On The Way

(Few words)

Autumnal landscape in Maira Valley featuring trees with golden and orange leaves under a clear blue sky.
Marmora, Maira Valley

Yesterday, the Ingegnoli catalog arrived in the mail and I imagined this scene: like a photograph, a fleeting glimpse through a keyhole, a snapshot:

A rented, pre-furnished house; furniture out of time, put together without criteria; the listless glow of energy-saving light bulbs. There is a middle-aged man with a humble air, hunched over his desk. Before his eyes, in the only well-lit part of the house, lies a brand-new, glossy magazine. On the cover, peppers of every color: it is the catalog of the Ingegnoli farm in Milan, an institution in the field of agricultural seeds. And then there is him, who has never even touched the earth with his hands, except, perhaps, once, in a distant time that doesn’t even seem probable, when he was a child. And what does he do? He learns it by heart. He reads and re-reads it as if it were important. As if it were a game to beat imaginary opponents, as if he himself were a man without future or past, entirely poured into that catalog, the two of them becoming a single thing.

And so, I took this little daydream trip, and even before knowing anything else about him, I returned to myself and, in that moment, I felt sad. I wished I were him—or rather, that I had his talent, that I too could have a special skill like knowing a seed catalog by heart.

Mind you, let’s be clear: that guy isn’t a special person at all, and he isn’t truly capable of memorizing the whole catalog; he is just skilled enough with his memory to hold a conversation with expert farmers, as if he wanted to pretend to be like them.

But I am not like that, and for a moment, I felt sorry for myself. Then the epiphany: I realized that this is the beauty of writing. And in this, above all, lies the juice of my life, the essence, if not the meaning: imagining being who I am not. Perhaps because I truly wish I were different from who I am, or perhaps simply because this is my nature: to be an imaginary person.

An Imaginary Person

Another image that constantly comes to mind when thinking about this little man and his catalog is Bartleby, the Scrivener, but I don’t know why. By the way, I’ve never read that book, though I wish I already had. So, in the meantime, a daydream has been added where I go to the library to look for the book (Bartleby, the Scrivener) and ask the librarians for help because I can’t find it. In the end, I even went as far as thinking of bringing them a Christmas gift to thank them for their help. Such is my life in the clouds.

Returning to the strange guy with the catalog: the point is that for a moment I envied him; I wanted to be him, to no longer be myself but that character with an insignificant yet so intriguing existence that he caught my attention. But no, it’s me, who, in the end, am nothing special.

Yet then, for a second, I came to my senses and remembered my luck: that through imagination I can be him whenever I want, just as I can imagine smoking and it can be almost the same thing. In short, writing to enjoy life, to play at being whoever I desire, according to my pure instinct, without having to answer to anyone, and without harming anyone in the process. Just me and my imagination. Free.

Therefore, I write to be free, to have the relief of not being myself at least for a while. For pure fun; after all, this is what life deserves. Nothing serious, and I am far too much so. Escaping here and there with my mind is the best strategy to survive myself. I cannot think of anything better.

A rugged mountain rock face seen from Marmora with golden and orange autumn branches in the foreground, overlooking the valley under a soft, hazy sky.
Autumn shades in Marmora

And now we come to something truly important: the plateau.
Near the village where I recently moved, there is a trail through the mountains that leads to a valley hidden among the peaks; you cannot see it until you are inside and, magically, at the very instant you cross the threshold, the trail behind you vanishes into the rocks.
But beware: to reach this perfect, definitive, ultimate place, a precise and determined approach is necessary. You must not let yourself be distracted; no one must intercept you or lead you astray. You must have faith and stay focused, keeping a clear mind and remaining centered.

Soundtrack - We Can Be Strong, Willy Mason (for the climb)

Decorative divider: Dark silhouette of Flying Amrita leaping over the Alpine ridge of Marmora. Inspired by Natsumi Hayashi's photography, the image symbolizes a leap toward freedom and the spirit of the Amrita Express project.
Flying Amrita

At Home | Here and Now

09/01/2026
Post Scriptum

Now that I am here on the plateau, space and time are still: I have all the time I desire because I don’t have to be anywhere else; I have everything I need because all my time is here, and there is no other place in the world where I should be. There isn’t even another time, or a time flowing elsewhere, because within this space, all my past and all my future are enclosed.
I have arrived. And Amrita is with me.

Soundtrack - Say Why, Zach Bryan (for the arrival)

Decorative divider: Dark silhouette of Flying Amrita leaping over the Alpine ridge of Marmora. Inspired by Natsumi Hayashi's photography, the image symbolizes a leap toward freedom and the spirit of the Amrita Express project.

A story for you

Rootless Trees, Stella Boschi, 2003

Decorative divider: Dark silhouette of Flying Amrita leaping over the Alpine ridge of Marmora. Inspired by Natsumi Hayashi's photography, the image symbolizes a leap toward freedom and the spirit of the Amrita Express project.

Listen to the sounds that shaped this journey: Amrita Express Soundtrack on Spotify

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Photos taken with Nikon D70

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