. No excuses can be made for excess. This is greed, and it breeds bad taste. I want to be an agent of the essential. Trim my actions down to the indispensable, In a weightless flight that follows a straight, neat line.
I renounce the pirouettes performed by artificial limbs and collected disasters - and realise that space may be found “every-there”, but only the space of a flat surface withholds infinity.

Just recently, the hanging piece - present and yet shielded away from the rest of it all, appeared to effectively charm me more than other flashy attempts to orchestrate a situation. Just because some choices can be made it doesn’t mean they should - anything can be turned, tuned, upgraded to its uber-self - but non-action may be imperative in allowing things to be-come what they are - never forcing anything into existence for the sake of expressing agency or just simply expressing something.
To embody this notion truly and faithfully, one must experience deep disillusionment - break free from the expectation of magic, but actively choose, on the doorway of each moment, to act in the name of nothing but mere personal pleasure.
The arrow shaped attention is followed by heart piercing and willing blindness.


shades of deadly grey on many hard bits of the landscape - and if I was to try to lift them, they would hinge me to the ground - and if they had a voice, it would clang like swords on pipes.
Colourless copies of beautiful round-shaped objects copulate in all corners of rooms - and by colourless I mean purple-greyish or green-grayish - and I cannot figure out why this death has taken such a toll on me these days.
Paolo uccello
The apartment walls soak in the wetness of rain - cardboard shoebox with high ceilings and windows open -
Water wets my face and all the items in the room, magnifying them while I shrink and shiver In oversized comfort clothes - so I try to move slow by day and I’m often on the phone to some drier place -
Annina used to say, in the pit of her despair “maybe today I have to lose a lot, so tomorrow I can see what is still there”.
There is, indeed, something about this total disenchantment that breeds the opportunity to find the sort of pace and solitude that often escapes me in thrill - a total independence of thought that reclaims shavings of freedom, with the vigilance of a starved child who’s pockets are filled with bread crumbs. It comes somewhere in the process of re-establishing trust in the ways of chaos - where the only effective stitches are the ones dictated by one’s own survival and the pursuit of personal, exclusive pleasure. mmmmh Exclusive pleasure.
Lethargy, grooming, caressing, chewing, tidying up.
My affection is arrow shaped and it shoots wisely -
Choices made like ironed and folded clothes - Fewer, but dearer than ever.

When did everything stop being enough?
And why would I want to be anything but simple?

- The hanging painting whispers back over the motives of the room, wrapping itself in dust and occasionally drawing a spying eye - its favourite moments are intervals of time between routine and deadlines; the gestures of casual engagement in personal space, and the inquiring manners of the curious guest.
Paint bulking like an excrescence on the wall. Flirting like peel grows over fruit.


Frames well defined make worlds well apart. The holy, on the smooth and dust-free side of the isolating chipped ring, and then us - the sorry and opaque.
Luis’ guitar lies languidly in completely foreign context - no relation between it and Mantegna can be read between the wall and the floor that it occupies, but perhaps if the scenography were more elaborate, and the props more intrusive, the whole scene really would look like an odd mix of incoherent, sticker-like dimensions where brittle structures skeptically try to provvide a generous frame around the orphaned fragments.
I imagine an intangible dome of some kind of charm gas - like sleep, or faith. Beneath it all puppets and props are held captive of a game that none of them is quite warm enough to play. Each being rather too busy petulantly claiming stance - like children in a tantrum - and as their voices overlap, the bubble glaze flakes away.
The building force that insists on following the rebellious items on the floor is a musical that plays on repeat.
where Actors are spinning tops flat on paper -
And music notes emerge from the the fabric of sound, as loaded chestnuts of madness. They turn mute, but material.
And as music does, they alone are pregnant with the possibility of joining scattered bits under the same melody -
In fact, they look much like vacant ravioli.

The rebellious items are worn out subjects that no are no longer sharp in the present - but still hold on to the promise of personal histories - memory archives and bed-side-table books -
41.109025, 16.874107 negozio

41.115656, 16.873094 nonno

41.115521, 16.873336zio pinuccio

41.091028, 16.985753 villa
25th February - {...} they are not objects or furniture. they, and all of it together, make a single body. Whether on wheels or stuck curly taped on the wall - an orchestra of a mess pushed inward by labile lines, where the surface of each belongs indissolubly to gravity, while the core remains immaculate as peach touch, as baby skin

A chest of drawers holds the possessions of two lovers, wedded by the spells of pollen and wing flashes that coiled them into a bond
A sequence of soft sounding numbers mending the gaps in between ciphers - the tickled vestibular system.

Carta pentagrammata, music box, sandwich wood easy sand

I can’t own a way into a course of action that feels right in its unfolding. It’s no different from the concept of magic that Agamben writes about in ‘profanations’, and I’m glad to find surprise, again and again, in remembering his words, as it means that I’m storing them somewhere i don't know, when I’m busy working. A gentle simmering, over and below the surface of my “ah!”, is the motion that cradles the poetry I want to harvest though my days.
A matter will follow a series of superfluous, ordinary and expendable choices, which will be carried forward in a battle against the uncomfortable suspicion that greed and blunt restlessness are making a pawn of me.
Something like a syllable or a tone will stem outward as the underlying evidence of unity that can only operate within chaos - which is why I force myself to believe that actually, chaos should not be confined or artificially filtered a priori.

I can only make a craft out of following naivety, and proceed to respond to all tickles in lightness. The challenge in this craft lies in not getting attached to the physical essence of what is being produced, but to learn to view the practice as a whole and accepting that there is no hierarchy in chaos, and that therefore letting go is just as important (or irrelevant) as taking in.
Accepting and rejecting, inhaling and exhaling, and so on.

I give too much importance to my time, and that leads me to take everything way more seriously than I wish I did.

In order to love boundlessly, I have to fold my trust into that love - knowing that it will reject all choreographing attempts, and that it wants to endlessly expand and ramificate unreasonably in all directions.
I want to take nothing and everything seriously. What is relevant and obvious and essential cannot be removed from the base of all things that move (or are moved) around - and whether or not I’m able to name it, it will transpire.

Figurines have no importance in themselves, but they have to be there as objects casting a shadow - presences that may be as thin as a single hair, but are nevertheless there, at the forefront of a scene - I can call them pawns - or bait - for matter - cookies for santa behind the sealed eye-lids.

The colour white in this light is very creamy
To make the day a necklace
To see the beads glow and bounce off in a catastrophe of light colour and warmth

I fill my time with futile actions because I don’t dare to aim for the essential
Sometimes I’m afraid to forget (the essential)
Or that the essential won’t find its way back to me
Or that when it does, I won’t recognise it

Ice made the drink cold and the rest of the evening played out obviously in a similar fashion
The city stretched its goodbye with a heat wave so powerful it knocked the sound off the streets
hello, I’m the muffled joy by the lakes

A volte anche in Germania il sole sbiadisce le cose
intanto sto In casa, con delle peonie che non si aprono mai

Theatrically productive
Dramatically productive
Spectacularly productive
Romantically productive

Assenza di flusso per cui ciò che entra, non trova modo di uscire. L’irreversibilità delle cose. La catastrofe.

I want to design clocks
I want to be the mother to glitter, married to reflected light
I want to be ample thighed like the banisters at the door to the houses on Driggs avenue
Or fish scaled like the baby blue house on Brome Street, close to where the barking dog bites
On Guinness avenue I met an eery lack of life, A frisbee in mid air, my feet over dry soil.
Whenever I encounter water, my antenna rises longitudinally, vertically I extend in both directions like an infinite linea
Like my grandfather, when he died:
He became a single endless root cradled in water, and in a coat of silky september breeze, he laid down forever.

Cose tanto più grandi di noi
Tutto questo apparterrà pure a qualcuno
Che fai piangi?

Si poteva andare solo dritto su queste strade, che poi erano sempre crepate dalle radici degli ulivi, e poi aggiustate a chiazze di cemento colato.
Nel frattempo abbaiavano i cani nelle gabbie, e null’altro produceva rumore o pareva vivo.
Io faticavo a camminare nel sole, e mi entravano terra e sassolini nelle scarpe, ma volevo a tutti i costi percorrere un cerchio senza mai tornare indietro nell’arrivare da dove ero partita. Tutto per vedere solo cose nuove o strane, vive o morte, essicate, come me
In the drawn mark, traced, forgotten, recovered and reproduced there’s a way to deliver the freshness of a sketch or a note
I need to revisit my own sketchbooks over and over, chewing my collected experiences of beauty, caught in the quick sketch as I experience it*

And beauty is simple, but it’s not something I can reproduce intentionally, it’s something that manifests itself in a process of thinking, doing and overcoming (or outrunning) -
leading to novel surprise (halt).

Sometimes the unexpected outcome is as simple as noticing the presence of a massive tree on a street of daily crossing,
The tree, + the shower of light games cast on the ground by its crown.
Or perhaps it’s found in the material reacting autonomously to my intention to manipulate it
Lacking the necessary skills to work over the material, I am more likely to leave space for the material to work over me.

*Intrinsically bound to my journal, the mark will be coated in “me”, until its consumption will wear the “me” out
Like a word endlessly uttered, the mark will stretch meaning
I would rather have that world in monochrome - on a scale of browns or on a scale of yellows
Or each figure on a different chromatic realm
And I would rather have no background
Or a very simple background, rough and uncomplicated
Rigorously A4
Painting a subject of reality is different than painting a concept.
The first is a representation - in the second, the concept draws from reality and applies it in order to deliver an idea
or poetry: it’s generative, rather than representative.

Characters are vehicles, letters, colour coded and never alone
aligned in continuity

{Still lives define the limits of things}
vorrei che il susseguirsi singhiozzante delle mie azioni tracciasse inavvertitamente le forme curve di tutto ciò che vive, si piega su di sé, e si trasforma
vorrei che gli elementi appesi alla finestra tra il dentro segreto e il fuori teatrale, appena si toccassero, e che tutti allineati e unici, si cercassero a vicenda nelle simmetrie
vorrei che la sequenza di tutto ciò fosse un disegno di tranquillità
e che le fila tese ne fossero il morbido letto

chaotic solutions shaped in a butterfly
the small, amplified