MY GARDENING

Today it's very hot here and I took the opportunity to transfer some red calla lilies they gave me for Women's Day, even though I didn't want to celebrate this holiday because many women are killed here in Italy and there is nothing to celebrate in my opinion.
I already had one of white calla lilies but they had dried out and are recovering now.
I really like calla lilies but I've only discovered now that they are indoor and not outdoor plants, at least this type.
And I didn't know, in fact I had put the white ones on the outside.
Unfortunately I have not been able to put them in my garden because my lively dogs dig the ground and uproot all the plants.
I really like gardening when there are these beautiful days. 

BLUE STARS

If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days
with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key
of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face
guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers. 

MY GARDEN WITH HOLES

My garden is full of puddles, holes made by dogs, pieces of branches flown in the storm, bare trees and no flowers because the mice have eaten the bulbs. And I'm very sad that I can't have a nice garden but the weather is awful here. It is very cold and there is already snow on the mountains and yesterday it was only 4 degrees. The house is very humid and even if we heat it later it becomes cold again, it does not keep the heat, it is an old house and it is a torment. Here in my area life is very sad now, especially for me because I don't have the green pass and I can no longer go to the gym, to the theater, to the cinema. I always have to stay at home. Our Italian government has taken away all freedom from us and people like me, who cannot get the vaccine, are limited in everything in life. I am getting depressed and I can't stand this deprivation of freedom. Now in Italy there is this dictatorship that is destroying the country's economy and the people.

WE’RE LITTLE FLOWERS

We are little flowers that are not seen,
we don’t have sparkling makeup,
gorgeous dresses.
We are simple flowers,
little souls in the midst of life.
Tiny breaths of a moment of infinity.
We are small flowers that grow asking for nothing.
It is enough for us to have the sky above and the earth below us.

Have you ever stopped to observe the wildflowers? Have you ever reflected on the beauty of colors, their shades which not even the most daring painter would be able to reproduce? In their apparent simplicity, wildflowers hide a great pride, a strength and a determination that leads them to stand up among others without anyone having asked for it, without anyone having sown, watered, wanted them. I admire them for their tender beauty, their colors and their spontaneity. Simple and yet each of them to see well is perfect and wonderful in his being. Sometimes I feel like wildflowers, one among many, simple, but with that simplicity that hides a strength that only those who want to look beyond appearances can find. Fair and modest like wildflowers. Shy yet sure of her own worth like wildflowers.

Have you ever appreciated the beauty of a wild flower? I love them. They don’t have a well-kept garden where they can show off their beauty. They have no loving hands that take care of them. They don’t have a long life to be admired. They grow in inaccessible places and bend to the elements of time. But they are tenacious, bold. And on their slender stem they will blossom again in spite of those who do not find them beautiful and those who are unable to appreciate their scent. Isn’t that a nice way to describe women? Women who, like a wildflower, always show everyone the strength to be reborn after one or a thousand difficulties.

WE CAN SOW OAKS NOW

How to sow oak:

In open ground (on site or in the nursery), dig the soil to a depth of 30 cm, crumble well and level it; potted, fill them.
Lightly spray the oil tassels to deter rodents from consuming them.
Place the acorns to a depth of between 5 and 6 cm.

Spacers of 30 cm for a seedling, 15 cm on the row in the nursery. Only put one acorn per pot, so it would be difficult to divide the seedlings without damaging the roots.

Locate seedling sites in the ground with bamboos.
Water moderately to prevent rotting of the acorns.

After sowing the oak:
Carefully remove weeds that sprout around the seedlings. If birds or mammals can eat young shoots, protect with a net or net.

For sowing usually mixed soil garden soil and drainage material. The acorns are planted either horizontally, or with the tip down (where the root comes out) and the head (where there is the dome that covers it) upwards. Just cover them a little with soil. Therefore, the young shoot of the tree should not be in the shade of large trees or grass. You should regularly remove weeds, weed out the growing area of ​​the seedling. Additional moisture, fertilizing is necessary in the early years and in the dry season. It is necessary to constantly fluff the soil. In addition, it is important to prevent any diseases of the young shoot.

Oak is a slowly growing plant. Don't expect quick results and expect to harvest acorns in a year or two.
The specified plant reaches the height of a medium-sized tree at the age of 9-10 years. In another ten years the first fruits could appear. Although, as a rule, fruiting occurs at the age of 40-45 years. But even at this age, it is not worth waiting for acorns every season. The crop appears every 4 years. Although a sprout grown in a pot develops faster, such a tree will die faster. This is due to the improper development of the rhizome in a pot. Therefore, if you want to lay a centuries-old garden, it is better to grow an oak from an acorn.

MY CATS COLLECTION ( part one)

All those I have loved, all those who have passed by my house, all those who have remained in my heart. Their memory will always be magical for me. I love all animals and even cats that I have been lucky enough to have with me at home or that have disappeared. I hope you who love cats can understand my nostalgia. I am allergic to cat hair and can no longer keep cats indoors. I keep them in the garden but every now and then they make their rounds and don't come back. My heart cries when I don't see them anymore but I always remember each one of them and my love will always be with them all. They were close to me when I cried, they comforted me, kept me company and supported me in difficult times. They have all been special and continue to be special to me.

PRINCIPESSA, my little whitesnow

TORTELLINO, my dear black cat

PERLA, the snob girl

PIMPY, my curious little kitten

PRINCE, my lost love

MARY AND PRINCE, together on my bed

MARY, on my sound set

PALLINO, my lovely little joker

MARY, loves my book very much

PLANTS IN MY LIFE

Today I went to the nursery and bought four seedlings: an orchid, an ivy, a calathea and a begonia. Begonia is already half-dying because it has been mistreated during the journey. It is a bit bruised and bent to the right and so now to make it stand straight I have stuck a crutch in the ground. The calathea is not having peace because, although it has been in my hands for three hours, it has already undergone numerous transfers: after staying ten minutes on the dresser in my room, it has walked countless times the corridor that leads from the bathroom to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the bath. I still haven’t figured out where it looks best. The ivy and the orchid, for now, are having a quiet life.

Yesterday I was watering some plants When I got to basil Not before, not after, but especially during watering I could smell that fragrance of basil, so intense It was a great feeling If we want to be a little more metaphysical, we could say that basil, thanking us for the water we give it, gives us this wonderful scent

I bought the liquid chlorophyll drops (as I am not easily influenced) I literally toured 3 pharmacies and 2 herbalists for these blessed drops and in the end, after drinking chlorophyll on the first day, I stopped drinking it because it tasted like grass (but I already knew it before I bought it). I would like to start drinking it regularly because part of me hopes to turn green like Shrek and move to a little house away from everyone

People, relationships are like flowers and plants. They need a lot of attention: the light, the vase, the temperature, the habitat, the watering, all different depending on the flower you are talking about. And so do the people. We cannot expect to water an orchid every day because it would rot and die, just as we cannot expect to keep a plant in the sun that does not need direct light, a tropical flower in the cold or a winter plant in the heat. And instead we usually think that plants and flowers are all the same, we water them when we remember it, we keep them where they best adorn our home and then if they die we don’t even recognize that we haven’t been able to understand them well. A person needs the right attention, not what we believe is right for all people, but exactly what he or she needs.

People are like plants. Some are alike, others are completely different. Some have flowers, and they are beautiful just to look at, others have fruits that give nourishment, and still others have thorns … And they hurt. Some plants if you water them once no longer need water for some time, and indeed, if they have too much, they die. Other plants, on the other hand, need constant care and lots of water. Plants die in the dark. In the light they find life. And people too. Oh well I don’t have a green thumb and people don’t know about me.

To become a plant, the seed needs two things: the right soil and who takes care of it. Love, hate, anger, serenity, friendship and all our feelings are born in the garden of our heart and sometimes on the border of another person. If they only grow inside of us, we are the ones who have to cut the roots that seem harmful to us. If, on the other hand, the roots grow on two neighboring lands, there are two people who must take care of them. If one of the two cuts the roots, the plant can no longer feed and over time slowly and painfully dies. If no one takes care of it, the tree does not grow and dies. If one of the two looks for a way to make it grow, he will never succeed because only one part of the tree feeds and the other does not and therefore it is better to uproot it even if in that way the tree of pain will first sprout while on the other side it will grow. faster the tree of indifference or joy for having freed itself of a burden. It is not up to us to decide which seeds to plant but which seeds to ripen

CATS IN MY GARDEN

• I should take my cat as an example: he sees everything, but he does not let himself be upset by anything; it might sound like indifference, but I think it’s just immense wisdom. Yes, because a cat is fine alone, it is fully satisfied with itself, yet it deeply loves caresses, but above all it is not afraid to ask for it. And with great class he knows how to exploit every empty corner to obtain comfort. It is the perfect balance between curiosity and tranquility, between loneliness and company, love and selfishness: his is simple selfishness disguised as love … or maybe it’s pure love disguised as selfishness.

A Pet’s Last Will and Testament

Before humans die, they write their last will and testament, give their home and all they have to those they leave behind. If, with my paws, I could do the same, this is what I’d ask…

To a poor and lonely stray I’d give my happy home; my bowl and cozy bed, soft pillow and all my toys; the lap which I loved so much; the hand that stroked my fur; and the sweet voice that spoke my name.

I’d will to the sad, scared shelter pet the place I had in my human’s loving heart, of which there seemed no bounds.

So, when I die, please do not say, “I will never have a pet again, for the loss and pain is more than I can stand.”

Instead, go find an unloved pet, one whose life has held no joy or hope, and give my place to him.

This is the only thing I can give…

The love I left behind

I know that Nano will not live forever, I know that his time on earth, like everyone else, is limited. I know that I cannot work miracles, nor invent amazing cures, and that this cat has had HIV for years. I know that the past does not go back, and that the living organism of each of us deteriorates month by month, year after year, continuously. I have studied general pathology and biology, and I am now studying degenerative and infectious diseases and pathologies affecting internal organs. And even a child knows that at some point each of us will no longer be on this earth. However, no matter how much I think about it, and repeat it to me, and tell me that I must be prepared, that that moment will happen, in a day not far away, that it is nothing but the passing of life, the natural cycle of each one. our. It doesn’t matter that if I think about it clearly it’s all right, and it’s all scientific and sequential. Because as soon as I stop to really think about that day, and the lack of Nano from my life, and his non-presence, and the fact that he will be gone from that day until the end of my days, I feel like I’m dying. I feel an anguish so enormous, immense, atrocious, crushing and suffocating, that it seems to me that I too am dying a bit. It seems to me that I can no longer breathe, that my chest is heavy, that my pleurae are squeezing my lungs, that my mind is leaving me. It is an intolerable idea to remain without a part of my life and without a life partner as faithful as he has been over the years.

I know death, I have seen it several times during my internship. I saw life leave a creature: the exact, precise moment in which that animal was there, and the second after when everything stopped. Being and not being. The presence and absence of life, with no return. And every time, however absurd it is, it remains terrible. And the most terrible thing is that I will be alone even in that moment, because no one around me understands even remotely what he means to me, and what we have been all our life. Nobody will care, neither about him nor the pain that I already know will swallow me. And I just want someone who could give me a hug that day, or a sign of humanity and a shoulder to cry on. And instead there will be nothing but emptiness. And he, my shoulder to cry on, my little great strength, will be gone. I will be even more alone than now, alone even in elaborating the definitive absence of a feline brother whom I have loved more than many human people in my life. This time I’m really afraid of getting lost in too devastating a pain.

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. A black blood flows in his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? There you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.

I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.

I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.