Those are the games that I played when I was young… ehm, younger 😉
The gameplay was not so incredible, even for the times (I suppose) but the music of Edvard Grieg can be intended as a touch of style 🙂
Reading newspaper…
– Oh. I’m bored! I’m really bored! I wonder why he is not at home yet…
– Be calm, my friend. You must consider that he went out just a few minutes ago… you should be more patient.
– I understand, but I cannot realize what he have to do. Why does he spend so much time? You know, the newspaper kiosk is so near!
– Right. But what about the possibility he decided to stop at the BAR?
– At the bar? For which reason?
– Well, to have cappuccino for instance! And as usual, he’ll be at home without bringing anything for us, I’m pretty sure!
– Right… and sorry, how can it be different, given that he still think we are just toys?
-Wait, I’ve heard a noise… all silent, please! He is coming… If we are lucky, in a few minutes he will leave the newspaper here in this room…
Evidence of autumn
There is something magical in the arrival of the autumn. Something magical that happens again, every year. Something that I’ll eagerly wait, as soon as I come back from vacations. Autumn bring its presents, to everyone willing to accept them. The colors are new and fresh, nature shows complex and articulate deeps, patterns that can talk to my heart more that in any other season.
I like this renovated sense of intimacy in being at home while outside is cold, the yellow warm lights of the house in contrast with the terse cold and misty blu that it diffuses everywhere.
All conjures to make possible this magic to appear, exactly when you don’t expect anything more…
Suddenly, Out Of The Blue
Some Kind Of Magic Pushes You Through
You Don’t Know When, How, Or Why
But Someday Gonna Take Off, Fly
Fly, Fly, Fly…
(Mike Oldfield, To Be Free)
For all of this, and for more, fall is a poetical season: the most poetical, in fact.
Evidence of autumn
There is something magical in the arrival of the autumn. Something magical that happens again, every year. Something that I’ll eagerly wait, as soon as I come back from vacations. Autumn bring its presents, to everyone willing to accept them. The colors are new and fresh, nature shows complex and articulate deeps, patterns that can talk to my heart more that in any other season.
I like this renovated sense of intimacy in being at home while outside is cold, the yellow warm lights of the house in contrast with the terse cold and misty blu that it diffuses everywhere.
All conjures to make possible this magic to appear, exactly when you don’t expect anything more…
Suddenly, Out Of The Blue
Some Kind Of Magic Pushes You Through
You Don’t Know When, How, Or Why
But Someday Gonna Take Off, Fly
Fly, Fly, Fly…
(Mike Oldfield, To Be Free)
For all of this, and for more, fall is a poetical season: the most poetical, in fact.
who is the artist?
You want to know the meaning of life? This is your highest calling: you are called into the dynamic co-creation of the cosmos. This breath is your canvas and your brush. These are the raw materials for your art, for the life you are making. Nothing is off limits. Your backyard, your piano, your paintbrush, your conversation, Rwanda, New Orleans, Iraq, your marriage, your soul. You’re making a living with every step you take.
– Jon Foreman
Face your fears. And write
Yesterday evening I was in front of my laptop, wondering. Well, I have those project. You know, a couple of ones are almost finished, the third is still on start, but it’s more ambitious (a new novel). Anyway, a lot of days has already passed and I was not able to convince myself to spend times fully devoted to those project. It seems, there is always something to do instead of writing.
Because of the great fear. The fear that my writing is a loss of time.
The fear is so high, sometimes, that I prefer to actually loss time, checking my Facebook timeline or indulging in other not-so-productive activities, instead of writing.
Because of this. Because I do not want to face my fear.
Actually, it turns out that facing my fears could be the right thing to do.
Yes. Facing my fears. Which means, in this case, writing. Writing anyway, even if I think I’m not good enough, even if I fear that it can be a loss of time, even if I am sure that other people could make it better. Far better than me. They are only paralyzing statements that want to keep me from my best work.
So yesterday evening I forced myself to reopen one project, the project of a poetry book. And I discovered again, that wonderful thing. Namely, that going through my stuff, even if it’s imperfect, even if it’s naive in certain part – it makes me feel better. Again, I’m connected with the universe, I feel I’m doing what I’m here for.
Yes, strange to think, but it’s so. Even if I can severely judge my writing, nevertheless I haven’t the freedom to decide. I have to write. I have to overcome my fear and write (or better, I have to embrace my fears and write).
Let me write down it, since I constantly try to escape from this simple fact. I can feel fine only if I accept to write. If I do not accept it (with the excuses I listed above, plus others – I have plenty), nothing can fill the hole in my heart.
I can only think of a reason for this: I am not alive by chance, but for a reason (everybody is here for a reason, everybody has a task to do in order to make the universe more bright). One of the reasons I’m here is writing.
So I’m supposed to quit my (excellent) job and write all time?
No, I do not think so.
I think my duty is to write inside the circumstances that I experience around me. Circumstances are not casual, they are the way I have to grow. That’s what I learn from School of Community and it fully resonates in me (when I’m honest with myself).
So, if I’m called to be a scientist and a writer, a husband and a father, that’s what I have to do. Every tentative deviation from this path (compulsive food, drink, sex… should I mention all of them?) is a loss of time. While writing is never a loss of time, never.
