I have been few things in my life, a bad student of this or that, I tried to make or understand art, I was an assistant dude at the university with a career ahead, a web-designer, a good for nothing, a occasional traveler -- and nothing is special about this quite contemporary parable.
I read a lot, which could be the only thing moderately atypical with my personal mess, if I look back at it. I have been an avid reader since when I was a child, and this worked for me somehow. Even the Internet meant something to me because there was so much to read.
Well, a reader is a writer, and so I considered myself one since my teenage years, not because I got to publish a story in a anthology in the U.S. lately -- a stroke of luck and an act of kindness and little else -- but because I think with the years and the experience I came to have an idea of writing, of the writing I have in mind and I want. This idea I respect more than anything else.

To make a living, I am a gardener now. Out of the blue, I went to a school to become one. Now at least, I'm trying to be that. It gives you a lot of time with yourself, which is not ideal but better than fighting not to be the way they want you to be. The creatures around the gardener don't really need him but he does stuff to them anyway. A sober sense of power arise from this which heals the frustrations.
I strive to understand plants everyday and sometimes I manage to.

This blog, well, initially I thought it was going to be something about my country, a comment, a satire. Payback for all the commonplaces vomited on us down here. The country is fucked, you see. Its core is fucked. You're welcome to consider this post among others. The essence of the problem could all be in that little quote.
But over time, because of the aforementioned idea of writing, this blog became just what it was supposed to be, pages about my life, behind which the profile of the falling peninsula can emerge slowly, post after post, as the natural irremediable background. At least that's the idea.

I am really not able to explain why I write in english. Because of course, in case you were wondering, I am italian, italian as the river Po. English language, that's all self-taught, the school didn't help, I fell back to it for all the wrong reasons, like every other young citizen at the outskirts of the empire, watching movies, listening to pop music.
Novels and poetry I liked and disliked, the attractive banality of the internet, traveling and traveling some more, a growing distaste and anxiety for the new world order: all this lend a hand to intensify the accidental feeling toward a foreign language and culture I had no way to escape-- with which I had to find a way to deal.

Or most likely: I write in English because I am too inhibited to write in my own language. Like if all the friends and foes, all the relatives and lovers, all the personifications of the meanings of the meanings: everyone who could read my words in this country was hovering behind my shoulders as I tried to write, looming above every conscious phrase I wanted to stutter in my mother tongue. Everyone thinking they knew already, like that Woody Allen's tape recorder which went "I know, I know" as he spoke into it.
I learned how hard writing for me was in italian -- besieged by imaginary good-willing eyes and dishonest as it turned out to be. Yet somehow I could try, to write using this other more popular modern Latin of our times, handy and overused as it was.

So this is the story behind this blog and stuff. On this blog I am: corpodibacco. I forgot why. You can write me if you want, subscribe to the so called feed etc.
Have a good read.