my life, the most onerous case is to live my life and the lack of some practicality. You can ask me to paint the finest imaginary painting (actually I can't do it) depict the whole humanity, but not to plant a nail to hang that painting.

Sometimes I felt like an unfit stubborn and a failed of good hopes, and I was getting irritated by the fact it was pointed out because it was like putting a knife in my sores.

Judgment of others is an intimate violation you don't remember having granted, even if it often is reasonable and weighty. It's not comforting to be fooled because It's like making fun of the sufferings and problems of another person; Moreover, it's a useful game for not focusing on your own life.

My real me never appears, my ego swaggers and beds down, my unconscious drives the car.

I'd like to conquer other dimensions and new possibilities, if only I could raise from the ground. The body, the ambient and the time, continue to dominate me, keeping me in survival mode.

I'll be sitting on the seashore waiting for the wave to ride, or you'll find me lying on this bare ground to feel a breath of wind and grab it.

The clear sky will come and I can do it, like a knight who has crossed a storm.





Translated by Emilia Maiella

Music, yoga, a book I’d like: everybody has the right of some revelry. If any authority supported this, I would vote him, no matter what. I don’t care about speeches stuffed with new meanings, life flies by too fast.

The joy of living, maybe rationed, should be offered by public health service, have care to guarantee enough delight, not only work exploitation. Is it possible to produce happiness?

Streets full of groups playing blues and jazz bands, festivals and carnivals for suburban neighbourhoods. Offer the goods God has given through the great minds of Leonardo and Michelangelo, the landscapes of Monet, Manet, Renoir, the colours of orange from Vincent, even without forgetting the incursions of the Bristol’s anonymous and all those things there. Let get lost the strawberry fields and flutter in the marmalade skies, go down in the depths inside a submarine yellow, in the time of an eternal spring.

Let me only see verses and prose on the posters, plays in the squares, fairs in the markets, places to devote to whom used the science for good ends, and to those who put their own intellect at the disposal of others. Of what was once needed to discover the futility of today and how the convictions are turned changing the perspective. Everyone have their own things to hide and nothing can be erased because everything remains somewhere, let that part become wisdom.

Let me save a clean thought for those who wish me bad luck, so that they will loosen their fury on me. That my time becomes a companion, that the hands of the clock become caresses and not axes anymore. Anxieties and tensions dissolve, fears and anguish vanish and remain that state of well-being, the tranquillity that makes you look to the sky without thinking of anything.

They say the end is like getting off a bus to get on another. Let's say it’s just be another dimension and give the gladness, the marvel, the regular breath and then I will retreat to the trees to look from other perspectives, such as the Rampant Baron of Calvino.

It will be just like an eternal Candyland but no one will wake up as a donkey and school will be a game to play.


Praise of tiredness


We are planets outside our orbit. We inhabit sepulchres for living beings where we leave photos that change every so often. We mark dates and reoccurrences, we post epitaphs that someone reads every so often but we also send messages to those who aren’t there and can’t respond, almost certain that they can however read, as if after all we know the parameters of other dimensions. And we have friends, someone the best, someone else who deserves it, and we like, we vote, we express, today we are enthusiastic and tomorrow we are astonished, testimonies of our public diary.

I truly needed to wear myself out, I who is middle aged and now chronically tired. The effort takes away all the same old stories, if not always, at least sometimes. I needed to slim down my calendar, lose myself in boredom, stop my mind. I had to organise my confusion, empty my nothing.

I no longer understand when spring arrives and when summer begins, I recognise no extremity. I’m suspended and I find balance in this state. You can call it posture, gravity, balance, but understand that it is so and it was and it will be. Without knowledge of your own condition, outside of space, time and substance, you exist equally. It’s only the exhaustion of the absent, what is missing but still present.

The italian versione of this post



In my country

Translation by Yaiza Cañizares

6.45 pm. It is about to begin the yoga lesson. I arrived earlier. The instructor is talking to a lady who is usually my next-mat neighbour. I sit between them because I listened to their conversation. The woman takes her cellphone and shows us pictures from Accumuli taken some time ago. They are rubble, it is the earthquake.

- I have a small house in Umbria - I tell her - twenty kilometers from Norcia and twenty from Visso. My father was from that area. Last Monday I was in a meeting with the Civil Protection for the practicability of my home.

- What a mess! - she continued - I spent my childhood and my adolescence up there, and look now…


The others are arriving one after another and the lesson has to start. I sit cross-legged with my hands on my knees, but it’s hard to get relaxed now. The childhood and adolescence: those words  have opened the box of my memories.

That day, while I was waiting for the chief of the Civil Protection, I went to visit my father's grave. The cemetery is located just outside the village. While I was walking, I looked at those places that somehow had marked my summer days. Up there, right in the middle of the mountain that dominates the center of the village, when we were young boys, we had built a hut: just a slum of bamboo sticks, but for us it was a luxury chalet, a place where smoke and eat all the fruits stolen in the fields. From there, no one could find us without we could see him coming up. At those times, it was a relief to have some moments of control over  our own adolescence. In that part of the Valnerina, the road where the trail begins to climb up to the top, it is now  closed for the landslide.

Once, the village was developed around the historic center. There were two bars nearby and people used to come out from one to enter in the other.

The first bar was spacious and we could sit to plan some project to escape from the boredom of the hottest hours. The second bar was smaller, but the warehouse was used as a game room: billiards, pinball machines and jukeboxes that we played using only one coin for the whole evening. On the other side of the road, a grocery store would serve slices of chocolate  for snack and breakfast with capture flavour of old times. We used to wait for the baker´s van to help him unload the baskets of bread. The smell of white pizza with rosemary and red pizza with anchovies are memories that still nourish my salivation today.

Every 15 of August the village would expect the match between bachelors and married men which, in reality, was a parade of carts from  both parts. During the journey from the village´s center to the stadium both teams would exchange jokes and hard hits: it was a war!

Peace would only arrive in the evening with a barbecue in the village square: toasted bread, sausages and fogliata, an Umbrian pie made of vegetables, bacon and pecorino cheese. And of course, wine! Later,  people would dance all night long, waiting for the fireworks. We discovered so many things in summer, sex and the first binges, terrifying  jokes, and all the other experiences that would have been useful later in life.

Today the center, it’s been moved. A bar, a restaurant, a butcher´s and a supermarket are located at the entrance, near the sign of Welcome in Borgo Cerreto. Next to Nera’s riverside. beyond the river, a green sea of fields are irrigated by a source that gushes from the mountain. They extend beneath the valley crossed by the ancient path of the Spoleto-Norcia railway: a series of tunnels, bridges and viaducts form the rock. My uncle was the stationmaster of the hamlet of Saint Anatolia.

The entire area has become an immense parking area, where people park their cars the whole night; thenwaken up by the lights and the rescue sirens.

Not only does the earth but also the soul shakes, and the origins resting here as well. We would run among the poppies and every day we could hear the sound of Sunday. We have never been so free.



© Enrico Mattioli 2018