19 December, 2025
this entry is about: my favourite interpretation of the SATOR square, the life covenant, reciprocity, lovers and birds, the cosmologies of women, gardening, fava beans
Oh, I don't care which god she says she follows; which shepherd, which warmongerer; when she speaks like this about mittelschmerz and lunar cycles, can't she see that she's shrouded in the light of a prophetess? For months I've tried to win the admiration of that woman. I piled up the fruits and the seeds from my garden, phacelia and calendula, I piled them high and set them on her desk, almost bending down for her in manners and words; thinking she'd understand what great of a gift it is, the fruit of one's land: thinking she'd be the first to understand. Still, her smile is so coldly polite: and I grow weary so fast of coldness, of distance, so fast and so hard that I must be a monster, the way I fall out of love so easily. I don't know why, but I'm never attracted to people for long: it's just an inkling, a faint ache, a vague feeling of "there could be something", then I get closer and I always discover a flaw: a coldly polite smile, an imperfect word... it's enough to make me frown in disgust, and that feeling is smothered before it can grow. She received my gifts and she asked for more, queen-like: she asked for the seeds of my sunflowers - it was last June, and they were towering over my garden. I was happy to say yes, but after a few months of being away from her, of not hearing from her even though she had promised otherwise, I had grown angry: I chopped them down and fed them to the birds. It always ends this way.
It's stupid (what isn't in this journal?) but I was thinking about how much I owe this one woman on tumblr. She was one of the first people I followed. She was someone like me, a stereotypical woowoo ecofeminist. One time she posted something about using period underwear, and using the bloody water from washing to fertilize her plants, and she said something like "if you don't use reusable period products, start using them. if you don't have a garden, start one 👍" or something. And I said: ok. At that point I already had a garden, but I still only used disposable pads. But I gave heed to her advice back then, and now I can't imagine a world where my blood doesn't go back to the earth. It's a ritual that makes me belong in the world - and it's just because that woman said "do this".
Let me tell you: the world is asphyxiating if you don't center female perspectives. This world - as in, this world we have created as a society, not the natural world in herself - will smother you, if you don't see it through the eyes and speak it through the tongues of the only half of humanity that has chosen to retain the empathy, the integrity, the mutual respect that were supposed to keep being the defining characteristics of our whole species. Male cosmology is so senseless, and by cosmology I mean everything with which they structure their understanding of world: philosophy, politics, mythology, religion... and yet it is everything we learn about, everything we ever hear unless we go out of our way to find other perspectives. In my art textbook, I keep coming across this painting named "Motherhood", made by a man. Motherhood? What would a man know about motherhood! And it's a painting of mary, poor mary, poor totaled, abjectly bent, hollow woman, with her adored Son in her arms. What would a man know about motherhood: nothing. The archetypes they have designed for us are so stupid. The Madonna is so senseless... The whore is so senseless... The temptress, the weak and innocent young maiden, the mother with no sharp angles and no shadows - a mindless open womb - are so senseless... I need (you need, woman, I say) to lean on other women, to hear about their cosmology, which is, again, the view/doctrine of everything... how they perceive the world to be. The structure that holds up the world in their minds. Write it all over again, woman, I say, we need to hear it: what's the meaning of things, to you? What are to be our models, our paradigms? Oh, you can borrow from them if you want - I know I do, a bit - just pour your own ink in there, woman. I need to read it, and there are others like us out there who need to read it. That's part of why I write about my cosmology: I have, if not the belief, the hope that there's another woman out there who'll come across my words and take them into her heart, as I do with the writings of women like me, past and present (and forgive me if I'm too crude about the shedding of my uterine lining). Nobodies who've left no trace, names that only appear in an old magazine, in a blog, among a thousand others. Sister, will you ever know that your speech in my ear is the music of the spheres, that your ideas hold up my world? "[...] when the other woman lets me know myself, when the answers in her words satisfy me - then the cut begins to heal and knit into a scar, the nature of the bond between us grows clear: Your speech belongs in my ear. My song belongs for you." (Devorah Zahav). Kindred woman are you there? My speech will fly, will find no peace until it rests in your ears.
I read about a woman who, waiting, arms upraised under the moon, called out: "Surely I am repentant. Bless me."
I know that the heavily mantained garden of annual plants is a very human and very unwise invention, but I can't help feeling drawn to the idea of a... divine gardener. My Ma's aspect as the divine gardener. Where can you feel your connection to the world, and the weight of your actions in it, more strongly? Where can you feel the life and death that are always embedded in your hands more strongly? Sowing seeds, even those that will not sprout, even those that will get carried away by the wind or smothered by the neighbor's cat's rampages. Pulling up the weak seedlings, throwing them in the compost bin. You are the one who sowed them and jumped for joy when you saw them poking out, and you are the one who culls them: they may never know it (and perhaps they wouldn't believe it: the seedling wants to live), but this is the farthest thing from forsaking them. They may not see (do you believe in intelligence inherent in matter?) quod tenet opera sua sator.
It's easy, and flattering, to see the gardener as mother. But I also ask myself: is the gardener a midwife? I think about it every time I press seeds to earth and earth to seeds, after sowing. Maybe I'm just the witness to their relationship (permaculture would say yes). As Jesse Frost said, I have never made a leaf or a fruit, I have never photosynthesized or traded nutrients with bacteria and fungi: I've never actually grown anything. I'm just a midwife helping the earth bring forth her own children. Maybe, yes. But whatever I am, there, I am an agent in the universe.
Yes, the garden is the world. See the woman on the earthen path, blessing the grass she has to tread on for her passage; she sees the tree at the back of the garden, she clutches at her heart and says to herself: oh look at the great fruit tree, look at how tall and firm she stands: she who feeds off of sunlight and water and offends none for her survival, she who uncoerced, unobliged, freely gives us shade and shelter and the fruits of her long labor, made most sweet for our tongues. I could never hope to bring her gifts as great: how can I repay her? I have the strength of my arms, and the skill of my hands; for the entire month my body has labored to bring forth this fruit which I give to her. Because she is my work - TENET OPERA SATOR - and I must hold her up. See the great fruit tree at the back of the garden, standing firm; she sees the woman on the earthen path and says to herself: oh look at the human woman, who walks on the grass with such grace, even though she must tread on it for her passage: look at how swift she moves, how her strength fetches the watering can and the wheelbarrow for us, and at every turn of the moon she bleeds herself dry for us, she gives us her flesh as food. How can I repay her? I will shelter the rest of her plants under my crown, when this land's unmerciful summer is upon us; for many months I have labored to bring forth these fruits which I give to her. Because she is my work - TENET OPERA SATOR - and I must hold her up. See the woman and the tree talking to themselves like this, not realizing that all are SATORES, and all are OPERA.
I don't care how little time I have: I must go check on my seedlings. Am I of this world, do I belong in its web, if I don't go check on my seedlings? The seeds in the dark earth must feel so forlorn without the breath of their mother hovering above them. I am of this world, I belong in its web, TENET OPERA SATOR, so I must go check on my seedlings. The lupines didn't make it, just like last time, but the purple tansy already sprouted: she always springs up like one who has duty to attend to, velut sator qui tenet opera sua. She IS one who has duty to attend to: she knows how much the insects need her. Will you make it through January and February with me? And for weeks I have been complaining that my favas weren't sprouting. I don't even like favas, but it's important for me to grow them... it's hard to explain. All the poor women of these lands, my grandmother included, grew up on favas. (Io ci sono nata nella fava, amore!) All the old women of these lands, I swear, have had a story with favas. They are strong plants, roots firmly planted in these soils, never refusing to answer the calls of the hungry - TENET OPERA SATOR - who sing back to her, in their memories - TENET OPERA SATOR. And their flowers! Have you ever seen their flowers? They are sacred to me at this point. And yet they would not come up. So I complained... and the old woman in the school hallway told me a beautiful thing. Le fave devono sentire le campane. Fava beans must be sown shallow enough that they can hear bells chiming. She told me, they didn't hear the bells, so they didn't wake up: you sowed them too deep! I protested: but I know them... they are strong seeds, I thought they would've found their way up anyways... She told me to dig them up, to see if they had sprouted at all. So, a few days ago, I went into the garden with the small shovel in hand, thinking that if they hadn't died already I'd surely kill them this time. And I was about to start digging when I noticed two or three little seedling heads just barely peeking out of the earth. I waited like, three weeks for them to sprout. Why all the rush now! Oh they heard their mother sigh upon the earth - TENET OPERA SATOR - and they rushed to the surface so that she would not feel forlorn - TENET OPERA SATOR.
The moon was at a perfect ultimo quarto when I got my period. I had been waiting, I had been waiting so much that I was near exhasperation, near to shouting at the night sky: what's taking you so long?
I read about a woman who, waiting, arms upraised under the moon, called out: "Surely I am repentant. Bless me." I liked how her voice was booming and solemn like the sound of an ancient horn; I liked how she wrote like one of the biblical patriarchs she scorned (I grew up reading their words, after all, and all the texts of men... they keep their appeal to me, in part, forgive me). I liked how hers was a proper sermon: why don't more women speak like they're on a pulpit? (Please: "your speech belongs in my ear"...) I liked the cosmology of that woman: she played a part, each month, the part of the leper that waits for salvation, for baptism in the river of blood. The part of the leper who pretends not to see the upraised hand ready to dispense the blessing. "Where is the periodicity that never faileth?" And so she and salvation - salvation embodied - acted out this ritual play where they circled around each other, hid just out of sight, feigned wrath or desperation, until they finally, eventually, came face to face with each other: and their embrace was sweeter the greater their estrangement had been. Yes, after writing about anathema maranatha, I read this woman's cosmology and it struck a chord within me. She preached like Savonarola! and her pathos was infectious, and every new day of waiting felt like being disgraced, too, and I found myself repeating her words: "Surely I am repentant. Bless me." And me, and her, we both pretended to feel deserted, we pretended to disbelieve that TENET OPERA SATOR - so that grace was sweeter when it infallibly arrived.
Is it like that woman said, then? Is it all a cycle of disbelieving, or feigning disbelief in, the divine law in which the sower keeps her work, until it inevitably comes to light in front of us again, as real and brilliant as it always is (even when we don't see it)? Is it all a cycle of believing, or pretending to believe, that you're excluded from the life-covenant, that you're the only one being turned away from the feast of life, secretly basking in the knowledge that, when it is inevitably offered to you, the glass of well-aged wine that has always been reserved for you will taste even better? TENET OPERA SATOR: it's so clear, it's so obvious: do we ever really lose trust in it, or do we just pretend to do so? Do we just pretend to do so, so we can ask, again and again, and again and again receive the confort of the answer: "yes"?
It would've felt so good to walk - like that woman must've done - naked out into the night, to bare myself under the moonlight, to offer myself to her view, and to ask, only rhetorically, to ask: Do you keep your work? The sound of the shedding inside me is a soft one, but my ear is attuned, and in it I hear your answer: yes, I do. Do you keep yours? We need not call you: you come. Here am I, here am I, here is the work I must keep, you say stretching your hand over us. "I keep my work", you need not say: we see it. Do I keep mine? I am the work of many. Every day, living beings die to end up on my plate. Do I give enough back to the world that flings her arm so wide to sow me? I hear her voice above the earth: am I fast and strong enough in striving towards the surface? The sun doesn't hang around for long these days, but the tan she sowed on my skin is still visible, I swear. Water weighs down the hair on my body and contorts it into spirals. This is good work. I am held up: do I hold up others? My ear is attuned, blood to fingertips I hear you saying: you wouldn't be alive if you weren't an opus, but you are not alive if you aren't a sator. So much of my work - my real work, the work that matters - is lost between trifles and mere chores, is destroyed by stress and time costraints, and so often I allow it to be. You were Ammit too, right? But my heart isn't lighter than a feather. I hang for my life, for the worth of my life on the acts of kindness that I've brought into the world, but they don't seem enough to hold me. Remind me, Ma, that I must keep my work, that it is in my nature to keep my work; humble me for I am the seed, exalt me for I am the sower.
"THE COVENANT HOLDS. AH, MY GOD, MY SISTER, I AM BLESSED."
10 December, 2025
this entry is about: my favourite interpretation of anathema maranatha, the death-curse, productivity, composting and thrifting, motherhood and daughterhood, water, shrimp
It's funny how, now that I don't have enough free time to code (I'm very slow at it), I'm getting a ton of ideas about webmastering. I need to remake the index to actually convey the idea of cellula. I need to remake the about me page cause it's horrible. I need to make a proper page for the Sae the tenth analysis. What do I do with the dreams page that I never use anymore??? I could make a new journal layout from scratch. I could make a shrine for White Lies. I could make a shrine for Masturbati by Andrea Tich. I could make a shrine for the Womanspirit magazine. On that topic, I could also make a page for a little essay on what the importance of spirituality is to me, since it's such an integral part of my writings. I could make a shrine for :riflessi, but that would be the most pathetic and personal thing known to man. Do I want a library page?
I've recently discovered this painting, The Bathers by Courbet, and it just stuck with me a lot, I can't clearly express why. It must be because of the women, the peasant women, the natural women in their natural bodies, stripping themselves of everything and joining the water. Look at how the seated one smiles. It speaks to me so much and I kind of want to make a layout inspired by it? A layout that conveys this sentiment of reconnecting with nature as a woman, of being embraced by the water for what you are: I too know the ecstasy of leaving your clothes on the shore. But how would I even do that? It's a pretty vague concept... but it would be a honor to be able to express it.
I love Barbara G. Walker's Encyclopedia... as like, half-fiction, because it definitely has some outdated things or some straight up bullshit in it /affectionate. The part about anathema maranatha is definitely one of those things, but I still feel so compelled by it, so fascinated. I find it amazing, somewhat bittersweet, somewhat reassuring, to see the death-curse on the devout lover's head being put into a simple ritual formula, being put into words.
One of the first things I remember is being in preschool, at the end of the morning, looking up and meeting those eyes at the door. You don't know the meaning of "death stare" if you haven't met those eyes, planted straight in your face. Can a death stare kill you? Maybe, if you're a preschooler hanging for dear life onto the hands and eyes of that woman. I won't give context, and I don't mean to say that this is the worst thing that happened to me back then, it's not, but it's... symbolic. I still remember the pit that opened up in my stomach: it felt like the end of the world. Things like these ARE the end of the world, if you're a preschooler hanging for dear life onto the hands and eyes of that woman. That was the time I heard strongly, surely, being said unto me: let her be anathema maranatha.
Trying to slow down these hectic days, trying to steal some leisure here and there when I can. Caffé macchiato is one of the best things in the world, tastes so cozy. I asked the driving school instructor if I could please drive down the road I love, the great road that leads to the city. I miss her... the road that leads to the city, with all its colorful lights, with all its giant factories looming over you, she wears her festive dress now! The city is most beautiful around Christmas time. I'm going there on Saturday - there's also a vintage market where I hope to find some elegant winter clothes for my nights out - but fuck, I wish I could go there whenever I wanted, like in summer, when I just woke up and took the bus without a care in the world. I'm so busy lately, and I truly don't know if I'm
1) doing many things, well
2) doing too many things, badly
3) doing too little
Really, really confused about that. Last year, mostly throughout summer, I kept a daily log, to write down the things I did. I recently started it again, because I've been overtaken by a sort of productivity craze, which was also required by recent circumstances of course but I also genuinely willed it. Prior to this year, I didn't really... study, almost not at all: good grades just fell onto my lap. This year, though, I have the esame di maturità and I also wanna get ready for university (because it'll surely be hard). So now I've started studying, systematically, regularly, seriously, for real, and tracking my studying. Then there's a ton of other shit I'm trying to keep up with, a ton of good habits I'm trying to mantain, etc etc and I'm just wondering, at which point productivity collapses onto itself, at which point all the things you do start amounting to nothing, becoming meaningless. I think it's definitely true that you are what you do. You interact with the world, you build your identity and change others' through action. I wanna do it all, I really wanna do it all but I also wish I had more time to just be. I wanna do it all, I've spent so much of my life in inaction and now I dread it, I truly, truly dread it: to be honest, one of the most disquieting things about this house is the monolithic presence of my shut-in sister. She does nothing at all besides going to uni, she just stays at home in a pile of trash and watches hazbin hotel and shit, she's that kind of person. I see her, and I see our common roots, I see that I used to be just like her: I am horrified, I want to get as far away as I can from that and from her, the symbol of inertia - so I do as much as I can, I walk as far as I can, and maybe, just maybe, I get so far that I lose myself as well. Or maybe, I think I get far but I'm really just walking in circles, still in the same place, in the house with her. I don't know. The symbol of inertia - in my sister, in her undignified manners, I see spelled out the much greater, terrible, divine command: let her be anathema maranatha.
I was in my mother's car, a while ago, and we were on call with that woman (the woman who had the death-stare, aka the woman who was with me in the house as a child, if you remember my schizo ramblings). I made fun of her for the way she hovered over her adult son: is he 6 or 60 years old? She doesn't take jokes too well. She leaned closer to the microphone and said, "Once you're a mother, you'll understand me!" And that just stuck with me. Oh good woman (yes, I'll call you good, out of reverence for a crone - I don't want to point the finger, I don't wanna blame too hard, I wonder if it was all just my fault) I think you cursed the motherhood out of me. After being looked at with those eyes, I don't think enough love is left inside of me to raise another human being. Truth be told, I wouldn't mind having a daughter (either a daughter or an abortion). Motherhood isn't scary, it's a sacrament, you just have to be ready and right for it. But Ma, I don't think I'm right. It's too soon to think about it, definitely, but I don't think I could ever raise a daughter right, as much as I'd want to. I was thinking about it a few months ago: what if my daughter acted as I did when I was a child? What if that child was reborn - relived through her? Maybe, because I've lived through it, I'd be more tolerant than my caretakers at the time - I'd guide her, and love her unconditionally, and she would never in her life feel lost. But it just doesn't work that way. "Fucked up" is an inherited characteristic. How will the blind lead the blind? I was thinking about it a few months ago, and I left it in reticenza: Poscia, più che l'amor, poté l'orrore. I feel like I wouldn't be able to spare her the death-stare, the death-curse: surely, I'd say unto her, let her be anathema maranatha.
I believe I already mentioned it: the same guy who built this house also built C's house. Let him be anathema maranatha! All the fucked up children seem to grow up under his roofs, inside his walls. I finally managed to sell the necklace she gifted me for my 18th birthday: I never wore it in the first place cause it was kinda plain, but after I cut contact with her, I definitely did not even want its presence near me. I sold it on Vinted to this nice woman. Girl, you'll never know that this is from my ex-best friend whose guts I hate now. She doesn't see any of this, she doesn't see vitriol, she doesn't see soul-deep offense: she just sees a pretty necklace. I hope it's a very, very pretty necklace to her: I hope she finds the joy in it that I could never have found. It reminds me of composting, of sacred processes, of my good Mother: I give the Earth my best offerings, but I can also put whatever most disgusting thing I can think of, whatever will hurt me and poison me, and she will turn it into humus. Now I wonder about the backstory of my thrifted clothes and my thrifted jewelry.
If I think about it, my father was the first one to teach me about piety (my first lesson on piety from a man - ironic, given what I believe in now!). When me and my sister were very small, he took us to the beach (the rocky, wild beach under my mountain, the one I always talk about, that place) and we went fishing, but not with a rod, we were too small for that: with a small net, like the one you use to catch butterflies, that sort of thing. We just caught small fish, bavose, crabs (you can tell the sex of crabs by the triangles on their abdomens: wide and rounded in females, tall and pointy in males), another kid even caught a seahorse one time, we usually kept them in a bucket filled with seawater for the duration of the "hunt" and then we'd always release them of course. My father approved of all, except one catch: the small, almost transparent shrimp that live in our sea. He told us: if you catch one, release it immediately! because it will lay eggs in the bucket, and they will hatch in a very short time, and you'll find yourself with a ton of shrimp having taken over your bucket, a lot of them even being too small to be released into the sea safely (with the water splashing and all that). Looking back, I.... have no idea how true this is, or how common of an occurrence this is, but back then, me and my sister engraved this on our brains. Even on our solo trips, we nodded gravely among ourselves and we agreed, what a horrible thing it is, to force the shrimp to have her children inside a trashy bucket. They were, again, very small and almost transparent, but after every swipe of our nets we checked them religiously for shrimp, and when we overlooked one and found it later in our bucket, we just threw everything into the sea immediately, every prized catch. And so the first dogma, the first Thou-Shalt-Not I was ever taught, was: don't disgrace the shrimp-mother and her young! And it really got branded onto my heart. I've kinda come full circle now. If I do have a daughter, if motherhood wasn't cursed out of me, I'd love to raise her here and to bring her down to the sea, the sea that knows her mother well: I'd love to be able to teach her that waging war against the ocean-dwellers is the only thing, the one and only thing, that can ever let her be anathema maranatha. Nothing else: for nothing else will I ever stretch my hand over you and say unto you: let her be anathema maranatha.
You can see the sea from my kitchen window, you know? You can see the sea when the weather is good, from where I live. It's been getting increasingly hard lately because of the humidity, but sometimes I still catch a glimpse, and my heart leaps up with longing. Oh, I remember the ecstasy of leaving my clothes on the shore: you can't take that away from me. Now, when do I have the time to stare into the great face of my lover? What even is life without that?
When I shower, I really look down at myself and say: what do we do? O bare self what do we do? All day you are hidden behind layers, behind fancy clothes, behind humble clothes, behind the clothes of sleep. Do you have the heart to recall, in this white cubicle, when we offered ourselves to the mountain and the ocean, when we followed the occhiate's trail in the water?
To cover the pit of dread in my stomach, I crouch, getting closer to the water that's rushing down the drain. I ask her, water, do you miss the sea like I do, you who belongs there much more than me? You live in domestication inside these pipes, and you know nothing of the occhiate's trail, of the great waves crashing against the cliffside. Hissing above my ear, she answers: where I flow, where I am, I do not care: my nature doesn't change. I am always myself, whether in the ocean or inside these pipes. Good point, water. So I think about it, and I say: but I can turn you off, water - I can dictate what you do and how you do it - and you won't flow anymore. So I turn off the tap, and she doesn't answer.
But the water is still there, even though I don't see her, and from the pipes she whispers: where I flow, where I am, I do not care: I am always myself. I should listen to the water. I'm trying to find what's unwavering inside me despite the grades, despite the business, despite the competition, despite the judgements, despite the drives, despite the tests, despite all fleeting circumstances that try to measure my worth and entrap me in their definitions. For now, I can trust that that part exists, and that will have to do, for now.
21 November, 2025
WOOOOW SHEILA! I'M SORRY BABY! I LOVE YOU!...
Do you ever think about the vaginal microbiota. There is bacteria living in our pussies rn. My pussy, YOUR pussy. Billions of them. Like, that is their home. What is their life like? What does it feel like for them when we cum?? Do they go like, oh shit an earthquake? Do they die crushed by the pussy contractions? When we're wet do they get flushed away by the pussy juice?? When we're done fingering ourselves how many of them do we also take out of the pussy together with our fingers??? Did I just wash them down the drain. And they're in there eating glycogen off my pussy walls rn. Being a woman is awesome genuinely what do you mean there are billions of little creatures that protect my pussy
A friend of mine brought me some apples from her grandmother's land. I think there are dogmas, yes, there are rules, even though there's no church and no centralized, formal organization. And one of them is: if someone gives you the fruits of their land, you can't let that gift go unreciprocated. So I gave her a small bottle of the calendula oil from this summer. I think gift-giving (as in the fruits of the land, not as in, like, Amazon Christmas sales) is sacred; I think this is dogma; I think this is the purest, most sacred interaction that can be had.
I'll call on her thrice! The cold season has its pleasures, but I'm bound to this town for most of the week; in summer I used to be able to get up everyday and choose to go to the mountain, to the sea, allu mari. My shores, my cliffs! I want to bare my breasts for you, and pray like the women of old. I want to wake up early and take the bus with my hiking shoes on. There are trails, I remember, there are trails that start off the side of the main roads: the city suddenly strips off all her clothes and takes a nosedive for the sea, she opens up her great lungs for clean air, she opens up her great side for the taccole's nests, because she hasn't forgotten who she is... and that is why I love her. The city is the sea is the mountain, haven't I made it clear? She takes a nosedive for open water: the city goes on and on til the very tip of that long, long scoglio, on the palombaro's dingy stilt-house, and we still remember his name, we still whisper it among ourselves. I want to put my hiking shoes on, take the bus, and disappear into the trails off the main roads: it'll look like the woods have swallowed me whole. I want to go down the wooden stairsteps that we have surrendered to your grasp, that you will reclaim in just a few years' time; I want to grab the rope, I want to look down at the steep trail, and I want to put my hand on my beating heart, feeling a body that you can reclaim whenever you want, at a slight misstep, at a small stumble. Yes, to be there is to be in your hands, in your gaping mouth, is to be yours. I want to belong to you, and I want to feel it: for my entire life my soul has screamed for this, I'll settle for nothing less than this: a love that has a living body, that has loose hair dripping with seawater and a bare chest with wind beating against it. I want to lie under you and to look at you: your steep face, your white face, looming over me, always, always threatening to come down barreling: the layers of rock that you shed again and again, forever changing, across the seasons and across the ages, forever feeding your body to the sea that forever tries to throw her arms high enough to wrap around your neck: you, woman who sheds herself, just like me, just like me! Woman who sheds herself, and your shedding is the awe of creation, the glory of our greatest Mother; it is the cry of stone, it is the roar in our ears and the bane of our dingy stilt-houses, of our old boats. Watch us toil, shoveling the muck away from our doorways. Your shedding is the roar in our ears, the awe of creation, the glory of our greatest Mother, the cry of stone: what is the cue, I wonder, what stronger beat of the Earth's heart, what higher wave, what gust of wind sends the rocks tumbling down? I find it a miracle that there is a single name to describe all that you are. Your name is hooked like a witch's nose, it is black like a berry in the woods, it is red like the wine our grapes give us; it is hot, sunny and arid, it is the color of chalk and ginestra blooms; I can hear it being spoken by a Greek sibyl, wild-haired, wild-eyed, arms upraised as she stares at the tall limestone cliffs, the stars above following the same course they follow now. The task of naming you could not be left to me: see how I swoon at just the thought of you? And now I face the possibility of leaving. I am a small speck under your trees' crowns, and out in the open water: I don't want your love back, I know I'll never get it, it's enough to be by your side. If I leave, woman, you'll go on without me: but I won't, I won't.
Yes, I still haven't settled on a university, not even a degree: for every single degree you're interested in, there's someone who's studied it who tells you NO!!!! PER CARITÀ!!!! YOU'RE BETTER OFF DEAD THAN STUDYING THAT SHIT!!!! YOU'LL END UP UNEMPLOYED AND POOR AND STARVING AND YOU'LL WHORE YOURSELF OUT FOR SCRAPS AND at this point I seriously think that there are no degrees at all, apart from medicina and ingegneria, that can 100% guarantee you a job. I've heard some fearmongering about the degrees I'm interested in (not even notoriously unemployable shit like filosofia or teologia; things like agraria and farmacologia) and I really don't know what to do.
Yes, nostalgia for the summer and tiredness over school have both settled in at this point, though I'm glad they've settled in late, at the end of November: soon we'll be halfway through the school year. But I admit I am tired, and I do miss summer. Yes, I want to get bare-breasted for the mountain, but I can't even do that in my own home, it's cold as fuck. I can't even lift with my tits out anymore, I can't even schlick it while naked anymore, this is DEVASTATING. Autumn has her own pleasures, she is beautiful, but I don't get to see much of that beauty. I mostly realize this during driving lessons: I don't have much time to wander, to climb up and down the hills, to watch the color of the sky change, to see what grows in whose fields and how far into their winter slumber the trees have gotten... except for driving lessons. And as I drive I really feel the longing for a time, not long ago, when I could see the same views from a bus window, on any morning, on any afternoon, whenever I wanted, going wherever I wanted. I miss my hikes, I miss my swims... And the reason why I welcomed autumn was because I wanted rain, but there's barely been any. I wait for it, we all wait for it, but the sky remains blue and the clouds remain white. Then it just rains during the night and I only notice it in the morning once I step outside, it's kinda disappointing. Water and earth have their affair at night, in the darkness, when I can't see them. I can't even watch the sunrise: I have to get dressed, I have to get going, the bus is gonna pass me by. On my morning walk to school, there's a spot where the sun hits me so good, where I can see it hitting all the hills and the valleys. I'd like to take my time, to feel her warmth, to look down and see her light on my skin, to look out and see her chasing the last shreds of fog away: but if I linger here a little more, my dear, I'm gonna be late...
Yes, I want to stand in the sunlight for hours, but I barely even get to wander these days; yes, I want to get bare-breasted for the mountain, but I barely even get to see my body these days. The end of a shower, after you've turned off the water, is a sacred time. All the meditation I do doesn't bring me half the mindfulness I experience during that moment. It must be because of all the droplets running along my skin, and the cold that starts to creep up on me once the steam begins to dissipate: I feel so alive, so embodied. It's always like a switch flips on, and I realize, looking down at myself: wow! This is me! I live here! I miss seeing myself naked more often: I miss having my legs uncovered and running my hands through their hair, I miss seeing the beat of my heart in my chest, I miss seeing my thigh hair transition into full-on bush. This house is still terrifying sometimes. But before I am inside the house, I am inside my body; and the house can't possess me if she doesn't possess my body. Before I am the fruit of my mother's faults, I am the fruit of my Mother's wisdom; and even in times where I feel yet again forced into hiding, I throw my head back in loving contemplation of her. The little statue on the nightstand: there she is, the woman I know! You wouldn't be here if this house was godless, would you? Look at her, feet planted straight onto the earth: my legs stand on the ground as firmly as hers. Before I have anything else, I have my body; after I've lost everything else, I may think I've lost her, but I haven't and never will. The one thing nobody can ever take away from me.
Water and earth have their affair at night - except for today. Today they heard me complaining, and they said: so you want to watch? Then watch you fucking creep! And it rained hard, just when I had work to do in the garden... I still managed to sneak some seeds into the earth: I try to do no-till as much as I can, so it was just a matter of lifting old cardboard mulch, poking holes in the soft soil with my hands, and throwing some seeds in there. It's the end of November, get this: it's the end of November, and I've only just sown fava beans today. The end of November!!! I admit I've been deadbeat, I haven't tended to the garden as much as I'd like to say. Right now (apart from the perennials) I only have rainbow chard, radishes, arugula, chamomile, and some carrot seedlings that I thinned out very badly... My hot pepper plant from this summer is still going strong, still producing, but I'm not counting it because I didn't plant it in the fall. I sowed tulsi, and it germinated but died pretty soon; I sowed lupines and spinach but they never sprouted at all. The fava beans have been on my mind. I don't even like favas, but I love growing them: I love how tall they get, I love the flowers, and I don't know, I just feel drawn to them. Favas were all my grandmothers ate, apparently. They speak to me of gravity, of duty. So I have to grow favas: I spent all autumn thinking "in november I have to sow favas, in november I have to sow favas", and now it's the 20th. I'm deadbeat... I'm pretty sure they'll come up anyways, they are very strong plants, they were all my grandmothers ate. I sowed lupines again, too, but I don't put much trust in them.
Lifting the cardboard mulch reminded me of all that I've been missing, all these months where I've kept my head turned. Luckily, I've raised the soil like a good mother would, in such a way that she doesn't need me when I'm gone: earthworms and forbicine scurried away from my fingers as I dug into the earth. I'm glad that life has thrived in this garden even through my neglect. While I was sowing the favas, I lifted my head and - get how big my neglect has been - I noticed this summer's basil, behind one of the helichrysums, green and flowering. Basil?!?! I could've sworn you were dead!!! I swear I saw you turn brown and topple over, I swear I saw you make your last seedpods. And yet, there were white flowers on her, there were new leaves, sure enough. Autumn gave her new life!
Looking at and dealing with, like, the glamorous and unglamorous parts of myself. Sometimes I'm at the pub with the girls doubled over in laughter over the texts of a guy who likes me, other times I bail out on a party at the last minute because I wanna eat Burger King and be cozy. Wondering how many good & normal things I have to do/experience in order to be good & normal myself, wondering if maybe I'm there? or if I'm not.
The guy thing is funny because we met in the school trip of the third year of high school, when I was, admittedly, an ugly fuck. Me and a friend spent some nights together with him and his friends, they were funny and all. He was a really funny guy, I watched him get his makeup done, he made me laugh a lot, I would've liked to keep in touch at the end of the trip but then neither of us kept the friendship going. We didn't text for like a full year. In the meantime I started doing my hair properly, doing my makeup and shit, and one day this year I was walking to school and he was in front of the door talking with some friends. He saw me and he... stepped right between me and the door blocking the entrance and he began muttering like a crackhead "omg I can't believe it you're cellula right? You've changed so much lol I can't believe it I almost didn't recognize you really" I said haha ok see you. That day he mysteriously, randomly found my phone number again, and now he texts me every day, multiple times a day, he comes to see me during recess, he tries to get me into his dingy ass car he's always talking about driving and his goddamn car like he thinks I'm gonna get wet just because he has a driver's license? And like... does he think he's smooth? I'm glad it's him and not some rando, I like his company AS A FRIEND, but I couldn't possibly love him when it's clear that I started meaning something to him in the slightest only once he became attracted to me. And: why are scrotes like this? I can't imagine having so little dignity as to THROW myself at someone who I previously blatantly ignored, just because their appearance changed. Ooga booga behaviour. At least BE CONSISTENT man.
13 November, 2025
I know what to do on high days like these! Send blood down to the earth, send smoke up to the heavens. I celebrate tonight because the world is as it should be. The light flickers inside the incense burner tonight because the wheel has made another beautiful turn. I grind up my lavender and my helichrysum tonight to celebrate the blood that made them thrive. Whoever told you that the wheel of existence is torturous? It means that lavender and helichrysum will flower again and again, and they will send out their smoke again and again.
Κομαρος! Κομαρος! Κομαρος! I don't know the tongue of a free woman, I don't know what she would call you, so I'll just use the name that my grandmothers and their grandmothers used when they gathered around you. The corbezzolo in my garden is not young, but she'd never made fruit until this year. Just in time, corbezzolo! We'd even been considering cutting her down, but these are the biggest and best-tasting berries I've ever had. Just in time, κομαρος! I want to dance for you; I want to sing for you; I'll give my very flesh for you to eat. The corbezzolo has been barren for many years, but now she finally makes fruit. I hope I'm like her.
Before I settled for cellula, the other names I had in mind for this site were nervosa, tranquilla (hehe), mellow, saturnina, or masturbatory. I regret ditching masturbatory sometimes, it's such a beautiful word, but cellula is really me. I could've gone with molecola, too, but the word molecola has that sharp, crawling feel to it like the word pentecoste or scorpion: cellula is better. I also would've loved voyeur or voyeurism, but those were TAKEN!!!
Now I know who's been eating up all my time. It's that stupid goddamn phone. I'm already busy enough as is, but then when I have an ounce of free time I do dumb shit like scrolling on and on, and it makes time FLY. I have to get a grip, so I downloaded one of those app-blocking screentime apps, open source though ofc. I put a timer on VINTED that evil motherfucker when I'm waiting for the bus I always end up scrolling on it and putting things in my favourites, even though I SHOULDN'T and WON'T buy anything. I'm not gonna risk it anymore. I keep putting nail polish in my favourites, which is risky because I'm on a month-long no-buy. It's gonna end on the 26th and until then I will accept NO SLIP-UPS, not a single one, not even a little €1 Essence polish, NOTHING. So far so good but if I keep tempting myself by opening Vinted every 5 minutes, I'm not gonna complete it... Again, not risking it. I'm gonna be honest, this summer I spent a LOT both in irl stores and e-shopping, so lately I've had to get real about saving money. Speaking of which, Social Symone was in the fucking military?!?!
For quite some time now I've had the vague awareness that mindfulness is the thing I need in life. Now I'm trying to make this the Time I Actually Commit And Stick With It For Real. Meditating is so hard for me for some reason, I swear, but I have to Actually Commit And Stick With It For Real. I've got a good streak right now.
I seem to always need permission to do what I do, to be who I am. I look for it in other people: I try to see if the way I act is comparable to theirs, if it is normal, human. This has really been hounding me lately, so much that I tend to think that at this point it's become a staple in my life in general, even in the future. But the biggest revelation I've had in the past year is that, even if something (some habit, some way of thinking, some problem, etc etc) has been with you your entire life, even if you think you're never gonna get rid of it... you can get rid of it. Nothing is eternal. In light of this, I hope I'll get rid of this much self-doubt in the future, too. But right now it is what it is. Not that I'm not trying to work on it right now, not at all, but I think it takes time.
Like I said in the last entry, I keep cycling between this shit and sort of like, contemplating the perfection of life through the mundane and the meaningless. Sometimes I despair over every achievement I've amassed, other times I take in the bliss from every little thing that passes me by. Why do I celebrate tonight? Why do I grind up lavender and helichrysum? This incense that smells like a childhood beach... It's just a matter of hormones and reproductive cycles. It means nothing at all, and yet it means the world to me. To those that gather around my table saying I've nothing to celebrate, I answer: I bleed out of divine correspondence, of reciprocity and love, the creases on my hands are like the craters of the moon: what more do you want? It's "just" a matter of hormones and reproductive cycles? What's trivial about those things? They're worth burning incense over. This is the type of things that fill me up: the fog, the sun, the night-bird; sitting in the garden, looking at the mountain on the horizon. I find wild joy in just being, in just being able to say I am (like the fig, remember?), in dragging my fingers across my face, in feeling the hair on my legs. This is the type of things that fill me up: I hope it doesn't mean I'm empty. It doesn't mean I'm lazy, no! I'll bind myself to the yoke, I'll drag the plow myself if I have to, I'll sow the seeds and water them with my sweat and blood; and it'll be my greatest joy to share the fruits with you. But please, please. Don't ask me about study trips, or crediti formativi, or everything else that I don't wanna perform that I have to perform or else I'm a failure. I often set a metaphorical goal of sorts that, once I reach it, will validate my very personhood. Once I can lift this much, I'll enter the realm of the living. Once I win this competition, I'll enter the realm of the living. Then I lift that much, and I win that competition, but I never get there: there's always a misstep, a setback, another better route that I hadn't considered - and so the journey always gets longer and longer.
I am a simple, wordless being, who is content of nothing more than the swell of her lungs, the beat of her heart. If you ask me what is my worth, I'll point to the flame flickering in the incense burner, to the sunlight on my skin, to the blood between my legs: what more do you want? I am a complex, communicative being, who must explain, justify, excuse and validate my existence. The red plague rid you for learning me your language... I must convince you that it is worth something, that I can bring something to the table, that I can redeem some kind of fatal flaw within myself by doing more and more: is this what you want? I shouldn't be content with just this, I am expected to do far more than this, but whenever I close my eyes, I am enraptured by the vision of electrons swarming around the nucleus...
It's the exact same thing I said in the last entry, I know, I just think this dichotomy is funny.
I know that, most of the time, my mother looks at me with smug satisfaction and says to herself: look at how my daughter turned out! Out of everything that seemed to plague her, every vice she held dear, every terrible shriek and every tear she shed, every knot in her stringy hair, look at how nothing remains in my daughter! Look at how tall and straight she stands. It must mean that, whatever used to make her shriek, whatever made her cry and tear her hair out, it must've been nothing at all.
Nearly two decades ago, my mother took all the things that were paradoxical about her, she gathered them all in one place inside her, and she split them apart: the holy from the unholy, the good from the bad, in all their meanings. She took everything she wasn't meant to be, she stuck it all together like an alien mass, like a tumor, and she pushed it out of herself: and so I was born. This is my creation myth, but I could not write the rest of our holy book even if I wanted to: every day when I look at her, I choose to forget, exactly like she does. Sometimes I wonder why I hug her as hard as I do, why I smile at her as wide: it's because I choose to forget, exactly like she does. Because if we chose not to forget, we would always be wary of one another.
"When you were a child, what were you shamed for?" My satyr legs and my crown of thorns.
I swear I'm not always ruminating over this shit 24/7, it's just that as of now I have little time left to make an important decision, and it makes me wonder about the same old shit, if I'm going to die. When I throw the word "die" around like this a la Pixyteri I don't know for sure what I mean, because I don't wanna kill myself, but I guess that I mean, like, becoming no one. I found an old writing from years ago: "(...) L'unica è morire da giovani. Io ne sono disposta - anzi, anche se non lo fossi, sarà quello che succederà - (...)" If I die, it's gonna be so fucking cliche. I'll remember winnowing the amaranth.
4 November, 2025
I meet the old woman - the janitor - in the school hallways, and we throw our arms around each other. We both say: "I'm glad the rain watered our gardens tonight".
I just bought a secondhand nail stamping kit (2 plates, stamper, scraper + a sponge I could use for ombré nails EEEEEK) for €4.30. I don't know if I'll be able to get good results with it but it was a steal wasn't it?? I'm gonna TRY IT OUT
Why even try to write?? I can't do justice to how beautiful the mountain was!
For the cross-quarter day, for Halloween or however you wanna call it, me and H went up that small mountain near the little seaside town, and then we slept at my place. The town is where we spent last Halloween, too, but back then we went down instead of up: down the cliffside and to the sea, to the sea that knows the shape of my body, to the sea that killed the woman. That was a difficult night for a few reasons, and it left me shaken up for a few weeks afterwards.
This year, too, I reached Halloween with a heavy heart. The week leading up to it was kind of rough. Just..... ugh, you know when it isn't targeted, but it still feels like it? When there are little things all over the place that just throw you off balance. Someone saying something to you, spelling it out loudly, looking you dead in the eyes, something that they didn't put any thought into, but that shakes you to your core, that kinda feels like a cosmic joke: that sort of thing. That, on top of regular tiredness. Quiet dislike turning into open hatred on both sides; feeling yet again like an emotional cripple. Then, bad habits slinking back into my life, bad habits that I noticed, bad habits that I didn't notice were bad habits, bad habits that I let slip past. (I thought I was done with this shit.) Then, the kind of bad dreams that just crush you, that have you waking up and pleading to a greater power you may or may not believe in. I do believe in it, and I don't know if that makes it better or worse. Bad dreams about bad habits, and bad habits causing bad dreams; things that someone said taking me back, and bad dreams about being taken back - last week was rough. It made my hand shake, it made my voice break: it made my laughter die. I thought, why do I always end up shaking like this in the week that leads to Halloween? And I was so desperate that I was about to cry out something like this: "I'll be going up the mountain on the cross-quarter day. Forgive your cripple daughter, forgive her if she staggers, or deal the final blow: make up your great mind and send the boar. I am your Adonis: send the boar. I am your Sappho, the speck of ugliness in your beautiful world: lead me to the cliff. Send the boar to sever the rotten parts of me, or all of me, if all I am is rot. Shatter me and rebuild me, make me new, or do what you will." I never did finish writing all of that, it was kinda drastic, I was afraid of the boar..........
And I went there with this prayer in mind, but the mountain's beauty was a balm for my soul. Droplets of mist swirled around our camping lights, thick like swarms of fruit flies; they settled on the juniper tips and on the ginestre - the tall, wide, flaring ginestre that looked like alien spaceships parked there in the darkness. The half-moon hung overhead: here there's true macchia mediterranea, I think, the real native biome, and no syrian pine trees (as much as I love them elsewhere on this coast) have grown enough to block out the vision of the sky from below. The path was narrow, and we brushed the leaves around us reverently, bracing for the boar... but all we heard were night-birds. We heard branches spring up whenever they burst in flight, we heard their wings flutter just above our heads: we didn't hear their calls, just these soft, beautiful sounds. One time it took me by surprise and I leaned on H hard, like he had leaned on me last Halloween when we heard I don't know what weird beast's screech in the woods. But it was just the flutter of a night-bird's wings. There was no screeching or heart-rending this year, just the beauty of the mountain and the flutter of the night-bird's wings.
You didn't send the boar... just the maremmano, the big sheepdog, coming at us from the path we were just about to take. A fearsome animal, but she was far from her herd, far from her fields, far from anything she needed to protect: she just walked by so peacefully that even H wasn't afraid of her. Very providential, to have us meet the maremmano while we were still in town, and not on the mountain.
I'm so in love with that mountain now. She's been a usual haunt for some months now, and I've seen her in better seasons, all decked out in yellow by the ginestra's blooming, but that night she was just so, so beautiful. The flutter of the night-bird's wings filled my heart, and it continues to fill my heart in memory. It felt exhilarating to know that we were in the heart of the mountain, not another human soul aside from us, not another light aside from ours, just plants and beasts all around, the heart of the mountain!...
I've always been a perfectionist, but over the past year or so I've felt it more than ever. I need to stand out for at least one thing, I need to be looked up to, I need to be admired, and I know how stupid that sounds. I need people to talk about me like oh there's that girl who speaks very well, oh there's that girl who always has pretty eyeshadow (all very debatable), etc etc whatever and I know it's just a way for me to compensate for feeling behind in life in comparison to everyone, and probably actually BEING behind for real. How can I think about surpassing other people, when I'm not even remotely on par with them right now? When I think about it, I feel so defective, so lacking; but something as simple as the flutter of the night-bird's wings fills me up. It's weird, I want to achieve every single thing in life with the best outcome ever and beat myself down when I inevitably don't reach this goal, but I also find the greatest satisfaction in the most mundane, obvious shit. Sometimes I'm like, the polish on this nail is chipped everyone thinks I'm ugly sloppy and a failure and they're all laughing at me, and other times I'm like, my bush keeps my hand perfectly warm life is perfect. Bliss!: the last rays of the dying sun fell on my body in the shower today. I love to know myself and see myself through this kind of things, these simple, meaningless things: my legs in the water, the fog pooling in the valleys, the way the sunlight falls into the room, throwing my arms around the old woman in the school hallways, feeling my presence in the heart of the mountain. I smile when I hear the flutter of the night-bird's wings, because I can't help but feel like it bodes well. I love myself through these perceptions, these intuitions, these fleeting things: a wink, a nod, a color. If I tried to love myself through thought, if I really thought about who I am, what I do and where I stand in this world, would I still love myself?
I wish I could keep loving myself only through the fog, the sun, the night-bird. I wish I could know myself only this way, by catching the reflection of my naked body in the mirror, like one catches a deer passing by. I wish I could keep experiencing this thoughtless (mindless, or too mindful for thoughts) love, but I'm not a thoughtless being. I'm not a simple being, a single-celled algae, a cellula, like I wish I was, and I shouldn't be satisfied with simple things. I am a human and I live with other humans who have set a standard of normalcy that I must reach. Sometimes it's crushing to think about it, though maybe my (admittedly massive) insecurity is at least partly unjustified. What if it is justified though. What if I'm right when I beat myself down, and everything else, these simple meaningless things, are just distractions. What do I do about it, then? I have no idea, but for the time being, until I know better, until I am better, I'll lean onto them.
25 October, 2025
What did he say again? Vorrei dirti le mie parole in sette toni stasera!
RAGA RAGA RAGA RAGA RAGA FRAWS OGGI HA PUBBLICATO IL VIDEO FINALE DELLA SAGA DEI MISTERI DI CAPRI NON CI CEEDO NON CI CREDONN NONCICREODSO
The sun, the sun... The light of the sun jades your eyes, weakens your gaze, if you look at it directly: you have to leave them ajar, let a single ray in, to feel all the life and pleasure in it. This sun burned all my plants in the summer, when the wild carrots bloomed in little white umbrellas scattered across the land; the fig tree, the poor fig tree out in the field, the sun burned all of her fruits off, made them all shrivel up and fall to the ground. I squint at the sun: can it be the same sun?
Played pool with lesbians. We (and also a twinky guy idk who he was) sat outside and they were discussing types. I hadn't come out to anyone irl in like four years, and that was with H who's gay too so it doesn't even count, but all those vodka lemons had heated me up. "Us dykes," I yelled, and they threw back their heads in laughter because they didn't expect it from me, "us dykes have got to stop pretending we're only attracted to personality!!!" Every time I remember Mary Daly's words, they sound truer and truer: "There is nothing like the sound of women really laughing. The roaring laughter of women is like the roaring of the eternal sea."
Been driving on actual roads for the first times and.... I expected it to be either great or terrible, but it's... normal. I survived. When I drive with my father, there's always the same songs on the radio, I swear: I'm starting to suspect he has like a hidden usb drive stuck in there or something. Metallica's The Unforgiven, and R.E.M.'s Shiny Happy People: there's something about the guitar in that song, about "rolling" peaceful guitars in general (like the guitar in the background of Ho Mangiato La Mia Ragazza), that really makes me think of this town, of this hot asphalt and these sunny roads. They're always empty, they seem to be made for someone like me: it's been years since that time I was riding my bike all around town, I was listening to White Lies, I was learning how to live. I've been thinking about White Lies... my next manicure's gonna be inspired by Turn The Bells, nail polish webpage coming asap I swear. I've been thinking about White Lies, and how it felt to look at the world for what felt like the first time, to go inside the abandoned houses and the wheat fields... I've been thinking about that, and maybe it's why, lately, I greet the ginger cat and the oleander in front of my house more warmly than usual: because we're neighbors.
I feel like time's playing a joke on me. I was scared that the colder months would go by torturously slow, that I would feel the pain of dragging myself through every single day... but summer feels like it ended yesterday. It's almost november already??? Two hours ago it was last saturday, two days ago it was september, a week ago it was august. Time goes by so fast, and I don't like it... I would like her to go a bit slower. I would like to savor the present moment and everyday I tell myself oh, I'll definitely wind down and do that today, but I never do, not even on relatively lazy days. I go home and I tell myself, wow what a big long afternoon I have to myself, I'm gonna enjoy it to the fullest! Then I blink and it's gone. It's like some sort of fourth-dimensional creature is eating up all my time while I don't even notice. Stop it you fucker!!!!!!! Holy shit I need to get a grip on time again, fast. Gotta read a book about mindfulness.
There has been mourning, and close-to-mourning, around me lately. The day comes closer that my mother will mourn someone: I will mourn my mother who'll be mourning someone, but I won't mourn someone. I don't think I will, but I'm not sure; maybe I will feel deserted, the last one who remembers on Earth. And I'll be confused as I stand there, as the others reminisce about everything but that. I remember: don't you?
When my sister went to therapy, she didn't want to tell us what for, not even me - and she tells me more than I'm comfortable hearing. Do you remember?
When I think about death, from the earth-shattering event that that someone's death will be to something as simple as what happens to the weeds I rip out of the soil, I often think of that woman. I didn't write about it when it happened, but this summer, a woman drowned in the beach I always go to. I didn't know her, and I can't say I mourn her: that would be disrespectful to the people who wake up everyday to the thought of her, and to the absence of her. But I still think about her. We had things in common: she was a woman, and she was in that beach, like me. She was a woman like me: she had a mother like me, she had sisters like me, she was warmed by the same sunlight, she carried the same fire in her belly. Would we have been friends, had we met? Would we have despised each other? What did she dream of doing, what were the things that kept her up at night? What will I accomplish in the years that separate me from her - her, whose age is forever frozen in the headlines? And she died in the sea I've written odes about all summer, the sea I've sworn my love to. The shadow of the mountain, my great mountain, in whose praise I sang when I paddled towards her, was cloaking her shoulders; the wind, the wind I loved to feel across my chest, was blowing wildly in her hair as she dived in for the last time.
It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
Scattered their forelocks free...
And so my woman killed my sister. "Cellula," I hear you say, "La belle dame sans merci thee hath in thrall!" I know, I know, and I agree: the sea is sans merci indeed, and there isn't much that a human can say in response to her actions. We are to her what our face mites are to us. When we walk, we don't pay attention to the ants we crush, or even to the microbiota in the soil we compress with each step. We don't care and don't apologize, not even because we don't want to, but because we just don't notice! And even if the sea could notice, would she care? When we have ripped all her mussels from her breast, when we have stuck all of our hooks in her fishes' mouths: can't she feed on something that's ours, too? We don't have the universal eye that sees a human, a fish, a seagull, a seaweed as equals. I think it's very hard to have it, especially when a woman like you has died. The sea is wide: she does not notice. The sea is wide: I can tear open my ribcage and let out the sorrow I feel for the woman, and it wouldn't change a thing about her. The sea will swallow the smoke, too... I'm always writing about the same thing lately, don't you see? The double axe, the serpent, the paradox of pleasure and pain, of life and death (or of life and life-in-death).
I don't usually think about death, human death, per se. I know that death is the thing that feeds my garden when I mix dark, fragrant compost with the potting soil, and so I deem the dead happy because they participate in the creation of new life: but I never think about the end of a consciousness, of a person. It's too hard for me to wrap my head around it, I guess: I'm too simple, too stupid, too selfish. Thomas Hardy used to be my favourite author - that was a long time ago, but one scene from The Mayor of Casterbridge stuck with me: there's a woman who dies, and asks to be buried with two pennies covering her right eye, and two covering her left. Then a man comes back to her grave to dig the money up and goes drinking with it, and he justifies himself with: "Why should death rob life o' fourpence? Death's not of such good report that we should respect 'en to that extent". I'm just like that: I'm stingy, stingy with life, I don't want to spend my living energy thinking about death. Why should death rob life o' fourpence? And it makes me kind of stupid and an asshole, yes; and when death comes so close to me (comes to the woman, on the same beach as me) I don't know what to make of it.
I think that we who live on the coast, at least the old-fashioned ones, us gente de mare!, the women diving bare-breasted between the rocks, the men riding hard and fast on their kitesurfs, we know that the sea has a claim to our lives. We crowd the pine forests like lice: the great tree we lean on today, that our mothers and our grandmothers showed us in reverent stupor, will be felled in the next storm, and we will gather around the stump bewildered. We are small, miserable creatures; our decades' work is brought down to nothing when the mountain rains down on us. So why do we stay with her, and why do we love her? Why do we love she who hurts us? Again, I'm always writing about the same thing lately, don't you see?
My woman is sans merci indeed, she who destroys us with the same things she lifts us up with, I know it well: I have never grieved, but there are forms of undoing other than death, and I know about some of them. Did I ever mention it? My mother has always had a replica of the Venus of Willendorf on her nightstand. My Jehovah's Witness mother, since as far back as I remember, has had the Venus of Willendorf on her nightstand. Now, I'm not superstitious enough to actually believe anything about this coincidence - it's just something that makes me think, something I can build a metaphor on. She's always been under this roof with me - under this roof, inside this house, with the child that I was. Years have passed: I've spent them pacing in the dark corridors of this house, getting lost in them, flinching at shadows, banging against the walls: I've spent them carving a way out, or carving a window to let some light in. And now that I'm done, or now that at least there's some light inside the house, I find my way back to my mother's room, and I find her again. I find her again, but she's always been there, and she never did anything. What do I say to a mother like that (...both the greater one and smaller one). I grasp her, I turn her around in my hand: she looks familiar, she looks awfully familiar. It makes me chuckle, it makes me hang my head low. The chuckle is not the laughter, that same old laughter, that ecstatic bird-like cry: the chuckle is mortified. It is the only alternative to a scream. What do I say to a mother like that, who rends my flesh and then takes me by the hand to rediscover the joy in it? What do I say to a mother like that, who devours a daughter and embraces another? What can I say? I know that she's like this, I see her onslaughts every day, "all creation is the sport of my mad mother..." and yet it's so hard to make sense of it when it happens right in front of you, or when it happens to you. What can I say, as I walk in the room? I can raise my fingers in blessing, and praise her for her balance. Yes, even though my hand shakes, even though my voice breaks, I can raise my fingers in blessing and praise her for her balance. It's what I do, isn't it? Even though my hand shakes, even though my voice breaks.
But keep my hand steady, keep my voice clear, and keep my laughter loud. The fig tree, the poor fig tree out in the field, the sun burned all of her fruits off, made them all shrivel up and fall to the ground. The fig stump still standing at the edge of the sprayed monoculture field, she sends out shoots every year: they unfurl hurriedly - I see them, I've poured them water from my bottle - before the men come and cut them down. And still she tries, again and again. And I used to call her fig-mother!... I wonder what's up with poor old fig. Fig - the guttersnipes on the side of the road; the wild bushy crones; the thin, leggy ghosts of the woods speaking a foreign tongue among the pines; the old, loyal, dutiful ones, roots firmly planted by the abandoned casa colonica whose owner is never coming back - what are you thinking? Don't you know that next summer won't be any kinder? Don't you know that the men won't let you stay here? They'll come back with blades just as sharp - and the drought will get worse and worse every year, the heat will hound you until you've given up all your spring's work, until you've scattered it all over the ground. Yes fig, I think the odds are low that someone will stop below your crown to taste of your fruit again; I don't think someone will ever praise you for its taste again, or anything for that matter. No offense fig but you're an overgrown, unkempt mess: don't you feel awful, with all those branches weighing you down? I don't have the heart to tell you that the farmer won't ever be coming back to prune you... His old house is falling apart: he's probably long dead and his children don't even glance at you while they pass by (if they pass by at all, if they aren't in some fancy northern city now). What are you thinking, fig? You keep on making that fruit, sending those shoots, growing those branches. What are you thinking? Do you feel as abandoned as you are? Are you dejected, desperate, in agony? Do you keep pushing because you still have a tiny sliver of hope, or have you lost even that? Don't you just feel awful? Or maybe you don't care at all. You are not cowering in fear of the next summer, you are not expecting the men's blades to be duller, and you are not waiting for the farmer. You don't mind the burden of your overgrown branches, and you don't care about making fruit: we humans can plant something prettier and tastier anyways. Maybe, simply being alive is enough for you: you cry out with joy when the first ray of light hits your leaves, at sunrise; you howl along with the wild wind running through your leaves, and you toss your head back to drink up the rain. Maybe you're bellowing out your laughter when someone suggests that you shouldn't be satisfied with just that. Yes, I think - I hope - the fig is content with nothing more than being alive, being alive with no embellishments, being alive right now with no past and no future, with roots down into the earth and head thrown back towards the sun, beaming her joy back at her. I hope the fig spreads her five-fingered leaf every spring not in hopes of meeting another's outstretched hand, helping hand, hand that offers praise and approval, but only to spell her name into the world, only to say: I am. I hope the fig laughs at the look in the men's faces when they see that she's sent out shoots again; I hope the fig laughs, like me. I wanna sit next to the fig, the wild, messy, crazed-looking fig, and read her a line from a book, a line from a poor, trashy drunkard: "Why should death rob life o' fourpence?" Why should the thought of the shears & droughts that were, and the shears & droughts that will be, steal the joy from us now, now that we grow unimpeded, now that the sun and the rain bless us? When the mother that gives us life decides to give us death, then we'll give ourselves up to the fish and the fungi, and everyone else who'll make something new out of our cells; but for now let's laugh, let's cheer at the fact that we can spell out into the world: I am. And when the mother that gives us rain decides to give us drought, and when the mother that gives us spring decides to give us shears, then we'll worry about that, but for now let's laugh - and maybe our laugh will survive into those terrible times.
16 October, 2025
Notes on some webpages that I kinda want to make (if schoolwork allows)
•a nail polish log to write down how I paint my nails each week. I want this ASAP SOOO BAD but I have absolutely 0 layout ideas curse the day I decided to have a different theme for every page!!!!!!!
•I could still code that makeup page I wanted to code, but I'm not sure, because it would consist of reviewing every makeup product I have, and wouldn't that be kinda shilly?... naming every product, every brand... I like makeup and I want to talk about my favourite products and how I use them, but I don't wanna be a walking advertisement either
•the links page. I've been trying to make the links page. It looks like dogshit and it makes me tweak and slam my laptop shut. But I really like the theme I've chosen for it so I want to see it work out...
•I've had this idea floating around in my brain for some time now. I'd like to have a webpage to talk about weird shit and weird individuals I've come across on the internet - like the times I talked about fatboygetdown and Melonpan on this journal. It'd be kinda fun to have a separate page for this kind of thing, but I wonder if it'd come across as a bit too mean-spirited for neocities standards. Also, I don't know if I actually know enough weird internet people to keep this page going. I'll think about this.
I'm deathly afraid of the end-of-high-school exam for one reason: Kant. I might get asked about Kant. That stupid fucking pretentious german sack of balls. I'm studying for a test about him right now and, I'm not overexaggerating, 96% of the shit he says is completely unintelligible to me. I'm afraid of passing the end-of-year exam with a shitty grade just because I got asked about his dusty ass. Like, years of excellent grades ruined by this ugly ass inbred scrote. But, even if I do end up passing with a shitty grade because of him, I guess I should be happy, because I'm alive under the sunlight right now feeling the breeze on my skin while he's DEAD with his musty german bones crumbled to dust six feet under the earth. Death sucks doesn't it Kant? You really wish you were alive right now huh? Choke on my discharge.
So beautiful. Every day I think, "how lucky I am that I don't have to go to driving school anymore"... No more walking that walk. I can nap for longer, shower for longer, garden for longer... My day doesn't end at 5 PM anymore. One day, sometime within this year, I'll be completely done with this license shit. I've only had my hands on the steering wheel twice so far, and only in a parking lot, but it doesn't seem so daunting: I'm gonna fucking do it. Let's get this over with!!!
Yesterday I finally got to making that """"fire cider""""". Many, many quotation marks. I originally wanted to make a mix between fire cider and four thieves vinegar (which has a similar function anyways) because I don't know what the fuck horseradish is, I didn't wanna put hot peppers in it because I wanna genuinely eat this for real, I didn't wanna put garlic or onion in it because I don't wanna smell like garlic and onion everyday, I'm not gonna put lemon in there are you kidding me it's gonna be way too acidic it's gonna be inedible etc etc in short I kept making cuts to the fire cider recipe, and I figured out I would "supplement" it with ingredients from the four thieves vinegar recipe. Went out to harvest the herbs while the jar was being sterilized. I was thinking yeah I'm gonna use a shit ton of stuff this cider is gonna be LOADED I'm never getting sick again. I took a metric fuckton of rosemary and thyme because they grow really well in our garden. I also saw a recipe where lavender stems were used, and one of my plants still had a lot of them standing since I deadheaded her, so I took them as well. Our sage plant is really sickly for some reason so I left her alone. I'd bought some dried ginger and turmeric from an erboristeria so I took them out as well. Gathered it all and thought, oh well I'll add the other ingredients later. Rinsed the shit, cut the shit, and when the jar was sterilized I put all the shit in the jar. It was way too much. It was my first time infusing anything that would go in my mouth afterwards and I was terrified of botulism, so I decided not to add anything anymore, so that the pH would be acidic enough. It was kind of a flop, there's such a small amount of ginger and turmeric too, but I think that after a month or so I'm gonna strain it and leave it to steep one more time with other ingredients. Right now it's only
•rosemary
•thyme
•lavender stems
•ginger
•turmeric
So this is cellula's patented sexy vinegar thing. If it tastes good I'm gonna tell you guys. I think it's gonna taste like ass though. Oh well
The moon wanes! I'm thinking about the disfacimento, the sloughing-off, the coming-apart, the shedding, the falling of tissue; I'm thinking about the alchemy of solid flesh turning to liquid blood, rushing down past my hips and into the world. "The complexities of keeping me alive could never be left to me" (Lierre Keith). "Dost thou know who made thee?" I wonder how it can be, how solid flesh can turn to liquid blood; what is the cue, how does my body know when to start hacking at her own walls, how does the moonlight seep into these dark recesses of mine? Whence the starting note of the song that we dance to? Sorry for the archaism, I think it's a nice word. This, I think, is one of the first and main religious experiences, and when I go through it I am so awestruck, so elevated and so humbled, so inspired, that even through all my joy I ask with a hushed whisper if I'm gonna be allowed to enjoy this for much longer. I'm always scared of wasting my days. Only twelve times a year does this occasion come, and I'm torn between putting my hope and trust in the passing time or being terrified of it. I am proud, I am my mother's creature, but so was the moth that drowned in my sink tonight. Still, the moth lived a good life, while she lived: she must've been giving thanks for it, up until tonight. I am a woman, and I'd say I live a better life than a moth... so it's not my duty to ask when it'll end, it's my duty to give thanks for what is, right now. Yesterday night I had the worst cramps I've had in over a year, I was genuinely tweaking a bit, I don't know why, in the past year they haven't been bad at all. Yeah it's not always fun and enlightening..... however, it's always necessary. Ma, you demand this of me - you demand me: you bid my very blood to run towards you, my very insides shed from within me and fall to you. I hear your call, I feel your pull, I see you drawing my body and soul forth like you do with the tides: could I ever disagree to follow? I pour my whole self, believe me, into the bucket and onto the earth along with the blood: it is the best prayer a living being could offer. It is the greatest privilege you could've given to a living being, this decomposing without dying, this effortless giving... I hear the tune you play for us, the music of the spheres - and you have given me the most beautiful and most well-tuned instrument: why wouldn't I join in?? All this washing and wringing, gathering the blood and swinging it over the earth is more eloquent than any song I could write: have me, have all of me. You are my mother, you have given me everything; you have placed me here, where Winter's bite is mild, where grapes grow. Many times have you filled my cup with wine for my pleasure: shall I not pour my mother a drink she likes?
A few days ago I was up way later than I should've, watching youtube, going down one rabbithole after another, from conker's bad fur day to gaylor conspiracies. At one point I decided to listen to some asmr as a joke because I'd never done that before, I thought it was a joke. So I put on a random video and.... within 10 minutes it had become impossible to keep my eyes open. Single-handedly ended my doomscrolling and sent me to bed. I'm so ashamed to admit this but fuck it does work. And now I always watch asmr before bed...... I KNOW I KNOW but I SWEAR it's not a joke it really works??? I'm sorry for shitting on it
A few days ago the most embarassing thing happened while I was riding the bus back home. Some weeks ago I blocked C and disappeared without warning because she's an emotional black hole who sucks all your energies and your resources from you and repays you only with open scorn, to put it briefly. I was finally free from this 10 year old (kinda) curse and it was all fine and dandy, but still, she lives like two blocks away from me. I was riding that bus and at some point, guess who fucking gets on. She has NEVER ridden this bus in her whole life, she really had to take it AFTER I'd blocked her. I was already talking to a friend of mine so I just kept my head turned the other way and pretended I didn't see her. But the only seat left was the one next to ours..... I kept talking and ignoring her but then she started tapping my shoulders repeatedly and what was I supposed to do then.... I turned around....
"Hi"
"Hi"
"Did you block me?"
"Yes"
WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO SAY???? CAN'T YOU SEE IT FOR YOURSELF LMAOOOOO another friend of mine later told me that I should've answered "no" and turned around again lmao, I really should've done that. She deadass replied, and I can't convey the scorn in her voice well enough, "I don't understand the reason 🙄🙄🙄👿👿..." I wanted to jump her ass but luckily my stop was the next one, so I tried to explain to her in under 30 seconds why she's a piece of shit, then I said goodbye to my friend and got off. And I saw her just sighing and turning around. What a shitshow. I hope to the great mother that this is the last shitty, miserable, pathetic, meschino act of our shitty, miserable, pathetic, meschina friendship. I hope that was the last time I ever see her ugly, self-victimizing, STD-ridden, constipated ass; her stickman arms, her pale lips, her bulging eyes, her sickly skin: I'm done hanging around sick people. Whoever I choose to be with now, must have arms strong enough to carry both themselves and me.
Speaking of embarassing bus events - remember the girl I talked shit about on the bus while she was sitting two seats behind me, in summer of 2024?? I guess she really didn't hear me because I'm friends with her now. She became more tolerable with time and one day this June I thought, what the fuck, let's try to hang out just the two of us, why not. So we did and I genuinely had lots of fun. From that moment I've hung out with her a lot. I was a piece of shit, I judged her so harshly but she's such a kind and funny girl. And I have to stop talking shit in public.
I have to go to a big 18th birthday party this saturday and, even though it's a dear friend's birthday, ho le palle sfrante I have 0 desire to go holy shittttttt. It's time to say it. It's time to admit it: I'm not a party kind of person. I'm really not. I'm a grabbing a coffee in early afternoon in the city kind of person, I'm a evening aperitivo under the moonlight kind of person. These are the hangouts I do... I love you but I don't wanna go to your party inside a depressing ass closed room with loud reggaeton and 40 other shitfaced people. If you love me too let me go. And I feel weird and kinda bad about it because everyone my age is that kind of person. But I'm not, that's the cold hard truth, I'm not.
8 October, 2025
And if the bright red of a corbezzolo beckons you from behind a fence, don't deny the offer: she tastes better than you think.
Ya girl PASSED HER WRITTEN DRIVER'S LICENSE EXAM this morning on the first try!!!!! Holy shit yes. Now I have to actually start driving, for the practice exam. I'm pretty nervous because... I'm gonna be on the road for real and handling the car for real and being in risky situations for real. I think I'm gonna miss sitting on my ass just reading stuff and answering quizzes. I'm not excited at all but I wanna get it over with very, very much, so I'm gonna lock in.
I had to skip school to take the exam. Being scioperata, not being in school during a weekday morning is so weird. The streets are empty, and you feel the kinship between you and everyone else who's there with you under the sun, away from offices and schools: the elderly, the children, the mothers on maternity leave, the truck drivers, the bees, the doves, the lizards. It's an extraordinary day, weird things happen: everyone you walk past says good morning in return, the cleaning lady on the staircase stops you to talk about her daughter, a black stray cat crosses the road while calling you. I answered because I'm not rude. We had a profound conversation. The problem was that she was very fluent in her language - mmrrrrrreeeooooowwwww - and I was not - mmeeeeeoooo - so I must've sounded like an idiot to her, but she still walked around me while headbutting me, rolled over on her back, purred with eyes closed as I pet her. The grasshoppers talk to each other, too. When one chirped on one side of the road, another on the other side of that road answered. I listened to them as I leaned on the fence, looking at the mountain in the distance, the mountain that I miss so much, under a sky that could've been an August sky; I listened to the grasshoppers and the birds and the distant breath of the mountain, and I dreaded the possibility of ever feeling separate from all of this. I have to think about university very hard now, and in the one closest to me there isn't much that interests me, but fuck, I really don't wanna be fuori sede - not even a few hours away, no. I don't wanna be in a different city, far from my sea and my mountain, far from the earth and a garden to call my own. I grew up in a land where felix originally meant "fertile", where lieta has the same etymological root as letame: what did you expect? It's something that I genuinely need, it's a connection that can't be severed anymore: I need to know that I am a part of the whole, that seeds spilled from my hands can grow and bear fruit, that the blood that flows from my body gladdens the earth.
I recently caught the flu or something, I had a 38C degree fever, which is not much but I was really sad because..... if I've gotten sick so early into the cold season, maybe it means that my immune system sucks?? But I'm probably reading too much into it, it's just the flu and it lasted 1 day and a half anyways. But the night in between was hellish. I had totally forgotten how bad fever-addled nights are. They're just... restless tossing and turning through sorts of nonsensical visions. This time, I was haunted by Chris Chan's introductory rap for his Master Onion A La Mode video. It kept replaying in my head even when I wasn't consciously aware of it, it was fucked up. It might sound funny but I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. At some point I moved onto the couch because the bed legit felt haunted by Chris Chan's evil influence. But there's such beauty, now, in seeing the Sun rise after tossing and turning in the dark for hours: it's like she dispels any delirious thoughts and any heartbreak over lost sleep. It didn't use to be like this.
Saturday night I was supposed to go out but I bailed out because I still had a cold (plus I blew all my money on my mom's birthday gift) so I wanted to be cozy and warm in bed. It's fucked up because one day all of a sudden it became COLD AS FUCK, there was hardly any in-between.
I wanted to celebrate the autumn equinox by cooking and eating my amaranth (I was rereading this and I misread it as meth lol), maybe making some sort of unleavened bread with it. Then the day came by and I hadn't even winnowed it all. But I was tired after working out, so I showered and crashed on the couch. My nap got out of hand and I woke up 1 and a half hours later... Then I finished winnowing the amaranth, but I couldn't cook any of it because I had to rush to driving school. So my equinox was a bit of a bust. The amaranth is still sitting there and I have no idea what to do with it, because I don't have anything to grind it into flour, and I tried looking up how to make popped amaranth but everyone has a different recipe and makes it sound like if you don't follow theirs your kitchen will explode and you will be haunted by burnt amaranth kernels hidden in every crevice of your house for the rest of your life. So... idk, I'll see.
But I'm doing way better than I thought I would, here in autumn. Maybe it's because it's only October and I haven't yet started studying as seriously as I should (I'm gonna start soon I swear), but I'm doing good. From July onwards I was already planning for absolute disaster, but it hasn't hit, and I hope it never will? But I guess I'll see about that. It's October already, what the fuck. In a few weeks it will be Halloween, Samhain, Ognissanti, whatever-you-wanna-call-it, the time when you sow favas, the time when the world dies!! What will I do then?
Maybe nothing dramatic; maybe this winter's lesson will be that the world doesn't actually die, never. It doesn't feel like it's dying right now, it just feels different. One of the upsides is that every morning, I wake up before the sun and I catch her rising. I had forgotten what it's like. It reminds me of being a child, but in a good way this time: the house is usually evil in its unchangingness, but this wide window in the kitchen, through which I've always seen the sunrise over the hills, can't be anything but good. It feels like the birth of my psyche, and the birth of humanity itself; it feels like this song. The sun is meek and loving now, like a cat curled up in my bed. She has infinite ways to fall through windows, to crash and leap into rooms, that always pull something new from within me. While showering in the early afternoon, I look at the bathroom window through the foggy, droplet-ridden shower door; the sunlight is bright white and it somehow feels like it's smiling; a bright, toothy smile like a child's, sort of awkward like she's trying to pretend she's not dying/not supposed to be dying. It made my heart swell. I guess that's kinda me, too. It's weird, avoiding the shade after begging for it all summer long; now I wanna be with the sun all the time. You come down to me, splitting into rays; I'll pull you down to me, raising my arms to meet you. I'll let you dwell in the highlights of my hair, and in the spheres of golden light at the end of my eyelashes; you, bathe the crook of my neck in your warmth.
I feel like I can't really grasp neutrality for more than a very short time: it always turns to positivity in my hands. It's complicated. I've mentioned it a few times before. It's a feeling I've always had - it began with me as a child staring at the dust particles floating in the sunlight, scattering at the slightest flick of my hand. It's part of why I've named myself cellula. I'm deeply intrigued by the deepest mechanisms of existence, the basest elements of life. It takes my breath away that everything unfathomably complex, awe-ful, terrifying, painful, pleasant, ecstatic, can be reduced to just atoms interacting with each other. Even death, and even our grief in reaction to it, are just consequences of atoms interacting with each other. Everything is. It's beautiful - but the fact that I find it beautiful, and the pleasurable sensation that derives from this perceived beauty, is also nothing more than atoms interacting with each other. It follows that I should be able to detach from my stupid mammalian feelings and see the universe for what it really is: a bunch of atoms interacting with each other, nothing more, nothing less. But I can't detach joy from this revelation of the neutrality of the world. While contemplating this deep vision of reality, I should feel nothing, because no feelings are attached to reality; but even while seeing it as what it is, as a great emotionless machine, I can't help but project my joy into it. It's all cold and unfeeling, devoid of moral judgement, but it's precisely this lack of judgement that makes it so free and freeing, so intoxicating and joyful. I can't help but feel that joy underlies everything in the universe, that joy is the music of the spheres that plays softly in the background of every song. Joy inherent in creation, and wonder in every observing creature: these, I think, are the primary emotions, the ancestral mother-and-daughter pair.
I feel the same thing towards the body. I understand the concept of body neutrality and how it is better than body positivity, but how can perceiving the body neutrally NOT lead to amazement, to reverence, to joy? How, when our natural, untainted relationship with the body is supposed to be love and harmony (just like our natural, untainted relationship with the universe is that of daughter to mother)? Maybe I'm way too optimistic, maybe I'm naive, but I feel like this is where our lives naturally lead, this is where our paths curl towards - back inside ourselves - no matter how many obstacles are in the middle.
I don't have to be concerned with judging my child self, or trying to relate her to me. The serpent joins all versions of me and her together, effortlessly, without feeling, without judgement. Is joy the underlying feeling of this sequence then, too? I don't feel it, of course I don't feel it, I'd never be insane enough to feel joy at what has been. But I don't think I have to feel anything that doesn't come naturally. What comes naturally is horror, and burning, and confusion, but I don't think that feeling things is the point here. I don't have to focus on these gut reactions, and I don't have to judge the child: there is nothing unnatural, and therefore unholy, in a child, so the serpent doesn't judge. The serpent only embraces all these things, all these selves, all their thought processes - holds them together. I don't have to embrace the child's vision, I sure as hell don't want to do it, no, if you are a self-respecting woman you will never allow yourself to embrace the child's logic again; but I can try not to judge, and to accept. I'm trying. I think we have to try: we are very emotional creatures by design, but we should still strive to be as serpentine as possible, to slither through things with as much grace as we can muster.
Remember that as a blog-keeper it is your right... and sometimes your duty..... to DELETE ENTRIES. ❤️ (But I don't dare to go in the 2024 journal page yet, I'm scared, it must be Area 51 in there.)
25 September 2025
Like tomorrow or something I will like slap my Sae the tenth analysis on a shitty black-and-white bare html page and publish it cause im honedtly fucking too tired to code sorry. What a good webmaster I am right
I know what to write but I don't know how to write it: I don't even know what to name it. The world is drawing long breaths. As always when I hear the breath of the world, or rather when I hear my own breath suspended in wonder and name it the breath of the world, I become afraid that it'll disappear in just a few days. All I can do right now is hope, and listen, and perhaps try to write. Remember the serpent in early August? The serpent means very much to me. I would've written that grasping the serpent and looking at its coils and folds, seeing the ways the light can reflect on every one of her scales, turning her over, looking at her underbelly and into her black eyes, would give me great joy: the long, wide, symphonic joy of knowledge without judgement. But that's impossible: the serpent is so long, so scary to look at, so hard to comprehend. I can try to pierce together some quotes from others, some sentences that float up from my subconscious, to draw the lines and sketch out an approximation of her shape, like a constellation. But now that the serpent turns to show her good side, now that her dreary black scales turn iridescent, there is less panic clouding my mind and - again, like in early August - I see more clearly. I don't think I'll ever soar high enough, be detached enough to have the literal ek-stasis of "knowledge without judgement". I think that would be kind of unnatural, in my case. When sleep doesn't come, when I lay in bed wide awake, my thoughts always turn to that kid, and I can't help but ruminate over every single wrong that was done to her. I know on a deep level that "that kid" is me, but I don't really want to acknowledge it. Now I can at least think of her, envision her, but my head isn't mounted on her neck, of course, and better yet she doesn't have a head at all: there's just the body. How weird. And this is the crossroad between the kid and the young woman, the point of all this rambling: how weird. I don't know how to say it at all: I could be crude, I could be weird annoying and metaphorical, or I could do a bit of both. The thing is the same as always, the awe-ful, double-sided thing, the musing that I will never stop musing over: it's a wonder - a monstrum - that this body that can do me so good, has done me so bad.
There's no good way to write it, and there's no use in writing either, because the paradox of existence can't be accused, can't be pardoned, can't be defended or argued against. It can only be felt, and under-stood, stood under: "[...] the paradox shows us an ontological maze we cannot sanely deny, destroy, or overleap; we have to learn to walk it again, to dance it, as our ancestors did, with grace, strength, and awe-full wisdom." A lot has happened to this body and to this psyche - how many times I've written a variation of this phrase, how many times I've turned this truth over and over in my head and how many more times I'll do it! Because accusing, pardoning, defending or arguing against the things that happened doesn't solve anything: they sit in the past, unreachable, they sit under layers of my skin and no matter how hard I claw, I'll never get to them. I was helpless and alone, so I could only feel them; now I can only try to stand above them.
I remember being debased. But I don't grit my teeth in my sleep anymore... I wake up with an open mouth and I've drooled all over the pillow like a dumbass. A wise woman said: "My body has known tragedies, but my body is not a tragedy." The paradox is the most obvious thing in the world, I know, but it isn't that easily acceptable or simple when you're really experiencing it. In this case, when you're looking at your scars up close. I look at my confusion and panic and shame in the past, I look at me now, and I feel sorrow, deference, gratitude, awe, that divine awe. I've really made the journey. I still have a lot of things to fix, but I think that for now, I'm back into the realm of the living. Weird, that in autumn I suddenly realize that I'm back into the realm of the living. The journey/growth has been gradual, but the moments of realization have been abrupt; snapping awake and seeing that you're far away from where you once were. The feeling of having been consumed by flames, and now having the pitcher of fresh, clear water at your side. I can hardly believe it, I ask myself if my eyes are deceiving me, as I watch the scale being tipped. Sorry for the pretentiousness, but sometimes I wonder if I have a kind of synesthesia or if I'm simply so used to writing that metaphors just come to me on their own. Most of the time it feels pink, or like the letter "p" overall; pink with a clear, glossy undertone: a glass full of pearls. Sometimes my eyes snap open because I'm shocked by the feeling of clear water rushing by me, just like the spring of wonder. There are kinds that climb up the sides of your hips like gothic bell towers. One time it was like the warm light from a salt lamp; one time I found myself walking on a violet chrome hill, feeling every up & down. One time I just said fuck it it's late let's get this over with and I climbed up the blinding white two-dimensional mountain, fizzing out of existence near the top and fizzing back in like two seconds later saying uh what was that. Behind the pearls, and the violet hills, and the gothic towers, I know there lies the blinding white of pure experience, unfiltered through reason and into words. That's perhaps what I fear so much, what was inflicted on me a long time ago when my innocence made me a prey, but right now I lay there and stare in wonder. (Immanuel Casto once said that Dante said something like, "in tanta gloria io venni" in Paradiso. I think that dumbass made it up, I can't find it anywhere.) It's not hedonism: when I lay there I'm scrying for words. Scrying for words is the only thing we can do in front of the paradox of existence: we can only feel it, and accept it, and if we believe it might help our puny brains with understanding it we can scry for words, or scry for the right colors for our paintings, or scry for the right notes for our hymns: scrying inside experience, inside feeling. It can only be felt, and accepted, and sung to. "Sung to"? Whispered to in bewilderment; screamed at in anguish: "A Geat woman too sang out in grief: / With hair bound up, she unburdened herself / Of her worst fears, a wild litany / Of nightmare and lament [...] Heaven swallowed the smoke." Just talked to in reverence. It doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything: heaven will swallow the smoke, be it from our pyres or from our incense. But I think it makes us human, keeps our selves afloat, gives us the strength and grace to walk the labyrinth as Monica Sjöö said.
And it's probably because I WANT everything to fit together in my twisted vision so I make sure it does, but sometimes I feel like things I wrote in the past are coming back to me and somewhat becoming true. Like, again, last year I wrote that thing "I am unsteady on my legs and I don't want enrichment. I want to be stripped of everything else, to be naked, to look at myself and to know myself in this bare form. To fast, abstain from all that's unneeded and harmful." and then I proceeded to eavesdrop strangers' conversation on the bus to desperately try to gauge the differences between me and them, their grades and mine, their friendships and mine, their love life and mine, their goals and mine. Now, though... I mean, school has just started so I might very well get desperate enough to compare myself to others that often and that intensely. Again, I hope it'll last, but I think that I'm gaining that knowledge of myself right now. The whole point of this pretentious schizo rant is that - regarding this physical-spiritual(?) creature that occupies this specific point in space and that is called "me" - I think I see more clearly.
May my eyes continue to see far and wide this winter.
...reading my journal entries is like reading pixyteri's facebook posts, isn't it?
19 September, 2025
Holy shit guys I swear I'm gonna like code and shit I am an AWFUL webmistress I publish a serious update once every 2 years sorry... But I have some lolcow documentaries to watch first SORRY
Cooking buttnaked and I'm afraid of the oil
I FINALLY got my ears pierced like I said I would. It lowkey kinda hurt... but now it's done and I'm waiting for them to heal. I have to keep these normal boring ones for a while until they heal, but then I'll buy some awful tacky horrible earrings. The jeweller was like: "you're 18 and you don't have a single hole in your earlobe???"
Hovering above this steaming cup of chamomile tea like the Pythia above the oracle's vapors. Lately when I'm on my period, I'm overwhelmed with ideas and connections and things to write - so much that I can't write down a single one of them. It's hard to get a single one of the speeding thoughts to stay still long enough to capture it. I drifted off to sleep happy because I'm finally the master of myself. I dreamt of looking inside myself and smiling. Despite being enclosed within the same walls of the same house, on the same couch, I drifted off to sleep happy because I'm finally the master of myself - physically, sexually, emotionally, in every sense. Despite everything. Lately my mantra has been "I remember"; from the marrow of my bones my body speaks out: "I remember". There's much I could say. I still think about the child a lot. I don't think it was her fault, and even if it is, I don't think she deserved it. I don't think a child can be born, like, inherently guilty. I could be wrong for all I know, but I'm not sure if it even matters: I'm still the master of myself. Walk into the bathroom and smell the shower. Not the water of the shower, not the products in the shower, just... the presence of the shower. Remnants of warm vapor in the air. The shower breathes and hums and reminds me of autumn 2023. It's because I bought a shower speaker back then. I started asking myself what had happened that had made me like this, and searching for answers made me go insane, I guess. I was scared. It was a strange time, it was delirium. It's the reason why I'll never be able to listen to some songs again, even though they're beautiful. I think I sort of awakened back then, for better or for worse - but whichever one it was, it led me to this moment, where I am the master of myself. One day I woke up and discovered that through all my efforts I had earned the ownership of myself. I have inherited myself. Which is like inheriting a crumbly €1 house in the mafia-infested hinterland of Basilicata, but at least you're still a fucking homeowner. My body says: I remember, and these should be my last words, the cry with which I fall under the blows of memory; but now the river of blood calmly flows, and I'm reminded that this amazing body is mine. The air is chilly, the shower hums: I remember a trip I had that autumn, where I laid on the shower floor eating kitkats and marveling at the droplets hanging from the bristles of the hairbrush. Autumn is the season of cool, clear water. Every night I lean against the window, hoping to hear rain; tulsi has listened to my prayer and decided to be born. I don't think that giving back your blood to the earth is optional, if you are blessed with being a woman. Or at least I have no idea what I would do without it. I think it's the most eloquent way we have of saying: I acknowledge that I am a creature in the web of life. I know what you do. I see what you do. And I am grateful, and I want to participate. This is the most sacred thing I can give in exchange for everything. It matters so much to me, it moves me so deeply that sometimes I feel the urge to cry, of gratitude, of joy, of wonder, of a love so strong I don't know what to name it. I hope it moves her too: "call me - call me - call me - you are my child and your call moves my heart"...
I remember: what do I make of it? What do I do with those memories? Do they brand me like a slave, like cattle? Or can I live?
I try to remember that I'm the master of myself whenever I'm having a rough time, that the only thing I'm guaranteed to have until the moment I die is myself, and that I always have the last word regarding how I handle things and how I choose to live my life. I hope this keeps me going??? I'm a little worried because I already need to repeat this to myself on the fifth fucking day of school. I think I'll get through this year because... time can only go forwards and I don't wanna give up, but I really, REALLY hope that after this there's something worth the effort???? A reward, a compensation. I think it's time for me to get my fucking happiness, and if I don't get it, I genuinely don't know what I'm gonna do. But at least I'm finally the master of myself.
I bought this new men's deodorant that smells amazing, it smells like pine. The blinds are shut but I can almost see my mountain, thick with woods, under the moon tonight & right now. Does it ever hit you that you are existing simultaneously with everything else in the world, that somewhere else right now are the steppes of Mongolia, the poppy fields of California, the giant squid in some unfathomed ocean depth? My mountain is out there right now: it must be so cold, it must be so dark... I need to be there, I need to know if she's going to whisper the answer to me; I know who I am now - I am the master of myself - but I need to know what I can do, what I can offer to this world. I need to know if I am worth something and if I'll ever be able to do something with that worth. I know I can't grow here, there's nothing else for me to take from here, I swear it's not my fault; I need to know that there'll be other places, other people, other experiences, more time, more time, more time.
But I was winnowing the amaranth harvest yesterday: sometimes I accidentally blew too hard and some seeds flew away along with the chaff, and this is what our deaths are in the universe.
I love nail polish. Shout out to nail polish. It's like makeup but you don't have to reapply it every time you go out, it's cheap, it's very visible because it's on your hands, and there are so many shades to choose from - you know how much I love colorful makeup. I did go to the market in the end, and I bought this beautiful nail polish that I currently have on. It's a very dark reddish-brown. It reminds me of long-sleeved blazers, warm black tea, soft covers, and other pleasures of the cold season.
Gonna make some sort of fire cider I think, to support me through winter. A daily toast to health. I'm probably not gonna put hot peppers in it though. And I don't know what the fuck horseradish is. I'm just gonna use what I have. I recently strained my calendula and plantain oils, which reminds me, spring-summer 2025 garden recap coming soon......
10 September, 2025
I wouldn't have been trapped inside this asian birthday party...
Before anything else. Crying. Shaking. Convulsing. Throwing up. There are two pages left to make for the Sae-ism shrine and the layouts I tried. all. suck. major. ass. I don't know what to do because it HAS to come out before the school year starts but I also would rather post pictures of my actual shit instead of those layouts. I'm gonna warn you: I'm probably gonna publish it anyways, because it has to get out of my file system. I'm genuinely sorry for anyone who will look at it. Please accept my apologies in advance.
I was SO CLOSE to seeing a wild dolphin, I turned around just a second too late.
Really feeling this; felt it all summer in fact, and I hope that autumn and winter will be erotic too. I'm trying to remind myself of the beautiful things in the colder months. The garden, of course. Hot beverages, especially tea. Jacking off will be better because you don't sweat excessively like in summer. I have a lot of stylish cold-weather clothes.
Rain is beautiful and life-giving. Yesterday, just as I was getting ready to go to driving school, it started raining... It's been so long since I last had to open an umbrella. It's been so long since I last walked in the rain. It was heavenly. It was very good, very gentle rain, that didn't rock my seeds too hard in their cradle, that sang them softly to their birth. Today, though, it was very heavy... I don't know if they survived. I sowed chamomile and tulsi: chamomile will make it, because she's native here; tulsi, eh... I don't know. I know it's really strange to plant tulsi in autumn - I did it out of desperation because I think I'll need it to deal with stress in the coming year. My lemon balm tincture works REALLY well, like, I physically can't feel anxious after taking it, but I'm not sure about taking it every single day, because what if I have a thyroid issue I don't know about 😨 also, an adaptogen sounds precisely like what I need. But I seriously doubt it's gonna make it in this season and in this climate... We'll see. I'll probably have to swallow my pride and buy it. (It's also really fucking expensive!!!)
I don't see any other way to get through this year other than to lock the fuck in on myself. LOCK, locked focus, locked vision. To focus on myself, my needs, my wants, my goals, my duties, and on those who replenish my energies. I've already started cutting out people who drain me, whose speech is alien to me. I don't even care if I come across as mean, I don't have a single gram of energy I can afford to waste anymore.
Last time I went there, the sea wanted to play rough, and the cold wind knocked the breath out of me when I came out of the water. The wheel is turning: somber, lamp-bearing September has made her way inside my house, and now hangs the sword of school, exams, boredom, cold and dark days over my head - and I wanna go to the market. Yes! I wanna go to the market, the weekly morning market in the shade of the trees of my beloved city; I wanna dress up, paint my eyelids, and walk the boulevard that I know and love like a sister. Summer is over, and I just discover the market. I should say "it's a shame", but I can't comprehend that word right now. This is probably incomprehensible to anyone who doesn't have the right amount of prosecco, rosé wine and cherry brandy in their bloodstream, but: looking out on the sea, I feel like an eternal lover, and the thought that it's all gonna end soon is ludicrous. I'm gonna lay on the limestone rocks, I'm gonna splash in the water, I'm gonna walk to the end of the harbor late at night. I wanna go to the market, so I'll go to the market: "who pulls me down?" They tell me that something will come and stand between me and my beautiful marble city, and my mountains with their wild mugwort, and my coast that kills & inspires women like me. Who could be capable of that? I feel like there's no way our love could ever end, unless she one day gets tired of me and knocks me off my canoe to feed me to her scaly children. I find that my laughter sounds just like the cry of seagulls. Like Admetus roaring drunk at his last supper, I think that it's never gonna end - hybris for sure.
My laughter won't end: how would I live otherwise? This summer ends with me stumbling on the rocks, begging the sun to come look at this body before she goes to die. The sun's my woman as well, absolutely. I talk a great deal about the moon, sure, but please never think of me as the type of person that believes in dualism. Do you ever get hit with the fact that you, and everything else around you, are alive because of the sun? Her literal lifeforce is coursing through us... our great mother; our fiery lover that warms our shoulders and lights our souls, gives color to our skin and taste to our food. Who told you she's male?! Here, in the summer she's... not very nice, she burns our crops and wages war against the streams. But now that I'm about to leave the canoe to its cold season's rest, I can't get enough of her, and not just because I wanna be more tan. She's getting kinder, even leaving some room for the cold winds. I can't believe I have to leave her now. I always need one more, one more time, I always scramble for just one more time, to lay on the rocks, to soak up her warmth on my bare skin, to spy her through closed eyes, fierce light filling the black space behind my eyelids: this is the only, miserable way I can look at you, but I'll take it. Can I ask something of you? Look at me, at this body that was chewed up and spat back out, that was used, and shamed, and castrated, and killed and blamed for rotting. Look at it with your fiery eye; touch it with your falling rays. Would you have thought, would any of them have thought, that I would be laying here in your light now, basking in your warmth and in the comfort of my skin? This is me, this is the same person - and I have to repeat it over and over because it sounds so unreal to me: these are the hands, these are the arms, these are the legs, these are the thighs, everything. I'm bare for you to look at, so look: can you still see the scars? Or are they hidden under tall spiraling hair (cherished mark of maturity), not forgotten, not painless, but not festering? There was no way I could've climbed out of the hole I was pushed in, but somehow I'm here now, praying to you in gratitude for having survived. Beam down on this face that has contorted in weeping so many times, and that now revels in the beauty of everything that's under your light. I didn't even think I would reach this age, but I'm here now. Can I stay in this life? I've spent many years just surviving, but oh, now that I'm out of the hole, I want to live and I want to give thanks for living. Even if it's too late now, even if I'm too fucked up now, can I try? I can make something, I swear, with these cripple arms I can do just one thing that will justify this mess of an existence, if you allow me to live until the end. Will you?
I never kill insects, but recently I was jacking off and there was this small one, I don't know what it was, not a mosquito or anything, that kept landing on me. I tried to ignore it but then I got majorly pissed off and I smashed it. It left a bad taste in my mouth. I think it speaks about divinity and the universe. Like the "And Inanna created the world / through an act of masturbation" poem, but the goddess is Kali, and the insect is potentially all creation.
8 September, 2025
Guys, I was working on an actual entry, but today's too special. Oggi è un giorno sacro raga.
"alora il fatto e questo lotto setembre 2006 ale 20:53 (pns k era + o meno 40 secondi) stavo pr0vandio a dormire ma nn ci riuscivo quindi mi sforzavo ma nn volevo kiudere li oki e poi mi giro e poi guardo questa kosa vicino la porta e poi mi spavento e poi mi cago in mana kmq era un kubio nero k aveva sorpa 1 koltlelo in ecuilibrio e poi ogni voltra k sbatevo l palpebre il cubo si avicinava e poi mi cagerebbi se il kubio mi killasse kmq qnd era vivino al letto poi bato le palpebre e vedo tipo k il kubio era divertato verde e mi era salito sulle ginochia!!!!!!!!!! poi ho sbatuto le palpebre in preda ala caga in mano e ttt viene azerato
k ne pensateeee
nn o nexuna prova xò poso disegnare 1 diseno di km è è + o meno ksi vi tengo informati spero k nn suceda + XD :):) e kmq spero k il kubio nn mi ucida
edit nn sn sik se è la sez giusta scusatemiii :'((("
Oggi è la giornata descritta da questa bellissima opera d'arte. Questa storia è diventata leggenda tra me e i miei migliori amici. Felice giorno del kubio a tutti: trascorretelo saggiamente.
2 September, 2025
I gotta finish my summer homework and I gotta have more sleepovers before summer ends and I gotta study for my driver's license (taking the theory test in october let's do this girls there's a CHANCE of me passing 🙀) and I gotta finish the Sae-ism shrine and I gotta go to the beach as often as I can and I gotta work the soil and sow autumn plants and I gotta update this site and I gotta wake up late until I still can but I also have to wake up early and I have to do all this stuff but also relax while I still can and and and and...
My sister passed the driving practice test just three months after the theory test that's queen shit and I wanna do it too I want to get this license shit over with SO PEOPLE STOP ASKING ME ABOUT IT. It's not even like I'm late I'm fucking 18!!!! I'M GONNA GET THAT FUCKING LICENSE SHUT UP ABOUT IT AND LET ME FINISH. I know it's common small talk to go like "so when are you getting your license? 🤗" but it gets on my nerves to hear it so much.
I don't even wanna drive, I just want people to shut up. When I get that license I'm gonna frame it in a 24k gold-plated frame and I'm gonna lovingly hang it in my bedroom and it's NEVER coming out of there. See that's my license shut up about it now.
Lesbians & bi girls I'm sorry forgive me but sometimes being gay really sucks ass. I know I know but I'm sure you've felt this way at least once too. We were alone laying on a soft double bed at 4 AM in the dark, staring at the ceiling, no screens, no lights, the wind roaring outside, the waxing moon outside the blinds if only we could see it, her with half her tits hanging out and me with half my bush hanging out, huddled close, her rubbing my arm and my fucking abs and holding my hand, whispering in sleepy voices and it hit me that this couldn't possibly mean anything at all to her besides being #besties. I don't even like her (at least not physically, which is essential to me), but this thought just kept crossing my mind and it hit a little, you know, the fundamental difference and the unsurmountable iron wall of incompatibility: if you know you know and if you don't you don't. But I trust that some of you girls do.
I often wonder what worship should be - and I tend to think I don't do a lot of it in the practical sense. But aren't swimming, paddling, climbing all prayers? Isn't my body in the water an oath? Aren't my fingers in the crevices of the white sea-rocks spelling vows? Isn't my presence, my gaze full of wonder staring up at the cliff overhead, my body standing in the wind, enough? Can't you tell by these madwoman scribbles that I've finally seen my mountain and my beach again, after almost a month? The algae have kindly decided to fuck off. Now I have to worry about bad weather... since it's september... WHAT THE FUCK it's COLD early in the morning and my bus pass expired on the 31st so I had to PAY for the TICKET??? UNBELIEVABLE. I'm still processing the death of August. Two weeks left... Until the tyrant of time allows, I'm gonna visit my woman. This summer, I've felt like everything is erotic, as in everything is an act of love and devotion, as in everything is prayer. Don't we living creatures all share a language whose words are the movements of muscle and sinew, the rhythm of blood, the blinking of eyes, all the dances of biomolecules? Am I not speaking it all the time, even when my eyes are turned from anything meaningful, even when I feel like this chest harbors no spirit? Aren't we speaking it all the time, and even if we swear for all our lives we don't speak it, won't our last words be the biggest declaration of love, as our bodies break down and we pump our atoms in the universal bloodstream - and won't these last words echo forever? I am grateful for being made out of your same skin, fur, bark, stone: I can taste your flesh when I roll my tongue inside my mouth. The pulse of my heart visible below my breast, the rise and fall of my breath, the grove of hair on my thighs, my biceps sore from yesterday's workout: I am mindful of all of this as my arms carry me through the water. I am mindful of all of this and I want to give thanks for all of this with all of this. All of this is both your gift and my prayer. Being here - just being - in this body and in these clear waters is magical, because "just being" a warm-blooded anomaly in a cold universe is a lot of work (even if I'm not consciously tasked with it). And it is a pledge, because being here, to me, means promising to come here again, and again, and again. How wouldn't I? When I have sworn my love by cutting through your waters with my paddle, by staring at the mountain bathed in the sunrise's maiden light across the horizon, by draping my hair over the limestone rocks, by closing my eyes in front of the cliffs to sleep? I renew my pledge by breathing out carbon dioxide for you. You renew your pledge by breathing out oxygen for me.
What great lover awaits me in winter? Here in the summer, I have the ocean, the mountain and the cliffs... "great" is no metaphor at all. Who's there to love in winter? The bare oak across the street, crucified, with her arms nailed to the sky? I don't have a lust for death anymore. I don't wanna be bored... May there be something.
My tits are gonna be sunburnt tomorrow.
Deranged Sae-ism rant incoming be warned, my rage is uncontrollable. Every new Sae-ism update takes a year off my lifespan. But this shit, THIS SHIT, I would've never EVER expected. Basically I wake up to this
(ignore the fact that Sae is a reptilian it just happens now) And I'm like: wow the girls are fighting 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 this hasn't happened since volume 13, and that was a cool scene, so this update could be interesting... GOOD even????? So I open the chapter. I open the goddamn chapter. And even before translating it I realize.
It's clickbait. Like actual clickbait. Like Mr Beast thumbnails. These two panels aren't even in the same page. They aren't talking to each other. And yet it's edited to look like they are, Tohru LITERALLY opened up fucking photoshop and lined them up HE DID IT ON PURPOSE HE TOOK THE TIME TO EDIT IT LIKE THIS HE TOOK THE TIME TO FUCKING CLICKBAIT US. Sae-ism is NOT a goddamn youtube short it has its DIGNITY. But above all, Sae-ism didn't need clickbait, Sae-ism WAS clickbait. Sae-ism was like if Tohru asked his editor team or whatever the fuck to come up with some clickbait thumbnails for his series, and then he took them all and made them actually happen. Every single chapter. All edge no point, not a moment of stillness. Sae-ism doesn't need clickbaits, its natural state is derangement, drama and intensity. Sae-ism needing clickbait in order to be interesting is like giraffes needing stairs in order to reach treetops. It's a sign that SOMETHING IS TERRIBLY WRONG. How do you even fuck up so bad?
This is an INSULT. Instead of actually writing something interesting, Tohru has decided to take the time to edit a clickbait picture to FOOL US. The man I called DADDY. You changed my LIFE. I poured so many lines of WORDS and CODE over your work. I gave you all the love I was capable of and you repay me with this?? TOHRU YOU ARE DEAD. TO. ME. YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT I'M GONNA HUNT YOUR FAMILY FOR SPORT YOU FUCKING COJONE DEMMERDA PORCODDIO CHE TE CASCASSERO LE PALLE TE DEVE PIÀ UN COLPO BRUTTAMMERDA VAFFANCULO DIOCANE
Tho after translating it I think it would've been hilarious if they were actually talking to each other
Misao: you tried to murder my parents that was kinda fucked up
Sae: 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵... 𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂𝓼 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮 👅⛓️
And the clickbait is the most infuriating thing, but then there's also the fact that the original season one trinity is all reunited here in what's supposed to be a holy occasion but it's so fucking boring. And since when are Ran and Kokai boring?!?!?!?!?! Why does Ran barely talk??? TOHRU WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!?! And Kokai suddenly being a wimp is completely out of character. What do you mean "guys be caweful sae is so scawy 🥺" remember when you tried to blow yourself up along with her? What happened to you. He's like a wet piece of cardboard now. I don't even know what to say, they were such lively characters and now they show less emotion than AI chatbots. Tohru is just straight up admitting that he's too scoglionato to put any more effort into what started off as his passion project.
"nobody cares about me or my series 🥺" oh shut up you crybaby scrote. Nobody reads my neocities.org blog either do you think that stops me from posting my schizo mysticism rants and schizo reviews? No. Lock the fuck in. "but cellula this is my job 😭" go suck dicks at the gas station and write manga on the side. There's no excuse for giving up on Sae-ism.
I have to make my own Sae-ism or something holy shit I don't even know how but it would be awesome I swear there would be a deranged mutual obsession arc instead of whatever this is. If we get to 2 likes I'm gonna stage a coup at the Uchimizu household
28 August, 2025
Okay before anything else I have to say this even though no one cares this is a promise to myself set in stone the Sae-ism shrine is coming out before the 15th of September. No matter what. No matter what. When school starts, I won't have time to code it anymore, and it'll be another year before I start working on it again; and the whole time I'll be like, fuck, the Sae-ism shrine, I could've finished it but I didn't. Coding the Sae-ism shrine has become a bloody life-or-death struggle it feels like going to war every time I open the code editor, it is terrible. But it has to be done. There has to be a Sae-ism shrine on the internet. I will make it. I will make it. I have to get it over with no matter what. This entry sucks because I wanted to put out a quick something before going back to the bloody fight certamen pugna against the Sae-ism shrine. I will get her out in the open. I will.
End of summer got me feeling like ←
August is dying in my arms!! What do I do now?? I've been thinking "summer is over it's so over" for a month straight now, and now it's ACTUALLY over. I said that when my period would begin summer would be over. Now my period is gone and summer is even more over. SUMMER IS OVER!! What do I do now?? I have no clue how life is lived in winter. I don't know anything anymore of storms, thunder, textbooks, long sleeves, I don't know where I'm going. I'm very anxious. August is dying in my arms... At this point I would just rather she dies quickly, because, as my 12 year old self would say, counting down the days to go... IT JUST AIN'T LIIIVVVVIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!! This summer went by so fast that I'm disoriented. I am embarassed, because I feel like I should've done way more (but I guess that's a common feeling). I don't remember what life is like, far from the sea. But I guess we need the rain. Lately when I step into the garden, it almost feels like she's clamoring for rebirth, banging from underneath the dry soil, demanding autumn, demanding rain, demanding new life! So that's something to look up to, at least.
Today I cut down the amaranth and the sunflowers. The sunflowers' stems were so thick that shears couldn't do the job; we tried looking for a saw but we couldn't find it, so I took the hoe (lol) and just fucking hacked at the base of the stem as if I was chopping wood. Didn't look the best, but it worked. After felling one of the sunflowers I noticed a baby turtle on the ground next to it, encrusted with dirt and unmoving. Oh Ma. She's dead. Another dead baby turtle. I kneeled and took her in my hands and spun her around to check if she was really dead, and sure enough she didn't move at all. I checked if her shell was deformed and it wasn't, so she couldn't have died because of my hacking, but she looked very dead regardless. I dug a hole for her and AS SOON AS I placed her at the bottom of it, she put her little limbs and head out and started moving around. She's ALIVE!!! I picked her back up, and looking into those little pitch black eyes wide open was beautiful. She looked fine, she was very lively, very fast (turtles are NOT slow no matter what they tell you).
I have no idea why she was just lying there. The mulch was really thick below the sunflowers, maybe she like, wandered there and couldn't get out?? In which case she was lucky I found her. But idk. I think it's beautiful that I can look in her little black eyes and feel protectiveness and affection, something that she physically can't feel. You are a reptile, but I am a mammal and I love you. If you are dead I will bury you, and if you are alive I will pick you up delicately and put you beneath the hedge where no one can step on you - even if you can't understand why the hell I'd do it. You don't understand, you can't feel it, but that doesn't make it any less real. You are a reptile, but I am a mammal and I feel things you cannot feel: do you feel things I cannot feel? What can't I understand about you?
I've been thinking about this for a while: our view of the Goddess as mother is very... mammalian. I wonder what reptiles have to say about her?
I've been in the hinterland for a couple of days. I've already been there and, truth be told... despite saying in the last entry that I can't love any other place than my own, I'm starting to warm up to it. It's really beautiful. There are ACTUAL mountains there. My mountain here is... CALLED a mountain but it barely fits the bill: I don't really know the real ones. It was kinda disorienting: there were no pine roots to hold me, and there were no rocks sturdy enough to entrust my step to. I've never come closer to falling.... I came back from the trail feeling thankful for my two beautiful whole rows of teeth. There are rivers... I ate TROUT!!!!!!! Trout is UNBELIEVABLY good. After I ate my first trout, I spent all night thinking about it. Trout. She doesn't live here - I'd have to drive all the way back to eat her again. She tastes like an elegant, gentle salmon. Trout. Trout!! I'm sorry I had to rip you from your mother's breast, from the clear flowing milk of the mountain, so you could end up on my plate. I hope your river doesn't hold it against me, won't kill me - a stranger, an outlander - over her daughter's death. I will one day atone for this, for all my other sisters I've eaten, with my own death, and something else will eat me in turn. Until then, trout, I'll try to use your calories wisely. Trout tastes really good.
I've been waiting to be let in on that secret - It's gotten cool enough for me to start drinking tea again. Tea, too, is worth writing an eulogy about. I sit for minutes taking everything in, the taste, the temperature, the weight of the cup in my hands... I have a hunch that the secret is simply: fully live in the moment, take in everything about life, the cups of tea and the way the sunlight falls in the room and songs of the birds, because there's nothing aside from this... I have a hunch that the secret is just this, nothing more: nothing extraordinary, earth-shaking like I'd expected. I know that it's right, but I still need to know if there's more - I need more. The grown woman would pitch her tent in this knowledge and say: This is it... The maiden, unsatisfied, continues to wander.
21 August, 2025
Get his ass, Lana. Lana, get him.
I'm on my period and I'm waiting to be let in on a secret. I got it under the mountain, near the sea yesterday: a bit messy, but what a privilege. Women who bleed near the new moon, celebrate with me! When the sea's tide is low, ours rises to compensate. I got it early this month, like the last one: lately it seems to rush to me like it's in a hurry to tell me something.
I'm on my period and I'm waiting to be let in on a secret. I have my ears pressed to the face of my beloved, and I feel her breath on me, it's only a matter of time before she speaks: I'm waiting. Maybe this will be the in-breath that finally gives life to the first sacred word that'll spring from her throat... I can't imagine such a moment. Everything tingles with anticipation. It is the time to open the little jar of chamomile I harvested from my garden, so fragrant that, when I first heaped it all up and smelled it, I thought the divine would never escape me again, as long as I always have some chamomile set aside. (It's a wonder that, even in the most sterile, self-flagellating, disconnected religions, the divine is reached through what we humans deem pleasurable, what simply smells good, tastes good, feels good: incense and feasts and chants...) Chamomile flowers are so small... At the end of the harvest, I thought: I waited so long for this, but this is gonna make like, eight cups of tea. What do I do with this???? And so I decided to make it a sort of period ritual: at least it'll last me about eight months. Golden, and true enough to show the sharp, bitter, biting side of our lady chamomile, and a silvery, bright aftertaste that crowns it all like her own white petals. The smell and taste of chamomile is nostalgic to me. I used to think, if I was in charge of naming stuff like they said of Adam, I would call her mother-and-child. With this mindset I sowed her. Then I watched her grow, rugged and scrawny and tall, and it seemed to me that she would say: haven't you seen me growing on sidewalks, haven't you seen me drinking dewdrops alone? The only tenderness here is that which is inside you. I'm gonna try to grow her this autumn, too, maybe it'll be warm enough. But I digress. I'm also drinking fennel tea. Today I woke up with bad cramps, but I didn't take any ibuprofen: just one cup of fennel seed tea (bought from crunchy store) + 60 drops total (30 drops morning, 30 drops afternoon) of the chamomile tincture I made (homegrown), and it went very well!! I know that tincturing chamomile is unusual, I made it specifically for period pain, but I didn't know if it would work; in fact while it was steeping I kept wondering why the fuck I was doing it lol. But now I'm glad! I didn't expect it to work so well. I cared for this plant all throughout spring and summer, I fed it my blood, and now she helps me, in this almost-autumn night where the cool wind runs along my naked back. "Now you eat me, now I eat you". Being a woman is beautiful... Thank you uterus, thank you hypothalamus & pituitary gland, and thank you moon. As promised, you wane; as promised, I bleed; as promised, summer is dying. It is... cool tonight. I need a shirt. I can't just have my tits out all the time anymore - agonizing... Yesterday, someone made me notice that it was getting dark at only 8.30 PM. Ah my woman - as Dumuzi would say, as any dying and disposable creature would say - why have you thought of feeding me to the darker months?
Summer is dying. Here, she's harsher than Winter herself, but this year I fell headfirst, hard, unexpectedly in love with her, with the way she makes my woman look. The dry stalks of grass in sun-ravaged fields are her blonde hair; her eyes are the dark, dull brown of drooping sunflower heads. I am so driven mad by love, that I see beauty in such desolation, and that - if I could - I would keep the sun suspended above these barren lands. I know that she labors, and I know that that is why she conspires, why she gathers stormclouds thick above our head, why she's brewing rain, and I understand, it's just.... I've gone kayaking ONCE in the entire month of August cause of a fucking toxic algae outbreak shit and I feel like I've done NOTHING.................. I've done other stuff I'm probably just having a crisis because time flew past me and THIS IS MY LAST SUMMER AS A HIGH SCHOOLER I DON'T KNOW WHAT COMES AFTER THIS AND I DON'T KNOW IF I'M GONNA ENJOY IT so I think it's normal for me to feel DREAD. I'm scared as shit bruv and I don't know how to react to the shortening day length, to the colder temperatures, to the approaching school year, to the approaching everything. I'm looking into universities, and fuck, I don't wanna be fuori sede. I don't have to be, sure, it's just that yesterday I went to see a part of the harbour that I love dearly but haven't seen in years. It's just below the three radio towers this page is dedicated to. I needed to see her before summer ends. And as I stepped out of the car, past the fountain roaring in solitude, the first thing I saw was a dingy little bar that wasn't there before - and the city was playing our song. I've always associated Dire Straits with my city: it's the water of the harbour, the buses, the smell of smoke...
It was just a coincidence, but it made me fucking jump. This part of the harbour is small, I must've been there for ten minutes. A short walk up to the green lantern, so bright and radiant from afar, so dingy up close. But, if my woman is the beauty that's in the eye of the beholder, I would've ran to it and hailed it as her body. I am a sucker for city lights, what do I say? And from there, I was far enough from the center that I could see the lighthouse beaming.
What do I say? I never want to leave this place where the mountain meets the mountain meets the city, the sea meets the mountain, and the city meets the sea. I am so monogamous, in fact, that I find it hard to love any other place, even for just a brief vacation. Which sucks, because it keeps me from loving other realities and other forms of beauty, and makes me flat-out refuse any prospects of a better education just because it's KIND OF distant. Guess I have to work on that.
There's about three weeks left.
Beautiful out-of-context image from the r/piracy subreddit
12 August, 2025
Summer has three months....... August, crone of summer, you are old and weary; but you are the only one left to protect me. I feel your arms around my shoulders when I'm under the sun, your cool breath on my neck when the wind blows: don't let me go. It will be ferragosto soon... and then? August, what do I do without you? The passage of time feels agonizing, and lately every day and night I go outside just to admire that day's sun and moon. Like: this is today's moon, the 12th of August 2025's moon, and it will never come back again...
Oh Ma, your creatures are beautiful. Oh sun-woman of August, your beauty is dazzling, so dazzling I can't look you in the eye. Ah, what even is life, if I can't look in the eyes of my woman? You slip away from me, inch by inch, every minute. If I was a more powerful and more selfish lover, I would grab you and end your running, to keep you close to me forever. But no one can do that, and even then, I know you must run. Oh moon-woman of August, queen of summer nights, sometimes I think that you require nothing from me, no fancy rite, apart from the love in my heart. Is it a coincidence that my laughter (and what laughter... more about it below) matured in the days of your fullness? Now you wane, and when your sickle faces the other side, when my blood begins to run, I'll know that summer is over. I wonder what'll become of me then. I watch you die and be reborn every month, and I envy your confidence, your nonchalance in going into and emerging from the void, your resplendent faith in your ability to do it every time. I wonder if it'll happen to me, too.
Oh Ma, your creatures are beautiful. Wolves are being sighted in my hometown - one in the field just behind my house, last night. I was out to see the shooting stars with H on the mountain, though. And on the 10th I had a sleepover with S - we went looking for shooting stars, too: between yesterday and the day before, I saw 6 in total. Shout out to the Perseids. Yesterday night me and H shat ourselves - it was the dead of night, we were laying on a towel in the middle of nowhere, and I was already a bit paranoid about boars. Then we heard what sounded like a pig-like grunt nearby. We moved the fuck away from there... Maybe we heard wrong, because the grunt wasn't accompanied by any rustling sound. I honestly spent the rest of the night on edge....... When I go into the wilderness at night I usually don't give a shit about the animals, I don't know why I was such a coward this time. I didn't know what I would have done if we really saw a boar. I wanted to crouch under the moon and pray: please help your daughter! The moon scrunched her face up and said: why should I help the daughter who wears polyester, and not the daughter who lives in the woods clothed only in her fur and humility? (If she had her own Bible, there would be no prodigal son parable.) We ended up not seeing any boars, nor any other big animals. Just a weird, yellow-and-black spider and some crawling insects. Up on the mountain I was thinking: if you make me see the boar, I'm gonna faint from fear; but if you don't let me see the boar, I'm gonna feel forlorn and cut off from you. Not only did I not see the boar - wolves were sighted near my house, and I didn't get to see them... I DO feel forlorn!
Oh Ma, your creatures are beautiful. Yesterday night H made a dumbass joke and it led me to take a closer look at a plant nearby. Coincidentally... she was none other than fucking ARTEMISIA. I don't know what kind, but - Artemisia!!! Do you know how much time I spent looking for you, do you know how holy you are to me?? This mountain becomes more sacred to me each time I visit her.
(↓ This is actually a full-on insane incomprehensible schizopost, if you think my usual entries are nutty then you're gonna be real surprised by this one. I myself still have no idea what came over me (in a good way). It's an almost unreadable wall of text by choice, because it has to be styled this way, as if you needed another reason not to read this. Paaaaaaaaazzooo... Quasi certamente vado a diventare pazzo... Con questo patto che ho fatto, come Amleto io mi fingo matto...)
I feel like my sexuality is healed now. Maybe not forever, but right now, it is. I feel contented and most of all proud that I managed to pierce together a mostly healthy sexuality after, idk, everything. I've been sexually dysfunctional since forever and I used to assume that it would stay forever, too. It's... over now?? You have no idea how bad it was, this journal is like the tip of the iceberg because it's only one year and a half, you guys missed the worst of it which is probably a blessing (but it would've been milky). I can't believe I get to experience this, finally.
I'll probably end up this deleting this whole part because it's Too Much Oversharing even for my standards. Felt traumatized might delete later ig. The fact is, it's so weird to reconcile with the aspect of myself that has caused me the most pain throughout in my life. I wonder. So I look back. And since there are way less things clouding my mind, I see clearly.
One crucial thing about me is that I'm all or nothing: I seek the absolute, the source of everything, so to speak. I want no middleman, no little insignificant details, nothing that can distract me from the absolute, the source. I don't know how to put it into words. For example, it's why I call my woman Ma, the first sound, instead of any other sound that came after. I dunno. Anyways - it's why, looking back, I go straight for the source. The first things I can remember. The first me I ever was. The child, in kindergarten and things like that. I've tried to look back to her many times. What I see, I can't really bring myself to call abuse or assault or whatever because it sounds too drastic and it wasn't something painful horrible like something severe, but it wasn't a fucking handshake either. The gist of it was that my caretaker since I was born (because apart from maternity leave my mother was working) was weird. I don't even know how I should look at this thing, because there are many people who have had it much much worse, but all I'm saying is that those things were a little weird to do to a kid. Maybe it's just me and I'm overreacting, she never gave a flying fuck, I could go to her house right now (we're still in contact with her) and go hey remember when you made me strip for you every single fucking day when I was like five?? and she would just laugh. Maybe it's really just a laughable thing, just a game, but whatever it was I can't get the ghost of those fucking fingers off of me. One thing that fucks me up pretty bad is how no one did anything about it. Yes I was alone with her most of the time but sometimes my mother would be there in the mornings and my caretaker would always just fucking grope me in the mornings every day. And my mother would just go cmon stop. She would smile in my face and I would hide because what was I supposed to do, but it was my goddamn house, of course there was nowhere to hide. I hated getting groped in front of others. And the thing is that I hated some things, some things would make me feel really fucking bad, but some other times I would just trust her and be with her and shit. I guess it's because she took care of me and cleaned up after me and whatever else you have to do for a small kid but it's still fucking unbelievable to me that I did it. And I've always felt an unspeakable amount of shame. I can't stop thinking about this thing, it's the scariest thing I could imagine. "this thing" is not even just my own specific situation - and I'm sorry for the Soren Hayes-level crudeness and voyeurism here - it is the fact that, at the beginning of our lives, exists a void where there are no morals and no sense of what's wrong or what's right, a void of absolute helplessness, where things will be done, indulged in, just because. Just because... imagine. Doesn't it scare you too? I seem to be the only one who's fucking scared, I swear. People will say "oh it's normal" shut up it's the most terrifying thing in the world??? I seriously don't know what to say to others who don't see it, who don't feel the terror of it, maybe it's because they've never lived it. But even among those who do, there are some who talk about it so carelessly. What the fuck are you laughing about??? Maybe there's nothing scary. It wasn't scary, to her. Maybe that's the enlightened view. It was just some thing. "La superstizione mi disturba alquanto / Non mi fermo ai risvolti devianti attribuiti al nero / Non consiglio visioni ideologiche legate al nero / È soltanto un colore per me". But looking back, I hate it. I hate that there was ever such a time, that such a time exists in general. It's a fucking design flaw - and I don't often criticise you for design flaws, Ma. That's just childlike innocence, just say you hate childlike innocence and go cellula; but this whole thing wraps tight around my head and doesn't let go of me, like a serpent, like the belt of Kali. It is horrible, paralyzing, it is something overwhelming and bigger than me, and so I see in it the terrible, devouring divine. You see, poor cellula copes with spirituality. It is the destructive side of the double axe, it is the test, it is Inanna's descent. It is just... the incomprehensibly horrible time, how can I describe it to you? I can only get so pretentious. I was wrong, it's not that I never had innocence. I had innocence, and that's exactly the problem. It was fucking horrible. Innocence is ignorance and helplessness.
It is, I guess, what I meant all those times I mentioned delirium, all those times I invoked ma Datura. It is, I guess, what I really meant when I said that I feared regression, and what I really mean when I say that I fear that kid. Maybe what I really fear is waking up as her again, being this naive and misguided again. And the fact is, I won't, that's physically impossible. The terrible time has passed. It was - it existed - but now it isn't anymore. It's gone. What's more, I will never go through it again. I have made it to the other side, the side of bliss: I have made it all on my own. It took so long, but I got through. I exited the realm of nightmares and enter the real of miracles. And above all, I'm aware. I'm glad that I'm a grown ass wo- not yet, actually. What am I? The guy who sold cocco bello at the beach called me signorina, I guess that's what I am. Anyways, for the purposes of this monologue I am a grown ass woman, with hair on my pussy, with the ability to do evil knowing that I'm doing evil, and the ability to do good knowing that I'm doing good. I have awareness. A smile begins to form on my face.
These past few days I haven't been able to stop thinking about it, and then something happened that made the serpent just fly off my head like a rubber band. One time I was jacking off and I got the insistent thought of, this, this very pleasure right here, that you revel in right now, is what ruined your life. Was it worth it? What does it feel like? Mind autofilled: like the letter V. Mind replied: as in vizio? I had to stop because it made sense, and I remembered why I remembered the V of vizio. The word vizio has always felt filthy, naked, utterly disgusting to me, like a needle in the eyeball. I think I know why it felt like that. Oh. I think I know why I recalled it. Oh. I remembered, and it was so motherfucking absurd that I turned it over and over in my head, mute and pale, until I crashed into laughter, crashed into dance. Because it was framed as my vizio. My vizio, not hers. My vizio? Really? My vizio? You can say whatever you want about that kid - I have, too - but I'm not buying that shit. The V of vizio made me cackle like a madwoman, made me open the window wide so that the light of the full moon could come in, made me want to go outside and run in the streets to celebrate the fact that I was laughing. I have no fucking idea why the V of vizio is so exhilarating and freeing, it just is. Is this the rapture I was promised? Is this the bird-shriek that was supposed to come out of my mouth? I wanted to write something, months ago, but I never did. It was about this same thing, about the void. The end of it went something like: "io che mi rodo il fegato, tu che mi divori viva. "Eat, eat of your liver until your mouth is bloody and your nails are sharp like the eagle's, and your eyes will see just as far. Cry this cry on the mountainside under the full moon: your wails will stray more and more from human words, until you speak with the shriek of birds; keep treading on your suffering like on hot coals, and every leap you'll make will be higher than the last, until you burst in flight and become like the god you seek", I hear told." The V of vizio should have made me go mad, it should be something terrible and shameful - and sure enough it did and it was in a distant past - but right now it isn't. I think it's because it's ridiculous. I don't believe it. I don't know why I ever believed it. It is so stereotypically fucking christian. A JW family of far-too-young brides and old women who crawled out of poverty, dirt still under their fingers and in their minds; when the child, the only thing that's blank, is sullied, they chant of sin, and vice, and shame - mine. I'm not one of them anymore. My mountain shelters me from this scorching wind from barren lands, the deadly breath of Jehovah. Oh you decrepit old man muttering in the desert, you inept god, of course you couldn't prepare my mother for such a thing. My vizio. And I laugh this thunderous crashing laughter at the fact that I can't be hurt like that again. I have crossed over; I am on the other side of the double axe. I am not in their hands, in a position where their vizi can be inflicted on me, where they can call their vizi mine. And I will never be there again. And I laugh this thunderous crashing laughter at the fact that I'm laughing this thunderous crashing laughter, that hearing the V of vizio didn't completely erase my humanity, that remembering the V of vizio hasn't made me lose my sanity (for I say that there are worse kinds of madness than this). I have heard the terrible whirring sound of passage between worlds; I have heard the V of vizio; I've made it to the other side, the side of bliss, and I'm fucking laughing. I laugh, because I've been reborn, because I can't be hurt again and because I know that the vizio is not mine. Tomorrow I will condemn the kid, but tonight I laugh and I say: I am the kid, and I am the kid's wolf-mother. Touch her and I will leap to your throat. None of you can hurt me again. Tomorrow I will shake, remembering the V of vizio; tonight I laugh.
I hold the V of vizio and this whole thing - the serpent, the whole double axe - unsteadily in my hands. It is heavy and slimy and dark, and it is fucking terrifying and also exhilarating because I know that it can't hurt me. There's something exhilarating about the word exhilarating, how wonderfully it describes the breath being ripped out of you as you jump in the void; trepidation, fear and excitement. "You're about to experience getting seriously fucked up / In a new way you’ve never yet had / And once you're willing to feel that out of control and to get excited about it / Dump the fucking rubbish / Rise up / Rise up / Now / Kill this fucking nightmare / That lives inside you". "The dismembered god demonstrates that no matter what happens, there is actually nothing to fear. Salvation awaits at the end of all horror."
Now I'm thinking, regarding the other aspects of my life in which I usually consider myself irredeemably broken (almost every one of them) - I got through, scrap by scrap I built this person that I am, all on my own. I was supposed to be helped, but it didn't happen, so year after year I painstakingly put together this self, however shaky. I've put a lot of time and work into myself, so why throw it all away? Even if all I have are scraps, I worked hard for these scraps. Starting from a complete mess, I built this facade that normal and well-adjusted people can look at and believe, for a year, for a week, for a day, for a goddamn minute, that I am one of them. "E non è questo, il mio, un mirabile prodigio?" I may not be enough, but am I not a fucking good piece of work, considering I did it all myself?? So why should I die? Fuck you. Everyone else was weaned on milk, and I was weaned on water; the damage is done, but fuck, isn't it a wonder how I've turned out, with muscles beneath my skin, with a garden out the door? This laughter is nonsensical and hedonistic. It says: I know I am not enough, I know that I am not nearly as complete as anyone else near me, but I am, despite all odds, despite everyone who has pinned me down and now slanders me for being behind in life. Seeing everyone ahead of me, especially this last year, will be awful for sure - but didn't I get through the void? Didn't I get through way worse than this, and come out reborn?
I've also realized that, for the past three years, I've loved myself and hated myself, but I have never, ever sabotaged or hurt myself - at least not intentionally. Whatever opinion I held of myself, I always uplifted myself. "E non è questo, il mio, un mirabile prodigio?" Certainly not bad for someone who was as I was.
Many people see you ugly once, and think you're ugly forever. Many people see you mean once, and think you're mean forever. Many people see you insane once, and think you're insane forever. Many people see you in the void once, and think you're in the void forever. They may be right, but the laughter disagrees. This laughter will die down, and tomorrow I will once again wander the countryside lamenting that my Inanna wants me to be her Dumuzi. But tonight I wonder why the hell I should die. Bah. I don't get it. (And maybe this is exactly the arrogance that Dumuzi had on the throne. But I'm not a male... again, why should I die. I'm not that disposable!)
Oh mother (the literal one), you fed your daughters to that woman and refused to acknowledge the chewed-up remains; now look at what you've raised them into. One of them is looking at Sonic fanart in public, and the other is ranting and raving in her public diary about how "her" mountain "shelters" her from "the deadly breath of Jehovah". You reap what you sow!
Lovely Peaches has... many... characteristics. Most of them are bad, but one of them is being a good singer, and this is undeniable, sorry. I've been unironically listening to You Don't Know Me and I think it's incredible. The tender, emotional, slow melody clashes beautifully with lyrics like "I’ll find another, put this pussy in his mouth, you don’t know me you don’t know me I'm the baddest bitch I will fuck up all your shit" - and the funniest thing is that, coming from Lovely Peaches, this is not an empty threat. This clash between the melody and the lyrics is complemented by the music video where she violently beats up a man (based) in slow motion. The rap part is awful and it serves to remind us that this, after all, is still Lovely Peaches: rhyming "fountain" with "fountain" and "my ass sit high like a mountain" ???? Whatever, go off Peaches.
I've also been unironically listening to this... and I even hate neapolitans...
"If you have any questions ask because I'm goint into the river."
1 August, 2025
Today I heard a shriek like nothing I'd heard before. Me and my canoe were resting on a lonely beach and overhead, near the bushes growing in the cliff, a bird of prey started flying and shrieking like mad. It sounded like a pig's scream. I knew there were birds of prey living here, but I have no idea who she was and why she was screaming so goddamn loud.
I was tested today....... I don't know why but I was so tired this morning. Maybe it was because I didn't eat all that much at breakfast, and my shoulders were still sore from yesterday's workout. Still, I wanted to do my usual route. Just halfway through I was absolutely devastated... I seriously started wondering if I would make it back home. I HAD to go paddling though!! The garden is dead in late summer (except for the sunflowers that are still holding on - and I'll make them hold on until they set seed), so I court the mountain-the cliffs-the sea-the city. Call me a cheater, it's the same woman anyways. Oh, but I have nothing to offer her, except for my body in the water.
Now, laurel makes fruit: I remember the story of a mere greek shepherd being gifted a branch and a song by the Muses. Now, blackberries make fruit: I remember being a kid walking down this mountain, writing about flies on my corpse. I came here like that again: I sat on the beach and thought about my life and what I should do with it. I've come a long way: I would've never imagined that I'd be sitting here in the sun, topless, exhausted, and in love. I wondered if I should throw it all away. It's hard to think I should when I'm swimming in her lap, laying at her breast. The water is cold, and the wind is chilly (July has seen some rainy days - blessed be!), but the white rocks are warm from drinking up the sun: I could stay here forever, sunning like a lizard. I say: you are my woman, and sometimes I sink into the perfection of these words so much that I stop breathing and thinking. The sun seems to find her zenith at the center of my forehead, and she brings with it memories and scents that I'd forgotten. Your oceanic calm fills my mind. Every song of praise that I've made up for you along the way disappears in a void of thoughtlessness and sheer being: I am nothing other than the cool sensation of water on my skin. You are my woman, and there are many places for me to rest in your arms; when I dive into you, splitting open your side, a place for me opens itself in the water. You make me toil, for your flanks are much wider than my shoulders can cover, and you threaten to eat me alive; but when I stagger ashore, you give me the most blessed exhaustion and the most blissful sleep. You are my woman, and to be away from you is to lack all meaning.
Still, I wonder if you want me dead. They say you give madwomen the visions they need, when they're alone in the wilderness. I couldn't decide, on the lonely beach: I could only swim and think about how much I love you. I don't know what I should do, if I should keep trying, if you have raised me as fodder to fall back into the earth after just a few years of living. The things that happened to me in my youngest years can never be undone and the empty spaces they left in me can never be filled, because those things stay forever, that's just the way it works, it is known. Crippled animals die in nature, that's the way it works. This is the law that you have given, these are the blows that you have dealt me, and yet I love you. You do not want me, but I love you.
My beloved, these thy cheeks so pallid
Awaken in me this great longing,
For my devotion will not die.
I'll know more in september, when they tear me away from your side, and spiders start weaving in my boat. If I survive next year, I'll see you again.
I hope that this girl is doing well wherever she is, because this is the most iconic thing in history. I remembered it yesterday while doing shoulder presses and I almost dropped the weights on myself. "Do you know who Tiahra Nelson is?"
In general Tiahra Nelson's talent show live streams are a fucking gigantic mine of comedy gold. It's gotten late and I had to stop watching them just now because I was cackling too loud, I've probably woken everyone up. My other favourites so far are:
•the iconic M to the B performance. "I'm gaeurch" "😧😃😧"
•the guy who sang Wheels on the Bus. It's noteworthy how she's immediately done with his shit and completely unamused while he's cackling manically and barely holds himself together during the entire performance. "BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP"
"Thank you?!?!"
"HEHE! I'm not done!!"
•"SEE YOU HALO. HAALOOOO. HALOOOOOOOooOoOOoOOOOoO. OKAY I'M FINISHED"
•Hallelujah.
•White guy in pool.
•I need to dance like him.
•Unironically good acting. It's hilarious how Tiahra doesn't have the slightest idea what to do.
Hear me out this is crucial okay. Remember how the latest Sae-ism chapter ended with Taicho and Shibako standing in front of the ruins of the Maki family villa and there was this final shot of someone in the dark (I am pointing a gun at your head and you are nodding emphatically) I'm thinking it might be Tazuru. Yeah she died in volume 9 but if you think about it she took a single gunshot which for Sae-ism standards isn't much, also we never saw her body getting disposed of like Madoka. We only saw her laying on the ground all bloody, she could have just gotten up afterwards and walked off. Also it would fit the current scene because Tazuru had beef with Taicho. Yeah it's probably Tazuru because those are her EYESSSS IN THE LAST SHOT WHY DIDN'T I NOTICE THAT EARLIER??? AND IF IT'S TAZURU I'M GONNA HAVE A FUCKING HEART ATTACK I'm gonna remodel my nipples into PEZ dispensers I don't know what I'll fucking do because Tazuru is my favourite Sae-ism character but also since she's my favourite character I don't wanna see her getting ruined by Tohru's awful new writing. Tazuru is MY grandmother. I will personally fly to Japan and maul Tohru with my bare hands if he ruins her. Girl I love you. This is my crazy game theory if it's actually true I'm gonna do something wacky but not too wacky because I'd like to do it for real, like uhhhh I'm gonna publish the library page that I coded but that I didn't like enough to actually publish. Or something idk I'm gonna think about it.
I'm sorta planning to have a makeup page on this website with short little reviews of products I have and how I use them, but I fear it would sound like I'm shilling stuff?? It's pointless to talk about makeup products generically like "blue eyeshadow" "brown eyeshadow" because no two shades are exactly the same, but I'm afraid I would sound like a wannabe influencer. I'm still probably gonna do it, if the layout I'm planning for it works; I'm gonna try it out AFTER I'm done with the fucking shrine
28 July, 2025
Ma i The Kolors sopravvivono leccando il culo ad altri artisti? Cioè la loro nuova canzone, Pronto Come Va, è praticamente uguale a quella che avevano fatto prima come cazzo si chiamava aspe che la cerco Tu Con Chi Fai L'Amore, sono letteralmente identiche in quanto a melodia, e invece è uguale per leccaculaggio a Italodisco?????? Cioé ok che Italodisco voleva essere un tributo appunto all'italodisco ma porcodio basta fate i tributi per UNA canzone poi basta!!!!! "sarà perché ti amo che confusione 😜😜😜" "pedro pedro pedro 😂😂😂😂😂" "come i pink floyd vorrei tu fossi qui 😁😁😁😁" DIOBESTIA SCRIVETE LA VOSTRA CANZONE "ho una compilescion d'amore x te 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺" ammazzati sembra una frase presa dal film di Albakiara. "Blue da-ba-dee-da per tutta la vita" ma siamo seri? Mi stavano simpatici prima ma ora hanno veramente scassato il cazzo.
Crickets. You are my sisters. I love you, I do. Thanks for being alive in these unforgiving summer days. But... can I be honest? I'm fucking TIRED of your songs. They wreck my fucking ears. I'd love for you to STOP for a single goddamn minute but you sing day and night, day and night, and I'm so tired. Sorry. I can't be always full of love now cmon now.
You know by now that I am crazy and that I see a woman everywhere. It's been about two years of seeing the woman, and I don't know if it'll stop in a few months, a few years, in a hopefully-not-forsaken old age, at the moment of my death, or if adulthood will bring with it wisdom and the awakening from this trip. Others have seen the woman, they have given her many names; I don't like their formalities, so I call her Ma, because that is the first syllable we speak, the first sound, the absolute sound; and lately I find a certain pleasure and musicality in calling her my woman, because "my woman" means just a woman that I know, personally. It means everything, from my mother, my sister, my friend, my lover, my killer, and everything in between.
I do not say that the woman is real; I just feel her, with my flawed senses. I feel her in many places. When I am a small speck out at sea, when I am crushed between the wide and deep waters, the harsh and slippery rocks, the tall sky and the steep mountain, I look up to the cliffs and my throat is clogged with love and reverence as thick and heavy as the bushes growing in the slopes. In response to the cries of seabirds a different cry brews and boils in my gut, of salute and praise to her. I see that she dwells in the pine forests, and that she strikes them down without remorse when her wild dances make stormclouds thicken around her. If neurons fire in my brain, if the cells in my body replicate by the billions, I say it is because of her. When I look at the the night sky I say it is her face I'm staring at, and when the moon goes dark she descends between my legs and stains my clothes. When I see another woman walking along the wild, lonely shore, or tending to her garden across the road, I want to yell her name, because I'm sure it's her disguise. I see her in the city, its avenues and monuments, and so I call the city a she: everything that rouses in me sparks of love, I say that my woman is there. Everything that rouses in me sparks of dread, I say that my woman is there, because she is everything; and so I look back through dark hallways, I shudder remembering and I say that it is my woman who wronged me, it is my woman who killed me. I dread my woman, but mostly I love her: I have always been a lover, all my life I've been a lover, and now I love the woman. So I chase after her. I trudge up hills, past stones at night, with a light hung around my neck, to see her face; I pour water from my bottle on the rocks, hoping that she'll come in front of me to drink up. Near the cliffs, in the pine forests, sometimes I catch her by surprise (she Diana, I Actaeon? I know she's the one whose lovers do not live long) and our eyes meet: she looks at me like a wild animal and flees like one. When I eat a fruit grown in these lands, she hides in it and I do not notice. Every time I'm loved and every time I'm hurt, I say it is my woman's doing; but I say I do not know her. I chase after her, starstruck and desperate. Sometimes I know she's there but I can't see her anymore, and I cry dirges until a single drop of her, squeezed into my eye, calms me down. I write odes about the smallest glimpse I catch of her. I think loving the woman makes me stupid, I know, but honestly I don't want to stop. My woman is in me now. I do not know if she reciprocates; she probably doesn't. Lately I follow her on the sea, on the cliffs, on the rocks, and there's a lump in my throat because she pulls me along, uncaring, as she dances, and I don't know where she is taking me.
To be 100% rationately and dispassionately honest I don't think I'm gonna survive the coming year. Place your bets. I'm ok right now but I have a general idea on how bad it's gonna be when I go back to school and I don't see myself as able to handle it. And even if I don't have the courage to die I'm really gonna wish I had. I don't wanna kms cause like dying sucks ig and suicide is super fucking lame, especially since it's the last year of high school girl why give up now, but I don't think I'm capable of living. I don't think I can come back from the kind of life I had, I think I should've died when I was a kid and now I'm just mio dì tardo traendo, in denial that my life is already over. It sucks, I wanna live, but I don't even think it's up to me I think it's set in stone and I can only decide when the moment's gonna come where I agree and stop fighting it.
I'm gonna at least TRY not to kill myself before SAE-ISM is over I LOVE YOUUUUUU SAE-ISM ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ I STILL LOVE YOU BABY ALWAYSSSSSSS ALWAYSSSSSS yes it sucks now but I've been obsessed with this series for more than a full year at this point you THINK I'm not gonna stick around to see the ending????
My blue grungy layout for the Sae-ism volume 7 page isn't looking good I think I'm gonna be forced to do a fucking lolita fashion themed layout I fucking hate lolita fashion but Sae dressed Misao up in a lolita dress that one time I don't have any other ideas
Sae and Misao
20 July, 2025
Uggghhhh.... Lately I've been drinking alc and eating garbage... pizza, burgers, pita gyros, fried fish, sushi, chinese food... so my immune system has given up on me and I'm sick now. I have a huge cold (IN SUMMER??????) and a slight fever, and my period is starting soon, so... I'm cooped up at home playing Resident Evil Village all day. We had it just sitting there in the drawer, nobody played it, so I picked it up and I didn't expect to like it so much. Single-handedly saved my life during these days. I don't get what's so hot about lady Dimitrescu though? Remember when people made such a big deal out of her? I don't get the hype.
The section with the Baby, in House Beneviento, made me fucking scream. I didn't want to play it, it scared me so goddamn much. It's gotta be THE SCARIEST thing I've ever fucking experienced in media, all media. When it fucking ate me it was the worst thing I've ever seen.
I LOVE Moreau.
I am actually gutted by the fact that summer will end soon. I already languish right now far from the sea, the cliffs, "il fianco donde fui seme". I don't know what I'll do when I can't go there anymore. And this summer feels final.
It's all I write about, I know, but I can't stop thinking about the edge and what's over it. July is almost over and this puts me in agony. Soon only gentle August will stand between me and the last blows of high school, because I'll have to study for the esame di maturità and grit my teeth through the last of it all. And then? There's university, but which one, what course - a few days I visited the one I put the most hope in, but it was really disappointing - but most importantly how will I live it, will I be happy, and will I be happy in my thirties, fourties, fifties, and so on. The key thing in all of this is that I demand happiness, from the bottom of my arrogant, entitled and bitter soul I demand happiness, and I'll take absolutely nothing less. I see everyone around me being happy and having been happy for the entirety of their lives so far, and mine has been awful at worst and nothing much at best, and now I fucking demand a refund on all those years I wasted, I want triple that happiness in my future, to catch up.
It has to be this way, for balance: I demand it. I'm arrogant - again, I'm prideful. If I can never catch up, then I'm dropping out of the fucking race, I don't even want to see what place I can get or if they're gonna give me a consolation prize. I don't want the fucking consolation prize of life, like, you're retarded but you are soooo brave and stunning for trying. I don't want the fucking consolation prize of life, like we'll all be on our deathbeds and I'll say oh it's been nice I've done a lot of hiking, while everyone else recalls the time they did ket in Ibiza for their 20th birthday. I'd much rather die than get the consolation prize of life. And I wonder if I'll really decide to die in the end, because I know perfectly well that no one really gets a refund on life. This makes me mad, this makes me foam at the mouth, because I am arrogant and prideful, and because I've only been living for, what? Four years? Two years? I don't even know when to start counting. It's just started, but I'm standing over the edge now. What's over the edge? If yesterday is a wasteland, and today is also a wasteland as a result of yesterday, then that leaves me with tomorrow; but tomorrow is wholly uncertain. What's over the edge? There could be riscatto for me, finally, and happiness. I need to find there the happiness that I should've had long ago and that I demand now. I need it; but what if it isn't there? What if it's nowhere at all, and I missed out on it with no chance of ever catching up? I need to be successful, I need to be fulfilled, but what if I flop in university and/or in my career. Surely, among the people who knew me in the past - a long, long time ago - there are some who think that I'm gonna do well in some hypothetical artsy field because I'm an unique and speshul freakshow snowflake uwu with such tender and speshul feelings, and there are others who think I'm gonna work at mcdonalds and/or be a neet because I'm uniquely fucked up and a freakshow and I've always been. Again, accusers and adulators. Personally, I don't know what to think. I could do perfectly in university and get a good degree, and still fail in my career path because in some cases university is useless.
If I see myself getting the consolation prize, I'm gonna reject it; but if I reject it, everyone who used to know me will say that they knew it was going to end this way. The word will get around, it will run down the road and to the elementary and middle school, it will reach the houses that sit like vecchie comari in the bowels of the town, and everyone will say poor girl, it was bound to end this way, there was always something strange about her, she's always been unhappy, I knew she was going to end up like this. And I don't want them to fucking speak of me like that. Look, if I really do die soon, a lot of people that used to know me are gonna say that it was bound to happen, that I didn't want to try and I didn't want to live and succeed. This website exists to prove that I TRIED and that I WANTED it, and that I tried to avoid the end.
11 July, 2025
I took A to the beach yesterday; there was a noce di mare invasion, but she took it pretty well, she loved picking them up and jiggling them in her hands.
The beach is below the city, next to the mountain. If reincarnation is real, it should please my Mother that I be reborn as a little jelly thing drifting in her waters, so that I can be near her side for another life. In a small, remote beach, in a cave hidden by the rocks, guarded by a lion-stone-woman, blocked by a thick piece of driftwood that only lifts itself for the dead, I'm sure that'll happen. Last year I wrote of a sea cave - I'd been wondering where it was, since I hadn't seen it since, but today I found it again. I found two, in fact! This year I'd seen few cormorani, too, but today there were a lot of them, with their spindly necks sticking out of the water like pieces of driftwood, with their long egg-shaped bodies standing on the rocks. Everyday I am in awe of having a place like this near my home, where the cormorani pursue and the occhiate flee, where I can strip and swim. In my latest canoe trips, when I take a break in one of the empty, rocky beaches along the way to cool down, I've taken the habit of swimming topless. Try it. It's comfortable like a long sleep on a Sunday morning. It's a freedom you didn't know you lacked, and when you put the top part of your swimsuit back on, it'll feel like stinging nettle on your chest in comparison. On my summer to-do list I wrote "swimming naked in the sea at night", but I can't do that anymore because this year they've introduced really big fines for people that get caught in the beach at night!!...... So I'll just do it during the day. Any beach's a nudist beach if you're alone enough. Not today, though, because I wasn't sure. After I was done, and as I paddled away from today's beach (the one with the lion-stone-woman), I saw another woman there, alone, walking on the rocks, bare-breasted as I was, flippers in hand. Oh my sister! If I am fit to live, it should please my Mother that I grow into a woman like her.
The city is most beautiful in summer. I love taking the bus to reach her... there's something about that bus ride, about getting to anticipate her presence and then to admire her; I love every bit of the road. Somehow, there's always beautiful music for me when I'm leaving or reaching the city. "Forse è tardi e rincasare vuoi? / No che non vorrei / Io sto bene in questo posto"... There's something so lovely about the city in the summer - something that, like all truly great things, I can't pinpoint. The concrete is hot. She smells different... The noontime sun, oh, She maims and kills in the mediterranean summer, but when I'm in the city it feels like a strong hug, a bath of strength and a kiss on the forehead. Taking buses, walking around in the morning and early afternoon, spreading your arms late into the night and feeling the wonderfully cool air. There, late into the night, looking at the harbor and all the lights - I've seen many beautiful places, but the harbor is branded onto my heart. The city is white marble and smog-stained buildings. I would've never predicted it or even wanted it, but I've fallen in love with her, hard. I love my woman - it is known - in the mountain, in the city, in the sea.
Usual shit. I sincerely think that my love is deep, but I always compare my joy to others' joy. I always feel like I'm lacking something massive, and I probably am. I'll tell it how it really was. When I was younger, I was sort of a statue planted firmly in the grounds of self-hatred; I wanted to kill myself, I didn't do much of anything except wanting to kill myself, and I was sure of my incapability to do anything other than wanting to kill myself; going outside except from school and dog walking was an extraordinary event, didn't do physical activity, hated myself from every standpoint, hated the few friends I had, had already set the deadline for my suicide. I never imagined that I'd be happy to be alive at 18; that I'd take pride in my good qualities and achievements, that I'd put myself out there academically, that I'd want the best possible future for myself; that I'd lift weights, hike and paddle, that I'd have people compliment me on my muscles; that I'd love my body, that I'd swim topless in pristine beaches, that I'd get on the bus in swimwear; that I'd have a (mostly - I'll take what I can get lol) healthy relationship with my own sexuality; that I'd make beautiful connections, that I'd banter with strangers waiting in line with me; that I'd make gifts for my friends; that I'd extract DMT in my kitchen; that I'd act confident and outgoing; that I'd feel hot and stylish, that I'd have beautiful hair, that I'd wear blue, turquoise, golden eyeshadow; that I'd be authentic and open about my values, that I'd have beef with people; that I'd have my own garden to tend to; that I'd finally have my own site to freely express myself; that I'd have an epiphany in the eyes of a bee looking down at me from the top of my sunflower; that I'd frantically beg for more time to live this life. I am 18 now, an age I thought I'd never reach. I looked in my older journals and found: "quando sarò maggiorenne (non succederà)". It's absurd to read such words now. Am I a ghost to you, sister? YOU're the ghost, now, to me.
I think it's safe to say that I've come a long way, and sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror, and recognize the same face but a wildly different person from who I was, I get engrossed in this feeling of absolute pride.
When I look at myself in the mirror. I know that normal people didn't spend years of their lives like that. I know that no matter what I do now, what I did in those wasted years can't be changed, and it lies still at the foundation of my current life, of everything I do now. When you spend most of your formative years like that, it never really goes away, no matter how confident I act or how confident I actually am, no matter how well-adjusted I become. It's a haunting, it's something that you'll understand if you lived it and that you won't if you haven't, no way around it. And I think most of you will understand NO OFFENSE but, it's neocities, I know the user base, and NO OFFENSE because THAT'S WHY I'M ON NEOCITIES YOU FEEL ME?
That is the foundation of my being and I can add anything on top of it but it's never changing, just like nothing's gonna change the fact that I'm years behind on life in general compared to anyone else. What I described in the previous paragraph, people were always doing, every year of their life. I'm never getting a refund on those years I spent navel-gazing and reading Gesualdo Bufalino, while everyone else was already miles ahead living a normal and happy life. And I'm still behind. I'm still suffering the consequences from my past, and I always will because, again, it never goes away. Plenty of people have assured me that it never goes away. And that pisses me off, that makes me want to give up no matter what how far I've come. And this feeling will never go away!!! Because it just doesn't!!!
I used to be a brave strong young buck when it came to drugs but ever since I became neurotic about this house and having been touched weird as a kid and my childhood in general I have never gotten that confidence back, yeah sorry. I've realized just NOW that I can pinpoint the end of most of my drug experimentation to that specific phase in my life - in retrospect it's insane that I've only made the connection now, because that was the time I lost faith in my surroundings both in terms of family and the physical place itself. And I suspect I won't get that confidence back unless, yes, the house gets ripped apart. And the house will get ripped apart! Amen, it will, it will, it will, soon.
7 July, 2025
Our minutes hasten to their end! It's July - the first week of July has passed, even!! Old June has died. One third of summer has gone, one third of my last summer as a high schooler, gone!!! And how did I spend it? Oh Ma how did I spend it? Not bad, honestly, but anything I do feels like it's not enough, because my summers as a kid are almost over, over, over, and no matter what I do I won't be able to savor this time enough. What happens after? Is everything uphill from now on - and you know me, you know how I started living late, you know my desperate prayers for the opportunity to make up for the lost time. What truly happens after?I've been making plans to move out at the end of high school. All is good, but there is one thing that tears my heart out of my chest: the garden. I do want to move out, in fact I'm the one who wants it and no one's forcing me to do it, but I started wondering if it's really the best thing to do. I'd feel deeply sick without the garden. Nothing else's a problem, just leaving the garden. Not trying to be dramatic here: I'm as honest as can be when I say that without the garden, I'd be no one. I don't mean it on a hobby level, nor on a personality level, but in a deeper sense concerning my soul. It's hard to put it all into words, just like it's hard to even conceptualize how much of an agony it would be to live without soil to work with, without the taste of fresh produce, without insects buzzing around my flowers. Without even just a little patch of dirt or a little balcony to hang some pots. I've been making plans: but one of these days, while I was out talking about it, the reality of it hit me. As soon as I went home, I stumbled in the garden, past the sunflowers and the amaranth, the helichrysum and the chamomile. And I felt the kind of ache and sadness that is void; not the sharp pain of seeing your plants struggle - the only kind of pain that my garden has ever made me feel until now - but the hollow, dull kind of ache: and that will be the ache of living without the garden. I don't think I can do it, even for just some years: those years would be days upon days, mornings upon afternoons upon mornings upon afternoons without a piece of land to call my own and a green being to feel kinship with; lonely, lonely falls and springs. I've been making plans, I've been the one pushing to move out, but now - all of a sudden, since that morning - I wonder if I should really do it. If I do it the way I planned it, next season will be my last season with my garden - and I refuse that, oh Ma, I refuse that: so little time! What's one season? Even fifty springs are little room. I planted perennials. Stupid, crazy me, I planted perennials. If I go, who'll feed the lavender that feeds the insects? Who'll mulch the soil, who'll set up root irrigators, who'll leave the ground untilled? I've stopped dead in my tracks, which is insane, but I really wonder if I should do it, if I'm insane for not doing it, if I'll live well or live at all if I do it. I have the incredible luck of having the chance to move out, everyone deems me responsible enough for it and I do too, I have my family's support, there's a very nice place that could be my own, I hate this house (oh you all know how much I hate this house), I want the independence, I want to do it, I'm perfectly capable of doing it; the engine's working and I am strapped to this perfect rocket ship that'll take me to a much-coveted beautiful new phase of my life, only one thing is holding me back, one small strip of dirt and a handful of non-sentient creatures. And I might not do it (for now, for now) because of it, and I'd be perfectly fine with not doing it, because of the garden. Which feels natural, feels good, because that's the way love is.
Am I stupid, neocities?
The garden - everything has been wilting these days. The lemon balms' flowers have all fallen off (though I trust she'll survive the rest of the summer), and in a few days I'll have to deadhead the lavender: the garden is empty, and mute beneath the searing sun. The amaranth and the sunflowers that I got specifically from an aridocoltura site have been wilting every day - not really worth the money. The lavenders are fine, though, and the helichrysum too: on the latter I never see bees, but lately I've noticed that a lot of small black flying insects love it. It's native, so... native pollinators? Anyways, I don't think that annuals stand a chance. But, fuel for hope: right under one of the olive trees, in the shade, there grows some of the happiest lettuce I have ever seen. So, trees and shade!
27 June, 2025
"I need to read you all something from the Bible. And listen very carefully, you ignorant catholic christian buddhism motherfuckers. Everybody listen to me. And listen to me carefully. You fucking hear me?"
-fatboygetdown
I live! I live for women that inspire me, for their poems that make me cry. I've found a remedy for mindlessness, for soullessness, for death, to break out of the drone of running around aimlessly. It appears I need a dose of women's words daily, Daily, or else I sink back. I think I once knew this, back in autumn, but then I forgot. Only now am I picking the thread back up.
I forgot, I forgot how much I needed this. It's the first gulp of air in my lungs since forever: I cry from the shock, from the burn of it, the shock and burn of life, like a child. Like a child I need to be held; like a child I cry, disoriented, stranded on the shore of life (isn't that right, Lucretius?). When you break out in incantations, I break into tears, sometimes as soon as your words hit my eardrums: so fast that I don't even know why. I later find, it's because the threads that bind your ideas and my life are spun so thickly that it is impossible to pick them all apart, see totally through them.
all the wimmin who art
please
come touch me
you are my family
I claw ripping the air
streaming tears with dry eyes
until I find your breasts
to rest upon
and then I will be wet and warm
and labor some more
The neighbors' cats like pissing and shitting in my garden, included on my seedlings, so me and my mother don't usually take kindly to them. But, today, I found the kindest and most beautiful one (a ginger!) laying down next to the petunias. As the petunias were placed in the ground, so her body was shaped, sitting next to them: it stuck with me. This cat is my favourite, she's always outside in the vialetto laying in the sun and she lets everyone pet her. I went to sit down next to her and together we watched insects buzz around the lavender. After a while of petting her she started rolling on her back showing her belly, which, from what I remember from my old cat days, meant she wanted to play. From my old cat days I also remember how cats play, and I didn't really want to do it. When I was a kid we visited our paternal grandmother (the one I don't talk to anymore) often. I only liked one thing about her: her cats. They were real sweeties and I had nothing but love for them, but those claws..... I still let the ginger cat grab my hand, just Once, to let her have a bit of fun. She left a small scratch, had to whip out the Betadine. Betadine was what I used to disinfect my surgery wound; I remembered it having a very pungent smell, and for the past year I have walked around with this l piece of knowledge floating around in my head: Betadine smells strong and bad. I took this little piece of history out of the cabinet today, marveling at it... like a relic... and I took the chance to smell it again. It didn't smell like anything?... My memory was entirely wrong. Still, a relic: a year ago this same day, I was homebound, my mother had to help me shower, and I passed the recovery time by coding, coding, coding. It feels like yesterday! It wasn't an unpleasant time after all. What the homebound, recovering girl hands me down from the past, are webpages that I still have to fix and finish... A heritage I have yet to take up. Last year, too, I only started coding at the end of June: there's still time.
You, o Sun, are unkind now; but you, o Sun, Mother of heat, give me a wonderful opportunity. Oh, to be bare-breasted, sisters, to lay bare-breasted on the couch, to welcome sleep bare-breasted, to walk bare-breasted out into the black, late night, being shocked by the cold air, with a bucket of blood in hand, under She who commands it! To lift weights bare-breasted - in this ungodly heat, it's the only way; stopping to witness the spectacle of sweat coating my entire back. It's hard, it's hard in this ungodly heat, but it's never so satisfying. To stagger in the shower and come out feeling reborn; to lay bare-breasted in front of the window (the one with the hedge in front of it... don't worry), to fall asleep with a belly full. When I lay down feeling the wind play across my chest, can't you see I'm communing with my woman? "As a sign that you be free you shall be naked in your rites. [...] for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are My rituals." Strenght and challenge, pleasure and rest, joy, all virtues of womanhood (as everything in the world is, of course, for women). I am far too small still, I shouldn't boast about these things, but disregard, disregard: disregard from whose mouth it comes from, just receive if you can this breath of womanspirit.
I delight in these red fruit
my own two joys
hung carefully
ripe
on my branched ribs.
I have been spending an atrocious amount of money lately and I need to violently Stop Myself from spending a single cent more.
What have I been spending money on?
Mostly... makeup.
I know, I know. "If one could recover the uncompromising spirit of one's youth, one's greatest indignation would be for what one has become", as André Gide said. I have fallen victim to the makeup industry... and I've been enjoying it. Nothing too time-consuming, though, and mostly eye makeup. I love garish, tacky colors, and matching them with my outfits. Only that I've been enjoying it a little too much and I've blown, a little too much money on makeup lately. Especially stick eyeshadow holy shit I love stick eyeshadow, it's orgasmic, it's libidinous, I love eyeshadow but I can't be bothered to deal with powder so I've been splurging on stick eyeshadow and it's great what do you mean I can just swipe it on my eyelids, blend a bit with a brush and call it a day I've been in love with stick eyeshadows since the first time I tried one- anyways I've been spending too much and I need to STOP and violently yank myself away from the Essence stand anytime I go to Tigotà to buy fucking toilet paper and body wash. I have DECIDED I'm not gonna buy any more makeup for at least a month. It's been DECIDED, so don't worry, it will be this way. I've also started painting my nails - garish, tacky colors here, too. Lilac right now.
Eurydice, Eurydice...
"Subita incautum dementia cepit amantem [...] Eurydicenque suam iam luce sub ipsa
immemor heu! victusque animi respexit. Ibi omnis
effusus labor atque immitis rupta tyranni foedera[...]
tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum
gurgite cum medio portans Oeagrius Hebrus
volveret, Eurydicen vox ipsa et frigida lingua
a miseram Eurydicen! anima fugiente vocabat:
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripae."
22 June, 2025
A menstruating woman and a flowering brugmansia meet on the summer solstice!
Always the same question. It could be written again and again, on every single entry of this journal until the disappearance of this site: will I ever be, and do, enough? I am not enough right now. Everyone else is: just their effortless being, which I always compare to my bloody struggle to become, the flailing of a bird who was born deformed, flightless. It feels like whatever I've done in 18 years that could be called an accomplishment, pales in comparison to what normal people do in a year. I don't know.
It all disappears when I'm in my garden, watching insects come and go. They absolutely love the lavender - all of them: bees, butterflies, hummingbird hawkmoths, that other insect who looks similar with a proboscis but is smaller and looks like that one Pokemon, they all love her. But the lavender is in the sunniest corner of my garden, so I don't watch her from up close: I sweat just sitting in the shade of the olive tree, right in front of the lemon balm. She's flowering: she's sacred now: none shall touch her. Pollinators love her too: I thought they wouldn't, because of how small the flowers are. With the lavender, they gracefully dip their heads inside the flower. With the lemon balm, normal-sized bees have to squeeze a good half of their bodies into the flower, it's hilarious to see. I sit and look at them. They don't mind if I stare. When I look at them it's all okay, I feel like someone good: I wonder if it's an illusion or the truth.
Some days ago I took the wrong bus back home, so I came home two hours later than expected, in the late afternoon. I stumbled, dehydrated, salt-and-sweat-encrusted, to the back of my garden. I didn't notice her until I turned around. I couldn't help but smile wide and raise my arms when I saw one of my sunflowers in full bloom! The day before, she was just beginning to flower; it had been so sudden.
O sanguis meus, o superinfusa
gratia Deae!
The bees love her too, they walk around the whole circle, head down in the pollen. One time I pulled the sunflower down to my nose - she has outgrown me! - to see if she smelled of anything. She did. As I still held her down, a bee started buzzing around me. My bad, I thought, I'm gonna give you the flower back. I had thought jokingly, but the bee actually went immediately on the sunflower. Ah...
Years ago, I was watching a birdie drama timeline video. In an interlude, a video started playing with an astronomically fat man dancing to Oops I Did It Again by Britney Spears, and singing in tune "I am pregnant be-e-cause of you, yeah-yeah-yeah". I learned that the man's name was fatboygetdown, and, albeit fascinated, I quickly forgot about him and moved on. So I don't know why a few nights ago, during the worst sleepless night I've had in years, I remembered him and binged his videos. He single-handedly brought me through the night. Here's a list of my absolute favourite fatboygetdown performances, in no particular order.
fatboygetdown - Cannibal (Kesha)
fatboygetdown - Applause (Lady Gaga)
fatboygetdown - Gimme More (Britney Spears) (particularly noteworthy, in my opinion, is his rehearsal of Danja's line at the end.)
fatboygetdown - The ABC Song
fatboygetdown - My Humps (Black Eyed Peas)
I don't know why the memory of him resurfaced, and I don't know what keeps me coming back to these videos. Maybe it's because, on an emotional level, I really feel like the "FUCK" badly scribbled with eyeliner above his massive manboobs in the Cannibal video. And I think user CoffeeinAmerica hit the nail on the head:
"I love you. Heheheheheh. I warned you.... RRRRRRRRRRRAH!!!!"
15 June, 2025
Been somewhat pondering the "maybe I have to die" thing. No, never gonna actually have the guts to do it again: "it" being hunting for sources that sell sodium nitrite to private individuals, reading gigantic google docs about successful and unsuccessful attempts, studying the strongest knots to hang yourself, and the technique, and even what specific fucking tree branches are best. Shit, hanging was complicated. Because the thing with suicide is that there's no going "waaahhh I'm so sad I MIGHT kill myself", there's only planning it and doing it. You have to study the shit. Killing yourself is a commitment. I'm dead serious. You have to do meticulous research and planning, and while plodding through all this objective, clinical shit, you continue to feel the pain, deep inside, of knowing that you're going to die - uncomfortably at that, because Nembutal is past the reach of us mere mortals. There are people - especially on sanctioned-suicide, my old haunt, where they even try to be a social movement of sorts - who feel savage joy looking forward to their own death, who genuinely can't wait for life to end. I've never been like that - I've been very pained and bitter, but I've never hated life deeply, to my core. And I've never loved life more than now. Maybe it's because I love and respect life so much now, that I've started wondering if I have to die. If I'm not good enough for her. I have been courting life, I've made my way to her doorstep, and she has roared in my ears that I am not wanted here. Or rather, I have seen the splendor and richness of life, compared it with my own barrenness, and retreated, ashamed. I have been life's suitress - a little obsessive, to say the the least; I have creeped into her house, I have peered through her bathroom door, I have seen her bare beauty, and it has only made me ashamed of my hideousness: so I turned away, defeated, and slipped out of the door and into the shadows. Ashamed, that's the word: lately the smallest things make me ashamed of my very existence. I don't want to die, I don't, in fact lately I've been terribly, religiously afraid of it; it just feels like I have to, because I can't live. It's my hundredth time saying this. I just don't know how to articulate it otherwise: it crushes me, it makes me feel hollow. It's rejection.
I'm rejected because I am inadequate, and the root of my inadequacy is her, that child, the child whom I was. The thought has been haunting me; her presence in my mind has been haunting me. She roams in there like a ghost. Sometimes this whole thing feels like I'm inheriting all the shame she should've felt: it's hitting me all at once. The root of my inadequacy, the root of myself, is her: why do I think that I can start over, that I can change, when my very foundation is wrong? I can sever my collar, but it's the roots that are evil: I'll just regrow the same as I was before. She exists as the roots, as a ghost in my mind: she exists. And whether she also exists in someone else's mind, someone else's memories, I don't even wanna think about. My hatred for her is fierce, and sometimes I think that I would go back in time, I would crawl up the dark, filthy hallway, and I would murder that thing, even at the cost of my own life. She would cry, but she always does: it wouldn't mean anything. But, really, I wouldn't do it. My horror of her is absolute, stronger than the hatred, stronger than any question and will to discover why. Lately (and just like last June - interesting!) I've been concerned with dread, divine dread. I know the divine in its entirety now - and that child is God, because she's terrible and devouring. (E chiamarla così è sputare sangue - ma è l'unico modo in cui la mia mente può torcersi abbastanza per comprenderla.)
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God!
I live in fear of encountering her. Encountering her physically is impossible, of course, but encountering her in someone else's recall, in someone else's behaviours?... I can't stand to be around children anymore, I'm afraid: they scare me, they motherfucking scare me. I'm afraid of seeing one of them act like I did, be as I was - and this is a knife in my stomach. The second knife in my stomach is realizing that none of them does, and none of them is. I was a total anomaly, I was completely and utterly fucked up in such and absolute and all-encompassing way that there's no replicating that shit. These children are normal, they will grow up to be normal and happy, they already have a place in life and they will keep it: they will outgrow me and, in fact, they've already outgrown me, because they know how to live. It is the confirmation that there were, in fact, multiple and massive things wrong with me. And these, again, are my roots, these are the starting materials with which I'm supposed to build my self and my life. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this shit? Way back when my consciousness first developed, I was already set up for failure. And I'm a very, very prideful person: if I can't win the game, I don't even wanna fucking play it.
Oh, I am a woman on this earth (and not that girl any longer). A small spider climbs up my leg as I watch pollinators buzz around flowers grown from my sweat and blood; calendula resin sticks to my hands. I have shoulders that bring me and my boat to beaches that look like they haven't been trodden by a mother's child in ages. I greet the wild oats, the cracks on the sidewalks of my hometown, the figs hiding in the pine forest as neighbors; my presence is enough for some people to smile. Do I really, really have to die?
I guess that's not really the question to be asked. When you have to die, you die. Even a great pine tree on the mountainside could say "Birds rest in my branches, animals beside my trunk and soil between my roots; I give my nuts as food and my sap as medicine. Do I really, really have to die?" and she'll still fall in the storm. When She really, wildly dances, She'll trample anyone, without looking back. I guess the real question is: am I right to think that I'm unfit to live, that I'm not good enough for life?
I say that girl can exist but she can fuck off. It's over when I say so.
Summer brings with it some bad habits (that I can break out of - it's over when I say so), and bad hair - I wear it up all the time lately, anyways: it's too hot. If anyone's reading, I hope that wherever you live summer is kind, far kinder than it is here. "In such lands, summer with its unrelenting heat was conceived as a return to chaos, the end of the world through heat and fire." All creatures, all creatures suffer here. The sun beats us down, drives us away in our dens; but even there, the buzzing of the crickets drills into our heads, the heat makes us comatose. Only at sundown, when impossibly long shadows are drawn upon the earth, we crawl out of our lairs. The night is gentle and cool, even cold, sometimes; and since the sun is cruel, we think we can petition the moon. So the crickets scream even louder, fireflies flash their lights, stray dogs roam the countryside, all the insects come out of the brush to crawl on vacant roads, and we kids slip under the shadows to climb up the mountain, camping lights in hand: a procession. We think we can petition the moon: but when we try to fall asleep, the last thing our minds register is the heat, again, the terrible heat that plagues us like a swarm of flies. Yesterday me and H went up the mountain late at night, in the dark, and I wanted to see the moon; but she hid from view until we were in the car, on our way back home. I think it's because some nights ago, when the girl I'm supposed to be in love with took me by the hand to run on the seaside while singing Figli Delle Stelle, I neglected to wear my glasses, because I thought I'd look too ugly with them on. So I saw her, the full moon (the only woman I can fall, and stay, in love with - ah me!) as a blurry mess in the black sky. I neglected to see her, so she neglected to see me.
There's sidereal cold between me and some of my oldest friends, but I've been meeting others. Back to the girl: the problem with these people (the problem with her, mainly, I just don't wanna get too sappy - "Back off, Cypris!") is that their eyes gleam like stars but also revolve like them, so when they stop to look at you, casting their rays onto you, it's only for a mere second - and then they're back on their orbit, chasing others. When all you want is to be alone with them, to truly breathe in their presence and be inspired by them, to know each other deeply. I'll take what I can get.
Despite all the venting and grim shit in this entry I haven't been doing bad, since school ended I've been keeping busy and social, even too busy and social for my standards... That's, I think, why I write "I haven't been doing bad" and not "I've been doing good": I haven't taken the time to sit down to a cool drink in the garden, to really enjoy the taste of an ice cream, to plunge my head underwater and really feel the coolness. I need to be way more mindful: that will fix my life, instead of just running around doing one thing after another having to stop to catch my breath. I should get back into meditation.
I rescued three sage plants and one of those weird basil varieties from my grandmother. The sages she kept in her garage (closed door), the basil was sunburnt, so I decided to play plant nurse again. I planted them in the shade, under the great olive tree - I drove my shovel into her thick, living roots. I drove my shovel into her living roots, and then, karma: I cut my arm on a fucking halved, splintered wooden pole that was planted beside the tomatoes, and that I had never noticed. It's right, it's just, but: I'm fucking done. I'm not gonna plant ANYTHING ANYMORE THIS SEASON: garden is CLOSED until september. I've already dug enough this season, GODDDDDDDD, I don't wanna dig anymore, it's been exhausting.
31 May, 2025
Mi devo confessare, Mama la mia Mama;
mi devo confessare ché 'l mio core sta male.
Always the same stuff, I feel like everyone, friends, acquaintances, strangers and enemies, is outgrowing me, outrunning me in life, while I watch in terror and collapse into a shallow, two-dimensional version of myself incapable of growth. I'm kinda esaurita right now. What a beautiful word, esaurita, so descriptive: you've sucked all the life out of me.
Instead of lamenting one potentially awful last year, I should give thanks for four good years. I was loved. Yeah, I have what I used to lack, like a fucking will to live for example, but past me was loved. I've been rummaging through the journals of that girl, seeking I don't even know what: what sets us apart? what I lack that made her brave enough to accept and seek out death? Because maybe I was right and I really do have to die, because I'm not fit to live. In the past years, I've disbelieved or forgotten this. Back then, I was sure of it, it was a fact, and I complied with it, with the way it had to be. Maybe it was an illusion, when I started to believe that I could actually live and that I could even grow into a good and happy person. Maybe, believing this for a long time made me weak, and now that I'm reconsidering my capability to live, I find that I'm only able to meekly wish for death, instead of seeking it, planning it out like I used to do. I find that I'm weak, that I'm only able to wait for, what? a finishing blow from fate? But that can't kill me physically, I would have to deal with that on my own, and I don't have the guts anymore. Palazzeschi's words were a badge of pride to me, now they quietly shame me: chi ha il coraggio di morire è padrone del mondo. Ora, non so che una povera preghiera.
And if it's really like this, why make me taste real life for only a couple of years and then take it away? Why make me believe that I can exist and thrive in this world, when I can't? I've been rummaging through the journals of that girl, maybe seeking for evidence of karmic cycles, of my unfixable inability to live: "non è possibile che tutto mi avveleni così."
M'avete avvelenato, Mama la mia Mama;
m'avete avvelenato e 'l mio core sta male.
27 May, 2025
Thank you yet again for the blood; thank you for making me the chalice, in your image. Thank you because my garden is in good health; thank you because May has blessed us with rain.
Will you give me time? Will I be allowed, or able, to spend that time wisely? Please understand: I need time, I need to fill out the lifespan that you have given us. Will you grant me the greatest grace of having time to truly live, to fulfill myself? A big privilege, I know; maybe far too big to request. Maybe it's not your choice, and probably not even one of your cares, but do you understand, do you understand how terrible it would be to feel this mystery rustling through the trees and through this enspirited body, roaring through all creation like a wind (which one of your devotees said that?), only for me to never grasp it, only for it to never reveal itself to me? Because right now, I don't know what to do. I don't know, I feel it but I don't know what to do. And I'm restless trying to find out what it is, what does it look and feel like, this intangible thing that sits among the olive leaves and connects me and the rosemary. Give me time, give me time and this restless hunger of mine will one day be satiated.
Forgive me for my ignorance - I think I am forgivable. I'm just a dumb teenager who cries over dead baby birds. I am meant to grow, to live beyond this. Please, give me much more time, make me a woman and give me many years as a woman, make me wise and mature, give me the opportunity to develop my potential and act it out, if I even have one - at least let me discover that! Allow me to live to be the best version of myself, tall and big and strong, allow me to live beyond this, to be better than this. Don't leave me here. Give me many more endings of May, where I can smell the jasmine and the oleander blooming; give me many more summers (may you be merciful enough to spare our lives!), and oh so many more times that I will take in the beauty of the mountain, the shimmer of the sea, the golden flowers of ginestra, the smell of the pine trees. Won't you grant me that? Give me many more autumns and foggy mornings, and much, much time to think about the seed resting in the cold dark earth, when I'll be wiser, when I'll have the courage to spend my winters awake while the rest of the world slumbers. Give me many more springs, ah many more of my Aprils! and give me many, many more garden seasons: whether my plants thrive or die, it doesn't matter, you can change your mind from one season to the other, as long as you give me many gardens to tend to. Give me experiences, give me wisdom, make me live far more than this. I can't thank you enough for your gifts so far, but I need the certainty that I will live to become much more. If my short flight ends now, like the baby bird's, I won't even become food for the callas and the grass - did you know? My kin doesn't allow bare burials anymore. Damn them! I would be laid to rest in a sterile box, and I would amount to nothing. The baby bird died and made his fellow creatures live, but I would have no such consolation. So I must live. I beg you to let me live fully, to let me amount to something: don't leave me with this wind, this formless spirit lingering around my corpse, not entering through my nostrils.
Because I simply refuse to accept the fact that, drawing conclusions at the end of it all, my life might be overall less happy and less complete than anyone else's. So far it looks like it is, like I said, because of how slow and late I am. "Soffri e sii grande"? La sofferenza mi ha solo resa piccola, meschina. Do I really have to quote Valentino again???
Quante volte ò descritto a te questo mio intorpidimento lungo uguale? Cosi ò vissuto questo tempo e quando me ne sono ridestato talora è stato per vivere in un solo momento tutta la mia vita. E non è questo, il mio, un mirabile prodigio?
Ò pensato inoltre come ora sia corsa la più parte del nostro tempo e come poco ce ne rimanga.
E tu che cosa hai udito di me nel tempo che è passato?
Quanta minuziosa vita interiore! Null'altro! Come sono state uguali le mie giornate! Le solite ombre nella stanza, le solite, riflettute dalle molteplici candele palpitanti nei candelabri d'argento sudici, e tutti goccianti di lagrime uguali, e l'umido penetra ogni giorno di più, e si propaga nel novembre grigio, e una figura s'avanza senza muover passo, se ne ode ora il primo frusciare della veste serica.
Ti bacio.
Valentino.
And I've been thinking about the prospect of laying in my metaphorical deathbed, thinking about the entirety of my life, and dying with the knowledge that I have lived less fully, less happily, than the majority of people. Even just out of simple pride, I can't accept that. But everyone tells me that the best years of life are here, now. What is there after high school? I don't even know what university I will go to; and after university, there's work. Will I even live. I'm horribly scared of my life ending as soon as it began - and look at me, pleading for more time, while a couple years ago: "Bieca o morte, minacci? e in atto orrenda..."
I meet other people (they might think I'm like them at first glance), I see many ways to live life, and theirs are all different from one another, but all correct. Only mine is radically wrong, because I'm missing some sort of piece. Even in my earliest memories, I was missing that piece. I don't know what's up with that either..... I've been trying to convince myself that that child is dead. I don't think she is. Way more often than I should, at night, I hear her wailing in my throat, just below the vocal chords - even though her voice should be spent already. I see kids coming out of kindergarten (isn't there a less dorky word for it? ffs) and I physically freeze up and shudder because I remember that I used to be their age, and how I used to be at their age. I was literally at Ikea the other day and half the time I was tearing up, I was just walking around and fucking tearing up because I was also at Ikea as a child and I was just a child I didn't know better no one loved me enough to tell me the truth. This is not normal. Maybe I've called her back to living. If I did, I know how I did it, so I know how to undo it. Is this how the most important choices are made? Without even knowing how you'll deal with them afterwards, just jumping in the void, knowing that you just can't stay on this side any longer. Be the ground that awaits me on the other side.
Forgive me for my ignorance... I don't know what to do. Summer is here, jasmine and oleander have told me. Last year I had so many plans and such a clear idea about how I wanted to spend the summer. Now I find myself kinda perplexed. I have no clue how I'll spend it and what I want to do, in general, outside of some specific frivolous bucket list shit. How to put it? I don't know what the spirit of this summer will be; I just don't know how I'll spend it. Ugghhh............... I don't know anything. One of the few things I know is that I want to be back on my kayak, to have my paddle cut through calm, plain waters like butter, and above all to stick my hand in the water and feel the current. I also want to see the sunset on the top of one of my mountains, maybe my newest acquaintance, beautiful mount [REDACTED], where the light lingers so beautifully at the end of the day. A long, drawn-out, golden summer sunset on the mountaintop: I feel like that would be enough to breathe spirit back into me. Then, I'll have the time to code at night, so I guess I'll be doing that... The shrine is coming out this summer. It is. It doesn't matter if I have to rush it and it looks like sun-dried shit and the page for volume 9 is just a paragraph in Times New Roman that says "it's gr8 ok trust me", it's finally coming out and I'm getting it over with. I'll drink cold tea. I wanna go out all dolled up and looking good, but are they still gonna go out with me.... ugggggghhhhh. And am I gonna tolerate them. I see every one of my friends as lacking lately. Flawed, and I can't get over it. That's part of the problem.
Despite this being the most depressing entry known to man I haven't been doing 100% bad I thought I won a competition that gives you money but I was really just a honorable mention 😶🌫 and I got a 10 without even studying, and another 10 without even studying, and generally I've only got one subpar grade this whole horrible intense (school-wise) month, and also the C1 certification, so at least I'm academically successful.
I've been reading and rereading the Burgrr entries and they're soo good, I thought creepypasta had nothing to offer anymore.
20 May, 2025
Jasmine is flowering already, and oleander follows suit!
Fa ridere Gabry Ponte all'Eurovision che canta "Tutta l'ITALIA" per SAN MARINO........ Traditore. Che poi chissà cosa ne pensano i sammarinesi degli italiani? Ci amano o ci odiano? Cioé personalmente se a rappresentare l'Italia all'Eurovision arrivasse uno che canta tipo "tutta la Serbia tutta la Serbia tutta la Serbia" mi incazzerei un pochino.
I HAD FORGOTTEN I'D SOWED A COLORFUL CARROT MIX TODAY I PULLED ONE OUT TO CHECK HOW BIG IT WAS AND IT WAS FUCKING YELLOW THIS IS AWESOME
...Does anyone know what insects do inside calla flowers? Because I'm not sure if they REALLY enjoy hanging in there or if they get stuck. I guess it's not a really big deal anyways because they leave afterwards obviously, they don't just get stuck and DIE there. But the thing is, there are always a lot of pollinators inside my calla flowers, resting and climbing the spadix and rolling around in pollen and shagging each other, so I always thought that's great, they're having fun. But yknow, they stay there a lot, are they having too much fun???? I've never seen the calla lily being mentioned for its value for pollinators. So maybe the flower is just built in a weird way and the insects get stuck in there? I mean, they CAN FLY. Maybe I'm worrying too much. If I'm taking care of an insect hotel, I'm glad; if it's bothering them, I'll just rip her out and eat the bulbs.
I've always found monothematic, monomaniacal people to be very annoying... But let me be honest. I fear I have become one of them. I am entirely consumed by my garden. I was worried about the lemon balms - now I have to harvest them so they won't bother the celery and purple tansy. I thought I was gonna have to earn the right to work with her, but the circumstance calls for it, so... We're making tincture! I put the rescued petunias in a very shady spot where hot peppers are languishing, so I thought they were never going to make it, but now they're flowering very nicely! Last year I tried my hand at growing calendula, but I put her in the same spot as purple tansy for some fucking reason, and the latter obviously took over. Plus, I was pretty late at sowing her, and summer drought hit pretty bad, so she didn't make a single proper flower. This year though I was on time, and she has a pot of her own, and she's beginning to flower right now!!!.......... I'm very excited.
I have been harvesting from my favas that have been with me since november. I don't like fava beans. I had forgotten how bad they taste. I grew favas because of the flowers. Ah, the flowers are beautiful. I don't like fava beans at all, and no one in the family does either. So I've been giving them to one of the school janitors, a sweet old woman who just scarfs them down in the hallways. Let that count as an offering.
May's bringing the flowering of my chamomile! She has also been kinder than I thought she would be in regards to weather. It's been raining. It's the 20th of May, and it's been raining... let us count our blessings. I can hardly wrap my head around the miracle that is rain, the beautiful way she blurs out everything as she rushes from the sky... I don't appreciate her enough. Every time I'm afraid that it's the last time that she comes down to grace us, before the drought. Summer approaches, and I want her for many reasons, but it is also a dreadful time, truly the time of divine punishment. I almost never think about divine punishment, and it's too terrible for me to talk about. Does she go mad? Have we pushed her to madness? The sun becomes her bloodshot eye - sanguineam volvens aciem (et pallida morte futura?)... I wonder if every plant I take pride in right now is going to die? That would genuinely destroy me. I've put my living blood, my body into the garden.
They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!"
And cellula walked, the lemon balm photosynthesized, alone.
But her children will die one after another, and it's arrogant to assume that mine won't. Winter is a far kinder time, yes, even the labor-pains of birthing the Sun must be less harsh than this. If it was of any help, I would bury a vial in your jaws with HCl crystals at the bottom and weed oil on top to ease the pain, and lavender to ease you into sleep. THC and harmalas, that would knock you out alright. They said it gave sight to the blind - don't you need your visionary quests, too? (Call me crazy, I haven't been using them lately anyways. My hand is too slow...)
I haven't been doing bad, but... This self-doubt must end one day somehow. I've been like this for a while, I've been talking ad nauseam about it, but it's really time for it to stop. The smallest, most stupid thing can make me go from being convinced that I'm great to being convinced that I'm the worst person alive, in an instant. And I constantly seek validation of these convictions by looking at everyone around me and comparing myself to them. I'm lucky I've never met someone as judgemental as me. I mentally berate others for their smallest flaw, but then I discover their smallest merit or achievement and it makes them an unreachable god, and me an incompetent jackass. I'm actually fairly content with myself, when I don't pay attention to anyone else; when I live in a vacuum, in other words. When I don't look at anyone else; but I can't help but look. And the smallest, most trivial thing disturbs me to my core.
And the self-respect I show myself in all of this is abysmal, because the whole time I'm fixating on others and acting in ways that I think will get total strangers to approve of me, not in ways that benefit me and fulfill my own needs. Also, I've noticed that I seem to go at a Very. Slow. Pace. in life, again, compared to everyone else. It feels like it?? It feels like what I do in a month, normal people do in a week. Accomplishments, experiences, everything. It feels like I'm ssslllloooooooww. Which makes sense because I only started to want to live at the end of my 16s. I'm literally this:
So, I spent my early teenagehood not even wanting to survive, and I don't even see my child self as human, just an incarnated curse to everyone around me. That leaves me with, me. The current me without really any past solid enough to stand upon. And it doesn't even feel like I'm getting better, at least certainly not in the way I act. I'm just getting meaner and meaner, letting my anger slip out, and it makes me fucking cry with regret afterwards. Sono buono quando posso, quando non posso non sono buono, quindi non sono buono. There is no innocence (innocence, and in-nocence) to be regained, because it never was there in the first place...
Why am I so slow? Follow me into my room. Harmala crystals sit at the bottom of a jar like a blanket of snow. I've watched them swirl like the billowing storm clouds of Jupiter seen from the safety of a spaceship. Harmala! Do you understand? She who made the carpets fly! Now, to separate bright harmine from her sister, harmaline. But what am I doing? My arm hangs at my side; my hand is too slow to grab the jar and reach her. I could call out to the queens of medicine and plain old fun, some of the most noble substances that exist, but I don't want to. A terrible, pathological lethargy of the mind. My hand is slow, and my mind is slow.
This all makes me feel like I have no personhood, because I don't fucking act like I have one; I act like a circus monkey, and I exist when others look at me: on my own I am nothing. This all has been going on for a while, and it needs to stop. That was so fucking bleak I swear I haven't always been this depressed but I haven't written here in a while, I needed to get some things off my chest.
Vinted has spoiled me so much. I go to normal clothes stores now and I see something... nice, okay, I would wear that, not amazing but nice. I check the price tag and FAINT because I would never pay that much for an article of clothing that isn't even that beautiful. I've seen clothes in physical shops on sale for fucking €60, that I could find on Vinted for €15 at most. Recently I bought a summer jacket for €8 there, and when it arrived I noticed that the price tag was still on. So I found out that it originally sold for €17 ARE YOU KIDDING MEEEEEE it's a nice jacket but reading that made me realize that I would have NEVER bought it, if it cost €17.
Ah, my heart! Θυμε, θυμ', let go: he has other drinking buddies now.
IMMANUEL CASTO'S ONLY GOOD SONG