The Electric Oven
A question about ovens, a husband in a hospital bed, and a phone call years later. Some words can't be taken back.
Tag: memories
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Menaville
A colleague's accent brings back a childhood memory. I open a Commodore 64 emulator and go looking for Menaville, a city that never existed, and the freedom that did.
A Jump in My Chair
Thunder, a jump in my chair, pasta on my trousers. I smile. Sixteen years ago, on a riverbank, the same sound meant something else entirely.
It's 22:53
At 22:53, I move through space and time, between my home, my memories and the people I love. Then, at 22:55, I return. Here, now.
The Black Mug
A black mug, never used in 22 years, outlives the park whose name it still carries. A coincidence, a moment of weightlessness, and the quiet pleasure of feeling lighter.
Winter is Over
A blood pressure cuff, a worn folder with someone else's name on it, and the walks to the pharmacy through the freezing air. Winter is over, thankfully.
The Lock
An empty wardrobe, a rescued pendulum clock, and a lingering scent in the kitchen. Closing a door, forcing the key a little, and leaving a piece of life behind.
My City
I spent years trying to return to my city, only to understand that what I was looking for had disappeared long before I did.
The Red Envelope
A red envelope reopened after many years. A few pages, too many questions.
The Last Shift
A forgotten cotton swab in an old cabinet brings back the memory of a terrifying afternoon on the road, the indifference of crowds, and the quiet dignity of a stranger's last day at work.
I'm Still Guybrush
A jolt before dawn, a terminal waiting in the dark, and the Monkey Island soundtrack pulling me back to a warm summer evening in 1991. The screen has always been my safe harbour - it just took me thirty years to understand why.
Two Seashells
A chance encounter with Ivan Graziani in the mid-nineties, a nod I didn't deserve, and the years it took to understand what he already knew about our sea and the places we leave behind.
The Usual, Thanks
A snowy drive to a meeting that turned out to have nothing to do with IT - and a pizzaiolo who understood politics better than the politicians.
The Scent of Denial
An anonymous white bottle in a 2001 photo brings back the sharp smell of adolescence - of treatments, hidden shame, and the night I looked in the mirror and finally saw what everyone else already had.
The Scent of the City
A morning walk through Ferrara becomes a journey through scent and memory - from London coffee to a grandmother's market, from ancient hospital corridors to the unmistakable perfume of fresh bread.
The Scent of Freedom
A rubber keychain shaped like a foot, a Piaggio Zip, and the sweet, terrifying taste of independence.
179 Euros
A 179 Euro purchase in 2010 seemed like a splurge. 16 years later, that appliance has survived moves, earthquakes, and snowstorms, becoming a silent witness to my life's changes.
Up, 16 Years Later
A new pair of earbuds triggers a sudden journey back 16 years.
Arrivals and Departures
A sleepless night, a thought about the day I arrived and the day I'll leave.
The Weight of a Millimeter
A distracted driver, a motorcycle crash, and the terrifying wait to see if I would ever walk again.
The Scent of a Photo
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.
The Magpie
A bird’s noise is enough to bring back memories of months spent half-trapped because of a magpie.
The Mechanically Perfect Lie
A loud noise outside my window brings back a memory from 2002. The night I truly could have died.
Looking Back at 2025, Looking Forward to 2026
A peculiar year is coming to a close. Between world-class conferences and rediscovered friendships, here is my personal review of 2025.
Between Then and Now
Sometimes I need a refuge. A refuge far away in space and time, remembering those who are no longer here.
The Two-Pound Lifeboat
A passport photo slips from an old book on a rainy Christmas afternoon. The memory of a week stranded abroad with nothing but a two-pound paperback for company.
The Gray Teacher
On a gray winter morning, memory drifts back to an old classroom, a stern teacher, and the thin line between mist and humidity.
What If I Were Twenty Again? Thoughts on My 46th Birthday
Turning 46 triggers a question: would I go back to being twenty?
Just an Old Sign
The waiting room was full, but a forgotten sign made me feel suddenly alone. Revisiting a moment when life happened all at once, leaving marks that took time to heal.
The Chair
A familiar road, a moment of pause. I found myself looking at a place that once meant purpose and community. It’s a quiet reflection on what remains when people move on and what stays behind in silence.
The Lady of the Clock
The search for an antique clock turns into an encounter with its elderly owner and a promise to become the custodian of a century of memories. A personal reflection on legacy, loss, and the stories objects carry.
The Rubble of Memory
A fleeting glimpse of a car on the highway sparks a journey back in time, a reflection on youth, lost dreams, and the powerful, deceptive nature of memory.
9 September 1943
On 9th September 1943, my grandparents faced fear, hope, and loss in the midst of war. This is their story, told through the memories of that day.
Make Your Own Kind of Music
The sound of classic rock from a passing bike on a summer evening, and the unexpected bridge it creates between two generations. A quiet reflection on the courage to choose your own music, and your own path.
I Just Want to Go Back Home
A single thought that deafened the noise of a new city and a new life. This is the story of a paralyzing fear, of porticoes that felt like cages, and the silent nod that changed everything. It's about finding your way back home, even when you're far away from it.
The Last Match I Remember
Not every match is about winning. Sometimes, it's about who we are when the game gets serious. I was never truly competitive, but tennis taught me about respect, disappointment, and the quiet moments that shape us
The Broken Gramophone and the Stolen Land
The story of a broken gramophone and a piece of stolen land. A personal account of my family's legacy, caught between fascist violence and the calculated greed of those who wore the banner of anti-fascism for personal gain.
Where Have You Been for the Last 20 Years?
A personal journey from 20 years of self-doubt to discovering the welcoming BSD community at BSDCan. Sometimes courage comes later in life.
My Way
A personal reflection, set to My Way, on the inner journey towards authenticity and the quiet strength found in choosing one's own path amidst expectations
Forty
A poignant reflection on a sister's 40th birthday, filled with vivid childhood memories, shared joys, and an enduring, heartfelt connection.
Reconnecting After a Decade: A Pizza, Laughter, and a Shared, Shaking Memory
A heartwarming reunion with old friends after ten years triggers vivid memories of a terrifying earthquake and the incredible solidarity shown during that crisis.
That Night in Athens
A memory from a 1998 school trip to Athens, and a night that unexpectedly defined a sense of self and freedom.
That all started with the Big Bang
Some places stay with us long after we've left. This is about one of them - and the strange way a sitcom, a lightbulb, and an old memory are still all connected.
Old blog article: 20 years of Computing
I received a Commodore 64 in 1987 and it ignited my passion for computing. Here's how it went, then. Article from 2007