Nostr notes by MyNotes - by Stefano Marinelli

I'm Still Guybrush Photo by Vadim Bogulov on Unsplash A jolt. ...

2026-04-14T08:03:29Z

I'm Still Guybrush

Photo by Vadim Bogulov on Unsplash

A jolt. I check the time: it's early. Too early. But I know this state of mind, and staying in bed would serve no purpose. I hate it, but there's nothing I can do. I lifted my head and immediately felt the weight of my thoughts, of what I heard last night. An evening in which the hope - held for many years - of never again having to go to bed with certain thoughts, shattered.

Still carrying the scent of coffee, I put on my earbuds, started my music, and switched on my computer. The terminal was waiting for me, as always. I smiled.

bastille create new_project 15.0-RELEASE 10.1.1.1 bastille0
I entered my world, where time is measured in beats per second. I began to fly, through that series of words incomprehensible to most, yet dear and familiar to me. Those words don't judge me, don't accuse me, don't attack me. I feel safe, among the bits of my computer.

When I heard arguing, I would run to my room and close the door. I would switch on my record player, turn up the volume, and leave the present behind. Arguments and fights, or just ill tempers. Situations that were sometimes difficult - too difficult for a child, too thin to turn to food, too small to truly understand what was happening. No one could really comprehend. And I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, because the one time I had, it was later used to make fun of me.

When my first computer arrived, I was too young to use it for anything other than games - at least for a while - so I flew on fantasy alone. When I played Maniac Mansion, I was in that house with them. When it was Zak McKracken's turn, I travelled the world with him. I had no interest in finishing the game - only in seeing the "world" and discovering what was out there. When The Secret of Monkey Island arrived, I was in the Caribbean with Guybrush. I was Guybrush.

Inside my computer - inside that screen - everything was predictable. My video games were a safe harbour. No one would insult me, humiliate me, scold me. They were worlds where I could express myself without being judged. My brain was stimulated. I felt safe.

My mind is still desperately thirsty today - my spirit is still that of the child who travelled, and my safety, my world, are still my bits. The operating systems I love are my blank page. The keys on the keyboard spread the ink. The voice of the community, my friends - the people with whom to share a passion, and what makes the world a more liveable place.

I was testing the setup, with a satisfied smile, when the Monkey Island soundtrack began to play.

I looked out of the window and it was still dark. I turned my head forward and I was at my desk, with my Amiga, on a warm summer evening in 1991. In my eyes, the tears of a child setting off on a new adventure, shutting the whole world out of his room. For the first time, he was wearing the clothes of that character. For the first time, the warm breeze coming through the window carried the scent of the Caribbean. That child, that evening, was Guybrush.

I am still Guybrush.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/04/14/im-still-guybrush/

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The Usual, Thanks Photo by Elimende Inagella on Unsplash The day ...

2026-04-10T18:54:53Z

The Usual, Thanks

Photo by Elimende Inagella on Unsplash

The day is drawing to a close and, before dinner, I sit down to read the news. The count from today's referendum is nearly over and the result seems fairly clear-cut. Some are celebrating, others "reflecting" on what went wrong. Everyone is talking. No one, by now, remembers what was actually being voted on. Perhaps, for the average voter, it never mattered. Perhaps the real subject didn't interest the politicians either. The purpose, as always, was a pure battle between parties.

That winter was cold - the kind of cold we haven't seen since - and that day I would gladly have stayed home, working from my slow but stable ADSL connection of less than 1 Mbit/sec. Poor even then, but necessity breeds resourcefulness. It was urgent, though. Necessary. Two words that have always made everything else seem secondary. The front door made an unusual sound - a delayed click. The ice had crept into the mechanism, and my nose immediately caught that scent of fog and snow together, so rare to find combined.

Had it been an ordinary day, I would have watched from the window, opening it now and then to savour that fragrance, stretching out an arm to feel the frozen flake settle on my hand, already chilled and dampened by the freezing mist.

The car was in the garage, but the moment I pulled out, the wheels showed signs of poor grip. Even winter tyres weren't enough. But motivation - that was more than enough. As I drove slowly, struggling to see the road through the thickening fog, I was already thinking about the potential new project they were going to propose. I had put forward a couple of ideas - in my view extremely useful and affordable - and they had shown a certain enthusiasm. But the journey was much longer than expected, so my mind wandered everywhere, without my even noticing. I wondered whether I would have made the same trip, in the same conditions, without this urgency. But urgency, when it concerns public budgets, must always be respected.

There were no parking spaces, except… a mound of snow. I didn't think twice and climbed on top of it, thanks to the rear-wheel drive, though I couldn't quite make it all the way. The car, being short, fitted within the allotted space. I smiled, and a snowflake landed on my forehead.

I headed straight to my contact's office. He greeted me with a triumphant smile. "You made it in this weather. You're a person of incredible motivation. Exactly what we need. We've had some ideas here, and we'd like to share them with you." I was about to speak, but: "We're confident our collaboration will be extremely long and lasting. We all agree. All of us."

That all of us, for reasons I couldn't explain, made my blood run cold.

Two other people arrived whom I had never seen before. They introduced themselves, courteously. In that moment I thought they must have been printing smiles in that office - identical ones. Or perhaps they were fraternal twins, separated at birth. I smiled too, to blend in with this carnival of good cheer, still without having said a single word.

"You are young, upright, well-regarded, respected. You work in an innovative, valued sector. You are someone who can be trusted, and we need you."

I strengthened my smile, turning it into my own.

"One of our current problems is the stagnation of the political class, in the face of demographic change. The elderly are dying, the young are growing up with different ideas, and there are many new arrivals. We're expanding demographically - and not through new births."

I put my polite smile back on, to mask the fact that I wasn't understanding a thing. I didn't even try, this time, to take the floor.

"Many people who come to live here weren't born here. They study, they graduate, and the many industries in our area attract them - drawing them to settle nearby. And you weren't born here, but you're a figure that many people know, esteem, and respect. You are the archetype of the new citizen, and that could be very useful to us."

But I didn't even live there. What were they asking me? I didn't understand - at first. But I sensed something strange in their request. It was time to clarify, but…

"It doesn't matter which political alignment you choose. These gentlemen are the local representatives of the two major parties, and both would be delighted to have you on board. The choice should be ideological, but try to be pragmatic. After all, both sides have their spheres of influence, and you won't lack for work, in the position you'll hold. People will seek you out because you think like them. And for us, a new face would be gold, in this moment of political disaffection."

My smile turned, abruptly, to paralysis. I tried to speak, but…

"You can always change your mind and switch to the other side. Some have done it, and although it may seem absurd, some voters appreciate someone who changes their mind - they see it as a human quality, like their own."

I interrupted him.

"Are you asking me to stand for election, in either of the two parties? I have no experience. No competence in the matter. Shouldn't I start from the bottom first?"

His smile became almost paternal, like the other two:

"My dear boy, it doesn't matter. You'll learn. Besides, people don't want experience - experience makes you cautious, and caution is boring. They want someone young, resolute, convincing. Tell them what they like to hear, with confidence. That will be more than enough. In the meantime, party dynamics count more than individual ideas." And their smiles turned into a laugh. Genuine, probably. Sardonic, to my eyes.

I froze, and decided to put their same smile back on.

"Thank you for the offer and for the trust. Without doubt, it's interesting. But I need to think about it - you must give me time. I would never have expected this; it wasn't in my plans. I need to reflect."

"Of course!" replied Stan (of Stan's Previously Owned Vessels). "Take all the time you want - we're always here. Just give us a sign and we'll always be ready to meet and give you all the details you need."

As soon as I stepped outside the building, I quickened my pace toward the Smart. The snow was bothering me now and I brushed it from my face with sharp, impatient movements. The mound of snow was still there, and so was my Smart. I accelerated to build some momentum and, without even realising it, went into a slight spin. I shifted the lever to D and pulled away, sharply.

I reached home in some indefinite stretch of time, my mind empty. I left the Smart outside and went upstairs, almost slamming the door to make sure it wouldn't freeze shut. I opened the fridge - full of everything - but closed it thinking: "Pizza." I went out again, this time on foot, to pick one up. A few words with someone, I thought, would do me good.

"The usual, thanks." Luca looked at me, probably thinking I had got out of bed on the wrong side, and said nothing more. The television, in the background, was showing the news. At one point an important national politician appeared, charming the journalists with their own words.

"Crooks. Phonies. Hypocrites. Only clinging to their seats, that's all they are" - I whispered in my mind. But, perhaps, not only in my mind. Luca looked at me, while with practised, expert gestures he stretched out my pizza, and said with a smile: "Only just worked that out, have you?"

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/03/27/the-usual-thanks/

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The Scent of Denial Photo by Alexander Grigoryev on Unsplash My ...

2026-04-09T08:10:58Z

The Scent of Denial

Photo by Alexander Grigoryev on Unsplash

My wife's expression was distant. It was clear she had no interest whatsoever in seeing a photo from 2001, in which I was showing off a corner of my university bedroom, just to point out where I had placed my green iMac, bought second-hand at a very high price. But out of affection, she encouraged me and waited patiently.

When I found the photo, my attention shifted to a secondary detail: that anonymous white bottle, barely visible on one side. And I could smell it again - that sharp, acrid smell, now unbearable to me, that had followed me for a very long time.

I had just turned sixteen when my mother started saying she was finding my hair on the pillow. She was worried, and so was my father. Honestly - I had so much of it, it could only have been their obsession. It was beautiful, glossy, thick. I liked it, even though I kept it short for convenience. I was doing a lot of sport, so it made sense to keep it practical. But given everything we had been through in the years before, I didn't feel like arguing, so I simply acknowledged their obsession and went along with it. I showed no concern whatsoever - I washed it often, it all seemed firmly in place - but if it meant putting their minds at rest, I was willing to go along with their suggestions. The first of which was a visit to a dermatologist friend of the family. He was professional and kind and, as I expected, said I had a great deal of hair. But who knows - stress, genetics - it would be wise to act early, to prevent things from becoming a problem. Doctors. There was an entire line of products: incredibly foul-smelling ampoules to apply in the evening, designed to stimulate the hair follicles. So foul-smelling that after applying them, I had to sit still for around half an hour with a towel over my shoulders, and the pillowcase needed changing every two days because of the stains and the smell. Then in the morning, my hair had to be washed with that shampoo. A shampoo in a plain white bottle, anonymous. Expensive, but not outrageously so - the kind sold in pharmacies. The good news was that my hair really was glossy and beautiful. The bad news was that the whole thing had become a kind of slavery, and the smell of the ampoules lingered even after washing. At best, it mixed with the shampoo, creating something different. After a few months, I stopped noticing.

Time passed, and the visits, the ampoules, the washing continued. I looked at myself and genuinely didn't understand why any of this was necessary. But after what had happened, I thought it was something that reassured them, so I kept enduring it, going along with it. Of course I was irritated. It was a form of slavery. And that smell, which I had grown somewhat used to, was still different from the scent I would have wanted. But I put up with it, covering it by wearing a great deal of cologne and aftershave. My friends never said anything - in fact, they said I always smelled clean. They teased me gently, saying I smelled "too good" for a teenager, but in a positive way. I will be grateful to them for that for the rest of my life.

I was seventeen and in the changing room at school, after PE. That day I'd finished getting dressed before the others and had gone out to the entrance area. Everyone would gradually arrive there, including the girls from my class, so we could organise ourselves for the next lesson. That day, as class representative, I'd been tasked with asking the teacher to go over a topic again - a clever technique to try to avoid any kind of oral test - but I needed to coordinate with my co-representative, so we could make the request together and give it more weight. The changing rooms were at opposite ends - the boys' was at the far end of the corridor, the girls' had two doors but was close to where I was standing. One of the doors had been left open, so you could hear what was being said inside. Out of habit, I wasn't deliberately listening, but when I heard my name, curiosity got the better of reason - and of the lesson I already knew clearly at seventeen: sometimes it's better not to know.

A voice - one I didn't identify in that moment - said cheerfully: "...he can't cover that incredible stench of whatever it is he has on him. He puts on so much cologne, but it's pathetic because the smell still wins." And a general laugh broke out. My brain refused to identify that voice, or the laughter that followed. When someone stabs you in the back, you often don't want to know who is driving the knife in. It would hurt so much more.

The door opened and the first of the girls came out of the changing room. When she saw me standing there, and realised the other door had been left open, she froze. I decided to pretend nothing had happened, that I had heard nothing, and with a smile I asked if my co-representative was ready, as we needed to coordinate. Escaping her discomfort, she replied with half a smile: "Yes, she's coming. Bye!"

I never spoke about it to anyone.

When I got home, I made a decision: I would never put those ampoules on my head again. At most, I would keep using the shampoo. But the ampoules - no. I didn't explain why. I didn't want them to feel guilty about any of it. After all, even if in their own way, they were doing it for my good. And yet I felt trapped - without knowing how to get out. We agreed I would finish the current box of ampoules - there were still a few months' worth left - and then we wouldn't buy more. They were very expensive, but according to my parents, they were working. "Expensive, this placebo", I thought - and not just in financial terms.

A few months later came one of the highlights of the year: a Carnival party, organised by an important local association, where you could attend either in costume or well-dressed - jacket and tie - and only by invitation. I always had an invitation, thanks to my friends, and I looked forward to it every year. This time, though, everything was different: in the meantime I had turned eighteen and got my driving licence. When I got dressed at home, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I hadn't used the ampoules for two days - to avoid the smell - and my hair was glossy and bright.

That evening I arrived by car and brought a friend along, who I signed in with me. A girl who was and would remain only a friend - but that evening, I felt genuinely good about myself. I was independent - my own car! I arrived with a beautiful girl - just a friend, of course, but all of it made me feel good - and I felt adult, accepted. Respected. There was dinner, then the after-dinner - the moment when they played music for our generation and people danced. It was the late nineties, disco music still had a pulse, even if its final stages, while we were in full bloom. At a certain point I got thirsty, took a break, went for a glass of water. I decided to stop by the bathroom to rinse my face and wash off the sweat. As I splashed water on my face, I was thinking about how wonderful the evening was, how marvellous it was to be growing up and becoming an adult. I looked up at the mirror, smiling the smile of someone who is happy. I looked straight into my own eyes - bright, full of energy - and then I saw something: above those eyes, my hair was thin. At the front, and on top. I tried moving it a little - maybe the sweat had flattened it? - but nothing changed. I froze.

A close friend walked into the bathroom. I looked at him. He looked at me. A moment - just a moment - and then he gave a small nod, the kind that doesn't need words. I pushed all the negative emotions back down, overwhelmed by the positive ones. This was me. This was really me. I ran a hand through my hair to put it back in order, and walked back into the ballroom, smiling, with an enormous sense of relief. I would carry on with the ampoules and that shampoo in its anonymous white bottle for years more.

Until life, like the bottle, came into colour.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/03/21/the-scent-of-denial/

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The Scent of the City Photo by Lukas Tennie on Unsplash Morning ...

2026-04-08T06:41:44Z

The Scent of the City

Photo by Lukas Tennie on Unsplash

Morning errands in the city centre have a bittersweet flavour. The need to park far away brings a long walk which, depending on the day, can be either a punishment or a tonic.

This morning fell at that particular hour - the moment when every city releases its own scent. Like nature in spring, every city gives its best when the morning's activities begin to stir. Like when a curtain rises: the real theatre begins. The one where, in London, you could smell the Starbucks coffee everyone carried to the office. Too hot to consume on the go, scalding at just the right temperature to fill the air, otherwise already saturated with the smell of kebab. The one where, in Paris, you smell croissants and pain au chocolat, while the traffic on the Champs-Élysées reminds you that frenzy and poetry travel side by side, there. The one where, when I went to the market with my grandmother, it meant I would soon be eating my corn focaccia - the reward for... having eaten. Because, back then, getting me to eat was difficult, and they tried everything just to stop me wasting away.

And crossing Corso della Giovecca, you catch the stately, ancient scent of the old hospital. A place of care, respect, and reverence - the way hospitals were once regarded. Different and distant from the smell of disinfectant in the new one. Brighter, certainly. Precisely - more sterile. Smells that are familiar to me - like when I used to visit my parents at work, in a hospital too, but hundreds of kilometres from here. Yet the sensations remain the same.

The Palazzina Marfisa d'Este opens its ancient door and, from within, that unmistakable scent of old walls, mingled with the perfume of the flowers in its garden and freshly cut grass. And then the bars - from which drifts the aroma of espresso, typical of Italian bars - and the older the barista, the further back in time that scent carries you. The many buildings, at that hour, see their occupants stepping out to reach their destinations. Peeking inside, you glimpse damp courtyards, well-kept gardens, car parks. Or heaps of useless clutter, mixed with mould and weeds. Bicycles - oh, so many of them - everywhere. And each one emits its own perfume, its own smell. As people reach their destinations, these places come alive, and from their freshly reopened doors comes the scent of that building's era: the ancient ones smell of damp, almost of mould - but a precious, ancient mould. The merely old ones carry the typical smell of their era. For someone like me who has already lived through a few decades, these scents are somehow linked to memories of my own life, lived in buildings of that period. The modern ones, by contrast, smell of newness, of the future. Perhaps a little sterile, but clean.

Arriving in the main square, the distance between the buildings frees the air, and you breathe in history, antiquity. The many university students, sitting at tables talking about their insurmountable problems - love affairs, exams, accommodation - carry the mind forward, connecting past to future. Speaking of the present. And the scent is tied to whichever drink is fashionable at the moment, always surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of cappuccino. I'm not a cappuccino lover, but that scent takes me back to my university years. Then as now, in Bologna, I liked walking to lectures. Three and a half kilometres through the city centre, crossing streets full of bars, trattorias, hotels, hostels. Flats of young students stumbling out of their doors, still half-asleep, their faces still bearing the marks of the long night before. Like the nights I spent with my flatmates - sometimes until four in the morning - sitting on chairs, laughing, joking, chatting, talking about everything and nothing. Dreaming of the life we - hoped - we would have.

But the scent that envelops Ferrara in the morning is mainly one: bread. The coppietta, but not only. Every kind of bread, expertly prepared by artisans or bakeries that still contribute to the beauty of the landscape with an unmistakable, unique perfume. Bread that I remember, as a child, on my aunt's table. She wasn't from Ferrara, but she loved that kind of bread all the same. I liked it, yes, but it was... how to put it... exotic. It was the scent of the trip to my aunt and uncle's house, which I loved so much. Also because my uncle had a PC - which I didn't yet understand, except that the files I could run were the ones marked .com, .bat, or .exe - and it looked so professional!

Then, as the hours pass, the scents shift to the residential streets, which, with windows open, enrich the air with the aroma of ragù - each one different, mind you! - prepared by the person who lives in those places, following the ancient recipe of their mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, in a ritual that remains unchanged despite the passing of time. Just as my grandmother used to do. Just as my mother does. As I do myself.

When evening falls, the scents change. The aroma of cappuccino transforms into spritz. That of bread becomes pizza. That of ragù turns into roast. Even Marfisa d'Este changes its scent, because the open windows and the coming and going of people have altered its atmosphere. And when people return to their homes, they imbue the buildings with a different aroma. All day long, they will have turned on air conditioners, opened windows, set out fragrances. But, all at once, they return to silence. And the silence, in the night, will restore their dignity and their original character. Because people, with time, come and go. They appear and they vanish. But the scent of the city - that remains.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/03/13/the-scent-of-the-city/

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The Scent of Freedom Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash I was ...

2026-04-07T07:59:59Z

The Scent of Freedom

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

I was staring at the rubber keychain, shaped like a big foot. I was bursting with anticipation. The next morning, weather permitting, I would go to school on my scooter. On my scooter. My "Zippo" - that’s what I called it because it was a Piaggio Zip - which had been sitting there for years, waiting for this moment. That evening, I told my grandfather that no, he wouldn't be driving me to school the next morning. "But it might rain", he remarked, just to make me give up. I didn't care about his "adjusted" weather forecasts. I was going to get on Zippo. That night, I barely slept. It was September 1996, and the moment had arrived. That moment.

The next morning, my friend pulled up under my house and honked. It was time to go. I grabbed the keys and, instinctively, brought the keychain to my nose. I smelled the scent - that specific smell of rubber that, from that moment on, would be, for me, the scent of freedom.

Wearing my full-face helmet, I was terrified. But my friend was with me, on his trusty 60s Vespa, to escort me. I nodded, he took off. I followed. The smell inside the new helmet was strong, and the promise I had made to my parents was clear: I would get a license to drive any motorcycle by taking proper driving school courses. Only on those conditions would they allow me to keep riding my Zippo. Conditions I found decidedly acceptable.

During my first trip, I thought about my grandfathers. The one at home, disappointed to have "lost" his taxi driver role, and the other one, who had died two years earlier, who had given me the scooter and the helmet. And I felt lucky. Fear gave way to satisfaction. A kid left home. A young man arrived at school that morning.

When I arrived at school, I flew to my classroom. I walked in and, as per tradition, placed Zippo’s key on the teacher's desk. My classmates cheered and congratulated me. Another one of us had crossed that milestone of life.

That sense of freedom and growth changed me. I started to feel different. To carry myself more securely. To have greater awareness, and this improved my social relationships, my self-esteem, my perspectives.

Then came a day of frost. One of the few, at those latitudes. My grandfather warned me: "Be careful - it's going to freeze tomorrow morning". I didn't listen to him. When my friend came by, we set off in a line, as usual. At the curve of the bridge, I saw him skid slightly, but before I could process it... boom, I was on the ground. The speed was low, so I didn't get hurt, but I damaged Zippo. My friend turned around and burst out laughing. I was more disappointed than in pain, and I decided to go back home. Not for the dirty jeans. Not for the pain. For the shame.

The next day, at 7:30, my grandfather was waiting for me proudly in his blue Fiat 131. That regained role had rejuvenated him by five years. The same years I felt I had lost the moment I admitted to myself I didn't want to try that road again. So the following day, I decided to try again, and on that fateful bridge, I managed to keep my Zippo upright. Arriving triumphantly near the school, I realized there was a cluster of young people right at the street's curve: there was another sheet of ice, and as they arrived, they slipped and fell. One by one, almost all of them. I realized it in time and got off before the curve. Instinctively, I started signaling from the road to slow down. Some followed my advice. Others decided to kiss the asphalt. Maybe it served as a lesson to them. Or maybe not.

January arrived, and I was at driving school. I liked the lessons, and right after, I would go to my tennis practice, not far from there. All on my own. That afternoon, however, tennis lessons were suspended: heavy rain was forecast, and the courts, at river level, would almost certainly flood. When the driving lesson ended, the heavens had opened. I waited two minutes and got on the scooter anyway. My mother, worried, called the driving school. She asked them to stop me, saying she would come by car, but the secretary looked out and saw neither me nor my Zippo. At that instant, I opened the front door: my mother burst out laughing. It looked like I had just stepped out of a bathtub, leaving rivers of water behind me. "Rain is not a problem", I repeated. "Freedom cannot be contained by a little water", I thought.

In May, a good opportunity arrived: my father was buying a Vespa ET4 125, and they had made him a good offer for another scooter - bigger, modern, fashionable. A Gilera Runner. I accepted willingly; I would have one of the trendiest scooters, and I didn't mind that. But I knew I would miss my Zippo, so on the day of the handover, I decided to make a short video, immortalizing all the details I had grown attached to. I still have that video, with the faded colors of a VHS recorded in a hurry in a garage. I took off the keychain and decided to keep it as a souvenir. And the helmet would stay with me, of course. Along with the hair I was starting to find inside it, even if I wasn't paying attention to it. It didn't take many hours to realize I had made a monstrous mistake, because Zippo was small and light, maneuverable. This new one might have been fashionable, yes, but decidedly too high and uncomfortable for me. But that is another story.

Years later, I was already in Bologna. I had another "Zippo" - which I adored - and the same helmet. One evening I went to the cinema, in the center, and coming out I found a surprise: they had forced open the compartment under the seat and stolen my helmet. That helmet, the only remaining part of my grandfather's gift. Old, smelly by now, but it was my helmet. My reaction was very, very negative. To the point that when I got home, a friend and housemate tried to calm me down by downplaying it, reminding me that there was probably more hair inside that helmet than on my head. He was good. I was not. I lashed out verbally, almost insulting him, even though he remained calm until the end and let me vent. Then I told him the story of the helmet, and he lowered his gaze and, in a friendly way, patted me on the shoulder. I probably still owe him an apology for that night, if he remembers it. He probably forgot it many, many years ago.

From time to time, when I am at my parents' house, I open my old memory drawer. There are many of my things - many from that very period - and last time I found the "big foot". Faded, hardened by 30 years. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose again. And I still smell, intact, the scent of freedom.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/03/02/the-scent-of-freedom/

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Arrivals and Departures Photo by Alex Heuvink on Unsplash I'm ...

2026-04-01T09:35:36Z

Arrivals and Departures

Photo by Alex Heuvink on Unsplash

I'm in bed, but sleep won't come. And in these moments, the mind wanders - often in the wrong directions.

When I was born, it was a joy. Much wanted, I came into the world a bit late, on a cold December morning. The hospital was up on a hill but that hadn't discouraged my loved ones. I didn't seem very eager to come out, apparently, but everyone had rushed to wait for me. Outside the delivery room were my grandparents, without doubt the most impatient. One of my grandfathers walked back and forth along the corridor, restless, while the other (who had already lived through this experience with my cousin) tried to calm and reassure him. It wasn't easy for my mother. A somewhat complicated delivery, but everything turned out well.

When I finally started breathing, many smiled. I had so much hair - red! - and it was impossible to comb it down. The midwife, bringing me out, apologized for not managing to flatten my hair. Poor woman, it wasn't her fault: it's still impossible to flatten it today, even though it's a fraction of what it was back then.

Sometimes I think about the day I'll die. If I'm lucky, I'll be very old. If I'm very lucky, I won't realize it. If she's lucky, my wife won't have to live through this experience. And I think that, probably, I'll die alone. On one hand this reassures me: I've never liked to inconvenience others or to be a burden to them, and I don't want that to happen when I take my leave from life. Yet, from another point of view, it casts a veil of sadness over me. Perhaps I'll be in a sterile hospital room, alone or surrounded by strangers, and when my heart stops I'll be just another old man who passed away, handled with the appropriate professional detachment by staff who see these situations every day.

When I arrived, there was joy, anticipation. I was surrounded by loved ones. When I leave, if I'm lucky, there will be silence, indifference, and solitude.

I close my eyes again, in the overwhelming silence of the night.
Tomorrow morning, thankfully, there will still be familiar people, lights and sounds.
My coffee. My breakfast. My life, still waiting to be lived.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/02/08/arrivals-and-departures/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Weight of a Millimeter My lifeboat during recovery: a Linksys ...

2026-03-31T10:26:05Z

The Weight of a Millimeter

My lifeboat during recovery: a Linksys WRT54GL and a directional antenna.

I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock next to my bed. For the first time in days, I had managed to sleep. It was 7 and I was in no hurry to get up, but I no longer felt... I no longer felt the tingling in my legs. I felt nothing.

I fixed my gaze on the photo hanging beside me. The one where I stood leaning against my car, at the Piana di Castelluccio. Standing. I didn't have the courage to try. The moment had arrived - that moment. I wasn't ready. The whirlwind of thoughts continued to envelop me and, as I often do in these cases, my brain told my body to let the thoughts tangle among themselves while I acted. I turned and placed my feet on the ground. I felt the floor beneath me. I stood up. I felt no pain. I tried walking in various directions. I moved. Apart from the back pain, everything from the legs down was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. I sat back on the bed and, finally, managed to cry.

It was a cool but sunny morning in March 2007. I had an appointment at the training center I collaborated with. The goal was to present new courses on Open Source operating systems, focused on Linux and BSDs. The attendees were system administrators expert in other OSs who wanted to approach the open-source world in a systematic, complete, and guided way. I liked it, I liked it a lot, so by 10:15 I was already in the saddle of my trusty Suzuki Burgman scooter. Bologna's traffic, at that hour, was decidedly less intense, but parking a car would have been impossible. Besides, it was a beautiful day; two wheels were undoubtedly the best way to move. I had time, so I planned to enjoy the ride calmly, already thinking about how to present my ideas to the organizers. Smiling, positive, optimistic.

I left the house and put all my documents under the seat, safely stowed. I opened the gate and edged the nose of the scooter out. No cars were coming, so I decided to set off slowly. The limit was 50 km/h, but I had just left, so I was advancing much, much slower. A few meters later, as I was proceeding, I saw something out of the corner of my left eye. Then I felt a blow and lost control of the Burgman. Instinctively, I threw myself off the vehicle, sliding on the asphalt. My gloves, helmet, and jacket completely cushioned the blow, and in a split second, I realized I had made the right choice, without yet understanding what had happened. I was going so slowly that I slid for very little distance; I was already stopped and ready to get up. Before I could even focus, I felt a very strong blow to my back, without feeling any pain. Again, I didn't understand, but I saw the handlebars of the Burgman coming closer right after. Instinctively I stood up, immediately, and turned around.

There was a car, a Fiat Punto, and my scooter near me. The car was trying to maneuver to get around the "obstacle", but I understood immediately, from the damage, that it was a car - that car - that had hit me. I planted myself in the middle of the road and immediately stopped the person behind the wheel, an elderly man - but not too elderly. Meanwhile, some people who had witnessed the scene or heard the noise rushed over. I wasn't alone. He got out of the car and looked at me and the scooter. He only said, "Well, I see you're standing and you haven't hurt yourself, I'd say I can go, right? I'm in a hurry." He wasn't confused. He wasn't trying to pull a fast one. He was just focused on his schedule.

I lost my temper. He only thought about the fact that he "had to leave", and not out of fear or a sense of responsibility. He was distracted. I lashed out, "But didn't you see me coming?" His response, calm and relaxed, froze me: "Of course, but I was in a hurry to get to the bar for my usual card game and I was late. I thought I could squeeze past, I was in a hurry. Anyway, you're standing and the damage seems minimal. I have to go."

No, he wasn't a confused elderly man. He was a person focused on his routine, and this had been just another hindrance. It was him, being himself. I shouted, with the support of the people who had gathered, "No, you're not going anywhere, we're waiting for the Carabinieri." In that moment, fueled by adrenaline, I lifted the Burgman and leaned it against the side of the road. Alone. Immediately after, my vision went almost black, and I had to sit down. A piercing pain in my back which - I realized only then - I had had since the beginning, but the adrenaline was making me ignore. Meanwhile, both the Carabinieri and the Ambulance arrived together. Someone had called them, and they had arrived with some speed.

I got into the ambulance on my own legs, and they examined me immediately. They decided to take me to the hospital for checks, especially for the back pain. Meanwhile, the Carabinieri took their measurements. One of them got into the ambulance. He must have been only a few years older than me and, looking me in the eyes, said words I will never forget: "So much damage, so much pain caused by small distractions, by small things. By our small lives. That man didn't do it on purpose. He is sorry, but he keeps repeating that he was convinced he could get through and keeps emphasizing that 'he couldn't be late'. So much damage, so much pain due to our vices and whims!" A venting from a man who, every day, saw all kinds of things. Yet they were words of comfort. Somehow, this man was bitter for me, sorry. And, probably, in the general confusion, amidst the professionalism of the medical staff and the voyeuristic interest of the passersby, I really needed a contact without barriers.

As soon as he got off, I called the Training Center: "I had a small accident, I won't be able to be there as agreed. Can we postpone by a few days?" They, of course, agreed.

Small accident. I downplayed it. Because, all things considered, I was back on my feet. Because I didn't want to show vulnerability to the client, risking losing this beautiful project. Because, perhaps, I was protecting myself from reality.

When I arrived at the hospital, everyone was extremely kind and diligent. They did all the necessary checks - including an X-ray. And it was precisely that X-ray, suggested by the type of impact and the tingling I felt in my legs and feet, that brought the doctor into my room. There had been a hairline fracture of two vertebrae and, for less than a millimeter, there hadn't been grave, very grave damage. That damage would have caused the total loss of sensation from the pelvis down. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the doctor continued: "We have to monitor the tingling. I believe the problem is linked to the impact, to the effort made immediately after to lift the scooter - suggested by the bruises on both legs - but we are not certain. We have to wait." Confused, I asked what that meant. What we had to wait for. He was vague. At that point, I was myself and went straight to the point: I asked him if I was still risking losing the use of part of my body. He lowered his gaze. He didn't answer. He stayed vague and said that within a few days we would better understand the situation. He focused on the tingling. "It will probably disappear - and at that point, we will understand. If you feel everything normally, it means everything went well. Otherwise..." He said no more. I asked no more. I didn't want to know, at that moment. I kept focusing on the probably. The rest of the sentence, instead, I metabolized in the following hours.

I was just going to present my ideas for my course, on a pleasant early March morning, calmly, on a road I had taken every day for years. With prudence. Building my life, my future. My projects. If I had left 30 seconds earlier - or later... or by car. In that instant, probably, I would have already been on my way back, maybe retrieving the car from a distant parking lot, regretting not having used the Burgman.

I was discharged in the afternoon, with the prescription to get out of bed as little as possible, exclusively to go to the bathroom. There was no way to sleep: I had pain everywhere, my legs had turned completely black. I took a photo in front of the mirror - then deleted it, in the terror of what I had seen. There was no position that didn't give me pain and pangs. I had continuous tingling and little sensitivity from the pelvis down. Problems going to the bathroom, problems doing everything.

They were terrible days, compounded by a further problem. Because of the false promises of a salesperson, I was also left without an Internet connection. But necessity is the mother of invention, and the discovery that a directional antenna pointed towards the end of the street, where there was an old router with an easily "guessable" WEP password, was like a lifeboat after a shipwreck.

The tingling went on for days, until that morning. The morning I realized I had managed to sleep because I no longer had pain. The "probably" had come true. And it had gone away giving me back, again, my sensitivity.

The doctor confirmed: it was an excellent sign, meaning the healing phase had begun. No serious permanent damage. It would take time, but I would heal.

That day I understood many things - many more than I thought - about myself, about the world around us, and, more specifically, about those around me.

And about the importance of keeping one's access points updated, of course.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/02/02/the-weight-of-a-millimeter/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Scent of a Photo The car's boot full of delicious fish My ...

2026-03-30T08:43:59Z

The Scent of a Photo

The car's boot full of delicious fish

My smartphone just showed me a photo, taken exactly four years ago today. I published it on the Fediverse back then, showing nothing but enthusiasm for the great takeout food we had ordered.

The truth was different.

That morning, I had received a phone call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother wasn't feeling well. We thought it was just a common flu, but it felt "strange". I rushed to her. I found her standing, in high spirits, welcoming me with her usual affection and joy. She was already feeling much better but was a bit tired, so she had already eaten dinner and was heading to bed early. Her usual spirit, her usual stride, her usual grit.

Relieved, we decided to pick up some seafood takeout from a restaurant owned by a former classmate of mine. And the fish, besides being delicious, was abundant.

The next morning, I received a call from my mother: my grandmother was doing terribly - in her view, perhaps close to death. She had wanted to stay in her own home, alone - she refused to give up her independence - but seeing that her shutters hadn't been raised, my parents had burst into her house before 7:00. She was barely lucid, very lethargic.

The point was this: she was nearly 93 years old and almost unconscious - would it be right to call an ambulance, or would it be better, since she wasn't suffering, to let her take her leave from life that way? We talked about it for a moment: she was in perfect shape, took no medication, and until the day before, she went for walks of over an hour every day (to do the grocery shopping and back), carrying a cane only "to give her security" but never actually using it. We decided to call the ambulance immediately, and she was hospitalized as an emergency. The doctor told my father to prepare himself - it was too grave, and saving her was almost impossible. That night, mentally, I tried to prepare myself to say goodbye. I tried.

A week later, she was back at her house, on her feet, in good shape, with perfect lab results.

But it was a hollow victory because, as my other grandmother used to say, "death looks for its reason". Her condition would decline - slowly - over the following months, giving her both the awareness of her own frailty and the knowledge that she was leaving. She lost the self-sufficiency that meant everything to her.

I would only see her two more times, and speak to her on the phone a few others. On her birthday in March, she was angry because she had wanted a party, knowing it would be her last birthday. She knew it; we didn't. We saw a recovery; she saw the decline.

And today, looking at that photo, I asked myself if, perhaps, it would have been better to avoid calling that ambulance. To let her go like that, without suffering, in her own bed, in her own home. Independent, until the very end. Things went differently: one is never truly ready to let go of someone they love.

And today, looking at that photo, I can't help but think that the restaurant in the picture is now closed. Because the restaurateur, my former classmate, passed away a few months ago. At an age when one should be living life to its fullest, certainly not gone.

Sometimes, a photo is enough to bring you back to the exact mood of that precise instant. A photo where all you see is excellent and abundant fish, but all you feel is anguish, suffering, and sadness.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/28/the-scent-of-a-photo/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Magpie The Magpie - looking inside This morning, I opened the ...

2026-03-29T14:31:59Z

The Magpie

The Magpie - looking inside

This morning, I opened the studio window as I do every morning. But the pigeons' nest on the ledge was occupied by a magpie. Startled by the noise, she turned toward me and began to screech. Like a Pavlovian reflex, I slammed the glass shut and jumped backward, hitting my leg against the cabinet.

That stare. That sound.

It was late autumn 2022 - a year when everything had happened. We were slowly emerging from a period even heavier than the one we were living through, just trying to return to some form of normality. And normality, among other things, meant sitting at my desk around the same time each morning, soft jazz in the background, running through my usual checks. Small rituals. Anchors.

For a few days, something unusual had been happening. Curious, almost pleasant. A magpie had taken to perching on my windowsill and peering inside. This happens sometimes - especially with pigeons. But there was something different: even when I stood up from my chair, she stayed. Magpies are intelligent creatures, I thought. She probably understands the glass is closed and I pose no threat. I saw it as something positive, if odd.

As days passed, she came more often. Stayed longer. At some point, she began tapping her beak against the glass. Insistently. Obsessively. I didn't pay it much attention and went on with my life.

Until that afternoon.

I had decided to replace the old intercom - we couldn't do without one, but replacing the entire system was out of the question. I went outside with everything I needed and started dismounting the old unit. I stepped back for a moment to figure out where to mount the new device. Suddenly, she landed on the low wall in front of me, right on top of my screwdrivers and the new intercom. I barely had time to register the scene before she launched herself straight at my eyes.

I ducked. She circled around me, then returned to the wall. I took out my phone to record, tried to back away, but she kept attacking. She pecked violently at my jacket, damaging it, then flew back to the wall. I tried to run inside, but she was faster. She landed on my head - even as I moved - and tried to reach my eyes. Instinctively, I extended my arm, hoping for the perch effect. She calmed immediately and settled on it. I froze. All I could do was take out my phone and capture the moment. Then I thought: I need to get back inside, somehow. But seconds later, she began hopping up my arm toward my head again.

A truck passed close by, disturbing her enough to make her fly to the balcony ledge. I seized the moment and ran for the door. As I opened it to enter, she tried to jump on me and follow me inside. I slammed the door and inadvertently caught her between the door and the frame. She kept trying to enter. Finally, I managed to close it.

No one fully believed me. My wife did, but she hadn't quite grasped the extent of it. We locked ourselves inside. For a few days, we didn't see her. I convinced myself the blows against the door had injured her - perhaps killed her. I felt guilty. I hadn't wanted to hurt her. I just hadn't wanted her to hurt me.

The morning of 6th December, I was tired of staring at the monitor and suggested a walk to my wife. She agreed. The air was humid but not too cold. As soon as we stepped outside, we started our usual route, but my wife noticed something on the garden wall. It was her. Distant, but I recognized her voice immediately. Before I could look closer, she arrived, landing on my wife's head. My wife panicked and ran toward the house, but the more she fled, the more the bird insisted. She targeted her hair and pecked - fortunately the hood offered some protection. But the path to the front door wasn't short. I threw myself at the bird to drive her away, which worked. For a few seconds. As we neared the door, she returned, screeching relentlessly. I yanked the door open and tried to get my wife inside, but the bird wouldn't let go. I waved my arms, tried to push her away with my hands, but she had clamped down with her claws. Finally I managed, and my wife got inside - but the bird came back for me. I barely made it in, nearly crushing her in the door again.

The security cameras captured everything. Including what she did afterward: she perched on the boiler pipe, puffed up her feathers triumphantly, and flew away.

We contacted the authorities. At the carabinieri station, they didn't take us seriously - until I showed them the video. Then they called the local wildlife protection office immediately.

The following days were a nightmare. The magpie had learned our schedules. Every time I opened a window, she would attack or try to enter. She would station herself on my windowsill for hours, pecking at the glass, working at the rubber seal as if trying to break through. Screeching while she knocked. We couldn't go outside during the day anymore. We couldn't set foot beyond our door: she was there, waiting.

The mail carrier rang. There was a letter requiring a signature. Strangely, she was in her van. I couldn't go out and asked her to take it to the post office, where I'd pick it up. I explained it was because of a deranged magpie. She almost smiled with relief: "So it's not just me. This is why I don't get out of the car around here anymore. She attacks me. Always. It's like a horror film".

We only went out after sunset. Talking with neighbors, we discovered the bird had a precise pattern. She attacked women, younger men, and children. But she was playful and friendly with elderly men. She had injured someone's eye a few days earlier, not far from us. A girl's ear - someone who lived across from our window. She knew when that girl would return from work and would position herself there, waiting. All of this captured by our cameras.

The neighborhood divided. Everyone who had been attacked pushed for something to be done. The others resisted. "She's a free, playful animal. You're clearly the aggressive ones, and she's just defending herself.". So much for community spirit.

Meanwhile, despite reporting to every possible authority, nothing moved. A game of responsibility - which no one wanted - while people walked around with umbrellas for protection. In some cases, she entered through windows and attacked people inside their homes.

That February evening, the sun had already set, so we felt safer. The kitchen shutters were still open, as usual, and I decided to close them. I opened the window and looked around, even though it was dark. I felt calm: in the darkness, there's no danger. A dull thud of claws against the metal gutter and, in a flash, her screech announced the attack. She had been just above me, on the roof, ready to strike. Fortunately, the mosquito net was half-broken and she got partially tangled in it, giving me time to slam the window shut. The shutters stayed open until late that night. So did my eyes.

The next morning we woke to banging. It was barely dawn and she had started hurling herself against the shutters. Obsessively. Continuously. From the cameras I could see her: she would charge from the tree across the street, slam into the shutters, return to the tree, repeat. That day we didn't open the windows. We spent the entire day in darkness, using only electric lights.

The only way we could breathe was to take the car and drive away. To the city center, mostly. We felt safe only among the tall buildings, though every now and then a magpie's call would freeze us in place.

One early April afternoon, I had just made coffee. As I often do, I walked to the window - closed - to look outside. The horse chestnut had begun filling with leaves, a beautiful spectacle marking the start of the warm season. She was right there, on the chestnut tree. The moment she saw me, she launched herself with that unmistakable voice, slamming violently against the glass. She had a sort of crest raised: she was furious.

A very private neighbor had been unaware of the whole affair. Or rather, she knew something but hadn't had direct experience. She too thought the stories were exaggerated by local gossip. Until the magpie tried to attack her husband and then her little girls. Drawing on her civil protection contacts, she immediately took action. We sent her our video to strengthen the case. It was late afternoon and raining heavily. A phone call came: "They caught the magpie. They came to take my statement and she arrived on the scene, attacking even them. They should come to you - since you have the video - for a statement and an identification.".

Incredulous, I agreed immediately. It seemed strange that everything had gone smoothly. Too easy.

Two minutes later, the forestry service car arrived below our house. "Would you like to come see her, to confirm it's the same bird?"

I agreed. A neighbor came too - more for vindication than curiosity. As soon as they opened the trunk, we both jumped back. The magpie, the moment she saw us, began screaming and throwing herself violently against the walls of the cage. In that moment, I believe, she would have torn us apart. It was her. Without a shadow of doubt.

They came upstairs and took our statement, along with permission to include the video. They wouldn't harm the bird, they explained, but they would have to keep her somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone: a sanctuary for birds raised in captivity, unable to survive in the wild.

Like this magpie. And they told us her story.

She had been captured by an elderly man who, since she was a chick, had fed her and let her roam free in his home. She had become possessive and demanding, but never dangerous - with him. With his wife and children, however, probably out of jealousy, she was extremely aggressive. The man was very old, and eventually he died. His wife and children were afraid of the magpie but couldn't report it: magpies are protected and cannot be captured or kept in captivity. So they released her, several months before our first encounter. Perhaps a year earlier. The area was different, so she had likely wandered into our neighborhood in late summer 2022.

While they told us this, one of the officers received a call from colleagues outside: two elderly neighbors were circling the car, trying to open it. They wanted to free her. A criminal offense, but they didn't care. In their eyes, we were evil creatures for wanting "the capture" of that poor, defenseless animal. Even though she had injured dozens of people. Even though she was a direct and constant danger to children. The officers managed to send them away, though they remained angry and threatened legal action against us too.

The rain stopped. A timid ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. I looked up. I saw the trees full of leaves, felt the warmth on my skin and that particular scent that rises around the house just after rain.

I felt free.

I called my wife and asked if she wanted to take a walk. She said yes. We went out and, for the first time in months, returned to places that had been forbidden to us.

This morning, opening that window, I relived the nightmare for an instant. But this magpie, true to her nature, immediately flew away in the opposite direction. She had never known an old man's living room. She had never learned to see a human as home.

I left the window open for a few seconds, breathing in the humid air of the first real day of winter.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/18/the-magpie/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Mechanically Perfect Lie What was left of the mechanically ...

2026-03-28T08:08:33Z

The Mechanically Perfect Lie

What was left of the mechanically perfect Mercedes 250D the next morning.

I heard a deafening noise coming from outside. It sounded like a dying clutch mixed with a completely mistimed acceleration. I looked out and, with a grim sort of satisfaction, I realized I was right: it was an old, battered Mercedes W124 - the famous, "indestructible" 200-Class. Indestructible, perhaps, but old enough now to finally show its age.

It was 14 May 2002. Against my will, I had already returned my car to the dealer because "it sells better during this period", and while waiting for my new one, he had lent me a "courtesy vehicle". It was an old Mercedes 250D - over ten years old. Slow but unstoppable, its odometer boasted over 520,000 kilometers. According to the dealer, it had traveled at least double that, but it was "mechanically perfect".

Actually, it was pleasant to drive. Slow - very slow - but the sense of solidity and quality was still perfectly palpable. I admit that, in the end, I didn't mind those "bridge" days. And that evening, I had no desire to stay home. My parents were going to bed early. I had studied all day and was tired. The evening was mild, and I wanted some space. I made a phone call, grabbed the keys to the Mercedes, and headed out. "I'll be back before midnight; it’s just a short drive".

The evening passed quietly, and by 22:30, I was already on my way back. Sometimes, a little is enough to feel like you can breathe again. I decided to take it slow, enjoying the clear night, the non-existent Tuesday night traffic, and the simple pleasure of extending the drive. I took the highway, with a limit of 130 km/h, but I stayed in the right lane, keeping it under 100. There was no one else on the road.

Lost in my thoughts, I noticed something moving at the edge of the road, barely illuminated by the headlights. Before I could even process it, that "something" darted into the lane: a large white dog - likely a Maremma Shepherd - and a smaller dog by its side. Without even thinking, I slammed my foot on the brake and swerved to the left. The dogs were saved. But in an instant, I knew something was wrong. Despite being equipped with ABS, the car completely lost traction at the rear. Thump - a dull thud - and the front hood flew open, completely blocking my view of the road. The car went wild, spinning in a tailspin, and I heard a loud grinding noise as warning lights flashed on the dashboard. The car kept spinning, then another loud crash. Suddenly, silence. Those moments, though brief, are etched in my mind as infinite seconds, ticked away one by one by an atomic clock.

Then, a slight hiss. Then louder. I saw smoke and decided to get out immediately. I pulled the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. The smoke was increasing - and so was my urge to escape. I gave the door a well-aimed kick, and it suddenly burst open, revealing the road. Fortunately, I was at the edge, so I scrambled out and moved away. I turned around and felt the air leave my lungs: the front of the car was destroyed, the rear torn open, and it was halfway off the road. It had dislodged the guardrail, which, however, had done its job: I hadn't ended up in the canal. Debris was scattered across the asphalt, but luckily, the smoke stopped. It was probably coolant or oil.

I saw a car approaching - it slowed down, drove over the scattered pieces, and kept going. And so, over the next few minutes, did two others. With the third passerby, things went differently: he stopped and positioned his car so his lights would illuminate the scene. My own hazard triangle had ended up in the canal when the trunk flew open during the impact.

The man made sure I was okay and told me that a few days earlier, the same thing had happened to his wife. Same spot, same dynamics, but fortunately, she had managed to regain control. I wondered why I hadn't been able to handle it.

The Carabinieri arrived, and I called my parents. I was unhurt and answered the officers' questions; they admitted they were aware of the problem. They didn't feel it necessary to breathalyze me - I was perfectly lucid.

The next day, I went to the car dealer and told him what had happened. He smiled, telling me the important thing was that I was okay. Then he explained that yes, the car's suspension had over a million kilometers on it and he should have replaced it before the next inspection, but he figured he would eventually sell the car to some "exporter who would take it abroad for pennies". And there was more: the car had been in a bad accident before and had been "decently" repaired, but the frame was no longer entirely straight.

I looked at him. He lowered his gaze. All my fear transformed into rage. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for the damage", he said. The words bounced off my ears. My expression didn't change. The silence said much more than a thousand words. As I walked away, I looked back one last time toward what could have been my coffin. Despite everything, it had protected me - because its mileage and inefficiencies hadn't erased the underlying quality of its build. Just as the three-pointed star continued to shine, pointing proudly upward amidst a tangle of metal, wires, and whatever remained of the car’s front end.

I tried to erase this story from my mind, and it worked. Until a July morning when a registered letter arrived for me. I opened it, curious; I wasn't expecting anything official. It was from the road management company. They were asking me to pay for the repair of the guardrail, which hadn't been fixed yet. Infuriated, I called the reference number and pointed out that the Carabinieri had documented the presence of dogs and were already aware of the issue. In fact, the officers themselves had written in the report that they had received several reports of two stray dogs in previous days. Furthermore, a section of the perimeter fence was missing because it was completely rotted. They replied, coldly, that the fence had been restored and that I had no direct witnesses to the actual existence of those dogs. I would have to activate my insurance or pay. Tertium non datur.

The insurance paid. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but in the end, what mattered was that no one had been hurt. Not me, and not the dogs.

The W124 outside my window, amidst hellish noises, finally managed to pull out of the parking spot and drove away. Sitting back down, I thought that even for "indestructible" cars, the time eventually comes to let them go.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/11/the-mechanically-perfect-lie/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Usual, ThanksThe day is drawing to a close and, before ...

2026-03-27T07:59:35Z

The Usual, ThanksThe day is drawing to a close and, before dinner, I sit down to read the news. The count from today's referendum is nearly over and the result seems fairly clear-cut. Some are celebrating, others "reflecting" on what went wrong. Everyone is talking. No one, by now, remembers what was actually being voted on. Perhaps, for the average voter, it never mattered. Perhaps the real subject didn't interest the politicians either. The purpose, as always, was a pure battle between parties.

That winter was cold - the kind of cold we haven't seen since - and that day I would gladly have stayed home, working from my slow but stable ADSL connection of less than 1 Mbit/sec. Poor even then, but necessity breeds resourcefulness. It was urgent, though. Necessary. Two words that have always made everything else seem secondary. The front door made an unusual sound - a delayed click. The ice had crept into the mechanism, and my nose immediately caught that scent of fog and snow together, so rare to find combined.

Had it been an ordinary day, I would have watched from the window, opening it now and then to savour that fragrance, stretching out an arm to feel the frozen flake settle on my hand, already chilled and dampened by the freezing mist.

The car was in the garage, but the moment I pulled out, the wheels showed signs of poor grip. Even winter tyres weren't enough. But motivation - that was more than enough. As I drove slowly, struggling to see the road through the thickening fog, I was already thinking about the potential new project they were going to propose. I had put forward a couple of ideas - in my view extremely useful and affordable - and they had shown a certain enthusiasm. But the journey was much longer than expected, so my mind wandered everywhere, without my even noticing. I wondered whether I would have made the same trip, in the same conditions, without this urgency. But urgency, when it concerns public budgets, must always be respected.

There were no parking spaces, except… a mound of snow. I didn't think twice and climbed on top of it, thanks to the rear-wheel drive, though I couldn't quite make it all the way. The car, being short, fitted within the allotted space. I smiled, and a snowflake landed on my forehead.

I headed straight to my contact's office. He greeted me with a triumphant smile. "You made it in this weather. You're a person of incredible motivation. Exactly what we need. We've had some ideas here, and we'd like to share them with you." I was about to speak, but: "We're confident our collaboration will be extremely long and lasting. We all agree. All of us."

That _all of us_, for reasons I couldn't explain, made my blood run cold.

Two other people arrived whom I had never seen before. They introduced themselves, courteously. In that moment I thought they must have been printing smiles in that office - identical ones. Or perhaps they were fraternal twins, separated at birth. I smiled too, to blend in with this carnival of good cheer, still without having said a single word.

"You are young, upright, well-regarded, respected. You work in an innovative, valued sector. You are someone who can be trusted, and we need you."

I strengthened my smile, turning it into my own.

"One of our current problems is the stagnation of the political class, in the face of demographic change. The elderly are dying, the young are growing up with different ideas, and there are many new arrivals. We're expanding demographically - and not through new births."

I put my polite smile back on, to mask the fact that I wasn't understanding a thing. I didn't even try, this time, to take the floor.

"Many people who come to live here weren't born here. They study, they graduate, and the many industries in our area attract them - drawing them to settle nearby. And you weren't born here, but you're a figure that many people know, esteem, and respect. You are the archetype of the new citizen, and that could be very useful to us."

But I didn't even live there. What were they asking me? I didn't understand - at first. But I sensed something strange in their request. It was time to clarify, but…

"It doesn't matter which political alignment you choose. These gentlemen are the local representatives of the two major parties, and both would be delighted to have you on board. The choice should be ideological, but try to be pragmatic. After all, both sides have their spheres of influence, and you won't lack for work, in the position you'll hold. People will seek you out because you think like them. And for us, a new face would be gold, in this moment of political disaffection."

My smile turned, abruptly, to paralysis. I tried to speak, but…

"You can always change your mind and switch to the other side. Some have done it, and although it may seem absurd, some voters appreciate someone who changes their mind - they see it as a human quality, like their own."

I interrupted him.

"Are you asking me to stand for election, in either of the two parties? I have no experience. No competence in the matter. Shouldn't I start from the bottom first?"

His smile became almost paternal, like the other two:

"My dear boy, it doesn't matter. You'll learn. Besides, people don't want experience - experience makes you cautious, and caution is boring. They want someone young, resolute, convincing. Tell them what they like to hear, with confidence. That will be more than enough. In the meantime, party dynamics count more than individual ideas." And their smiles turned into a laugh. Genuine, probably. Sardonic, to my eyes.

I froze, and decided to put their same smile back on.

"Thank you for the offer and for the trust. Without doubt, it's interesting. But I need to think about it - you must give me time. I would never have expected this; it wasn't in my plans. I need to reflect."

"Of course!" replied Stan (of Stan's Previously Owned Vessels). "Take all the time you want - we're always here. Just give us a sign and we'll always be ready to meet and give you all the details you need."

As soon as I stepped outside the building, I quickened my pace toward the Smart. The snow was bothering me now and I brushed it from my face with sharp, impatient movements. The mound of snow was still there, and so was my Smart. I accelerated to build some momentum and, without even realising it, went into a slight spin. I shifted the lever to D and pulled away, sharply.

I reached home in some indefinite stretch of time, my mind empty. I left the Smart outside and went upstairs, almost slamming the door to make sure it wouldn't freeze shut. I opened the fridge - full of everything - but closed it thinking: "Pizza." I went out again, this time on foot, to pick one up. A few words with someone, I thought, would do me good.

"The usual, thanks." Luca looked at me, probably thinking I had got out of bed on the wrong side, and said nothing more. The television, in the background, was showing the news. At one point an important national politician appeared, charming the journalists with their own words.

"Crooks. Phonies. Hypocrites. Only clinging to their seats, that's all they are" - I whispered in my mind. But, perhaps, not only in my mind.
Luca looked at me, while with practised, expert gestures he stretched out my pizza, and said with a smile: "Only just worked that out, have you?"

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/03/27/the-usual-thanks/

#MyNotes #Blogging #Life #Reflections #Memories

The Virtue of Finished Things Photo by Lukas Tennie on Unsplash I ...

2026-03-26T07:22:16Z

The Virtue of Finished Things

Photo by Lukas Tennie on Unsplash

I received an email yesterday morning. It was a thank-you note for one of the open-source tools I created and maintain. The sender explained how useful the software was for their specific needs, and as always, this brought me an immense sense of satisfaction.

But at one point in the email, a question appeared - one that has become a recurring theme in the modern software world: "I notice there haven't been any new releases for about ten months. Should I consider the project abandoned?"

I decided to reply immediately: "No, it’s not abandoned. But it satisfies all my requirements, so unless there are bugs or new needs, I consider it 'complete'."

The person’s response was telling: "What do you mean by complete? Software is either in active development or it's abandoned. I’ve never heard of 'complete' software."

I started reflecting on how the very ideal of "completeness" has totally vanished from our lives. And on second thought, I wasn't surprised.

This doesn't just apply to software; it permeates every corner of our modern existence. There was a time when you bought a car, you owned it. Today, almost everyone leases or uses financing with a final "balloon" payment - often so inconvenient that people find themselves taking out a new loan after just a few years. The result is that we never truly own our cars, and they are constantly plagued by automatic software updates that, in some cases, break things that previously worked just fine.

When we bought an appliance, we installed it. Barring a breakdown, it stayed exactly as it was for the rest of its (often long) life. Today, an immediate software update is mandatory the moment you plug it in. Fail to do so, and essential features won't work. A modern washing machine often comes with only two or three built-in programs; the others must be downloaded from the "cloud" - sometimes for a fee. If you don't, you can't fully use what you already paid for. I don't wash my clothes the way I want anymore; I wash them the way the manufacturer’s questionable cloud dictates. And this continues only as long as the manufacturer decides I am allowed to wash my clothes at all.

Before everything was "always online", the concept of complete software was common. Yes, new releases happened from time to time, but they weren't taken for granted, and sometimes years would pass between them. The premise was clear: software was released to solve a specific problem. Distributing updates wasn't easy, so it had to be reliable from the very first release. It couldn't come out riddled with bugs - that would have meant a loss of face (or even bankruptcy) for the producer.

When a new release or a new product did come out (be it software, an appliance, or a car), the manufacturer had to entice the user by focusing on what was actually new - on what new problem it would solve. Consumable goods eventually need replacing, but for durable goods, the battle for the customer's attention was more complex. I remember buying many books, VHS tapes, CDs, and DVDs during sales, and then spending the following months reading, listening, or watching them. The beauty of today's streaming is choice. The tragedy is that the moment we stop paying, we are left with nothing.

The "disposable" has become the norm for everything. Quality has plummeted - even in our relationships - because we are always searching for something "new". And yes, I say "we" because I include myself in this chase for dopamine - that intense, albeit brief, pleasure of something new. Even when there is almost nothing new about it. Even when I didn't need it.

Just as with my relationships, I like to take care of my things. Making my wife laugh, sending a message to a friend, painting the house. Sometimes I rescue old objects and give them a new life. Behind me sits a cabinet - I bought it for next to nothing, and it's incredibly useful. Ten years ago, with some hours of work, I completely restored it. It’s beautiful, sturdy, and perfect. It had been thrown away by someone who considered it old and outdated, only to replace it with a fragile piece of furniture from a well-known chain. To each their own, sure. But taking care of what you own is an act of respect.

I replied to that email. Yes, the software is currently complete. I will take care of it. I will ensure that bugs are fixed. And if I ever have new requirements, I will resume development. But as of today, it has solved my problem and it works excellently. Why should I add useless "stuff" just for the sake of expanding it? For whom? For what? I gain nothing from it. I don't have to sell it. And even if I did, I would rather sell an effective, working product than a constant, never-ending process of fixing something that is perpetually buggy and incomplete.

Not "continuous integration", but "boring software" that does its job.

And this is perfectly aligned with my business ethos: I would rather stop growing indefinitely and take care of my current clients than start hiring incompetent people just to make numbers and provide a service that doesn't meet my expectations.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/06/the-virtue-of-finished-things/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

The Universes Behind the Lights Photo by Dario Morandotti on ...

2026-03-24T19:16:24Z

The Universes Behind the Lights

Photo by Dario Morandotti on Unsplash

A little while ago, I took the clean laundry off the drying rack and opened the drawer. The plan was to fold everything neatly, but I handled it exactly like I did back in my university days: I just dumped everything in a heap, much to my wife’s amusement.

Shortly after, wanting to make myself useful and to quickly escape the "crime scene", I went out to take out the trash. The sky was already dark, with the first signs of frost appearing on the plants. I decided to take the long way around, breathing in that crisp, biting air of a new year.

As I walk in the evening, my eyes are drawn to the lit houses. And in every house, I find myself thinking, there is an entire universe. The universe of the people living there. Their relationships, their pleasures, and their pains. Their affections - often jealously guarded in the warmth of their own homes. Just like their secrets, their valuables, and their memories.

Where do they put their socks? I wonder if they, too, sometimes just toss them in like I did earlier. Maybe someone there is laughing, like my wife. Or maybe someone is starting to yell, as many others would. Or maybe there is silence - a silence worse than laughter or shouting. Is this a season of joy or sadness for them? What are their problems right at this moment? Are they cooking their favorite dish or some tasteless broth? Perhaps they are dreaming of going out to a restaurant tonight. Or, perhaps, they have other things on their minds. Has the new year started well, or are they still carrying the weight of the past year? And I wonder if they will still be there at the end of this year. Or if they will simply still be there, behind those lights, doing the same things they are doing right now. Focused on the same old things - or free, in mind and body, moving toward something new. Maybe folding their socks, absent-mindedly, getting ready for a new workday.

Lost in my thoughts, I run into a neighbor, who tells me about the beautiful evening he had yesterday. He had a clear, bright, happy look in his eyes. His son had come to visit, and they had spent the evening together. He shared his contagious joy with me, and I started walking back home. I looked at those houses again, thinking that they probably do fold their socks - always - maybe while thinking of something else entirely, remembering happy moments or dreaming of running away.

Then I see my own windows, the light on. And I know that behind that light is my wife, listening to her favorite music. And behind the other light is my chair, the one I am about to return to. Behind those walls is the life I have built. My universe.

I close the windows now; it is dark. I wouldn’t want someone passing by to think that I actually tossed my laundry in like that.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2026/01/01/the-universes-behind-the-lights/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

Looking Back at 2025, Looking Forward to 2026 Walking away from ...

2026-03-23T16:47:13Z

Looking Back at 2025, Looking Forward to 2026

Walking away from the BSDCan final reception at Lowertown Brewery, Ottawa. The perfect end to a life-changing experience.

A peculiar year is coming to a close. Looking at world news, it has been a heavy one, with the lingering fear that the next might be even worse. Right at the start of the year (in one way) and toward the end (in another), some truly heavy things happened that were hard to digest. So, let’s focus on the positives.

The year kicked off with the announcement of FediMeteo (https://fedimeteo.com) and the warm, enthusiastic response it received.

I participated as a speaker in three conferences, all of them exceptional:

OSDay 2025 (https://osday.dev/) - which brought me back to beautiful Florence after many years. I met fantastic people and learned a lot, stepping out of my "bubble." I spoke about BSD to many people who had never even heard of it.BSDCan 2025 (https://www.bsdcan.org/2025/) - which took me to the American continent for the first time. I saw old friends and finally met new ones in person (people I had been in contact with online for years, but never face-to-face). I saw the city of Ottawa and experienced, at least in part, its atmosphere. I truly hope to go back soon. It was a fantastic event with wonderful people that made me feel at home, even if I was almost "halfway across the world". Chatting with the president of the NetBSD Foundation at the final reception and discovering a shared childhood passion (the Amiga) was the icing on the cake.EuroBSDCon 2025 (https://2025.eurobsdcon.org/) - Zagreb is stunning, but the best part was being part of another marvelous event. Seeing some people again after a year, others after just a few months, and meeting many new friends. Strengthening bonds with people I’d stayed in touch with after Dublin was an unforgettable experience. Participating in the FreeBSD dev summit and Eurobhyvecon, then eating pizza in a random spot in Zagreb with one of my favorite authors is something I’ll never forget.Unfortunately, I had to decline an invitation to a conference I would have loved to attend, but sometimes life chooses for you.

I met a friend in person in Bologna (something I really cared about), and we spent an unforgettable day together.

I reconnected with old friends and former neighbors; we got together for dinner several times, culminating in a trip to our favorite amusement park. After so many years, it was as if nothing had changed - sharing a truly memorable experience.

I launched a few projects, including BSSG (https://bssg.dragas.net/) and the illumos Cafe (https://illumos.cafe), as well as new services for the BSD Cafe (https://bsd.cafe). I handed out many stickers - though never enough; someone always misses out.

On the work front, I started new projects, closed others, gained a few great clients, and let go of a couple I couldn't wait to part with.

Thanks to some fantastic people who indirectly gave me the idea, I resumed writing on my personal blog. And thanks to one person who pushed and encouraged me, I started writing more than just my usual tech rants or technical articles; I’ve started sharing parts of my life and my memories.

I’ve eaten many pizzas, drunk many coffees, and had a few tiramisus. But mostly, I've met fantastic human beings who made me feel optimistic and gave me the energy to keep going with all of this. The world is full of negative noise emitted by a few, but fortunately, there are many positive figures who often remain in silence.

For all of this, I have to say thank you to the fantastic communities of BSD Cafe, illumos Cafe, and the general communities surrounding these great operating systems. They are the ones who pushed me forward and make me feel excited every morning about what a new day will bring. The positive atmosphere I breathed among these people - never as an outsider, but always as an old friend - was exactly the oxygen I needed in this phase of my life.

And I must thank (dulcis in fundo) my wife: she supports me, accompanies me, and pushes me. She is a special person in every possible way.

I wish you all a wonderful 2026, in the hope that the world stops spinning toward the spiral of madness it has been caught in lately and brings more positivity to everyone. The plan already includes:

Many more pizzas.Many more tiramisus.Coffee.A wedding we've been invited to and will happily attend.Conferences - I won't waste any more time; I want to experience that atmosphere as much as possible, with my usual Smile(TM).Writing a lot - both on the tech blog and the personal one - and more (spoiler).Meeting friends and making new ones. Friendship isn't about geographical proximity; it’s about mental affinity. Even if we think differently. Even if we are worlds apart.Making my wife happy.Remaining the BSD, illumos, and Fediverse Barista (and meteorologist), trying to bring constructiveness and positivity to the world.I hope we'll share a bit of this journey called life together. Just as we are sharing it now, through these words. Thank you to each and every one of you - because thanks to you, my life is better.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2025/12/31/looking-back-at-2025-looking-forward-to-2026/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

Between Then and Now Photo by aj_aaaab on Unsplash There are ...

2026-03-21T14:12:54Z

Between Then and Now

Photo by aj_aaaab on Unsplash

There are moments when I need to take refuge for a while. Distant, in space and time.

Far away.

Connected with someone who is no longer here.

Like a ten-year-old boy with glistening eyes, behind a pair of glasses, watching a movie, unaware of what was to come. Yet, somehow, sensing it. Because not everything can be explained.

Tonight is one of those moments, and music - my music - helps me go back.

No, not with a DeLorean. Because the flux capacitor doesn't exist. But the mind can do much, much more.

And those tears, inexplicable then, are full of meaning today.

https://my-notes.dragas.net/2025/12/29/between-then-and-now/

#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

MyNotes is now on the FediverseThis account is the Fediverse ...

2026-03-21T09:38:35Z

MyNotes is now on the FediverseThis account is the Fediverse presence of my personal blog, my-notes.dragas.net.

But I want to be upfront about how it works - because it works a little differently from most blog accounts you may follow.

I won't post teasers. I won't post titles with a link asking you to click somewhere else. I will post the full articles, right here, in your feed.

The reason is simple: I don't monetize my content. I have no ads, no paywalls, no analytics chasing your attention. My only interest is that the things I write reach people who might find them worth reading. If you're already here on the Fediverse, you shouldn't need to go anywhere else for that.

Over the coming weeks, I'll also gradually repost older articles from the archive - without flooding your feed. Some of them are personal reflections, some are about technology, some are somewhere in between. That's more or less what my-notes has always been: a slow, honest mosaic of thoughts.

If you enjoy what you read, follow this account. If a piece isn't for you, scroll past. No hard feelings - that's what feeds are for.

Welcome!

Stefano

#MyNotes