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.

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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.

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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.

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The Usual, Thanks

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?"

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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.

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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.

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#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

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.

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.

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#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

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.

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#Life #MyNotes #Reflections

MyNotes is now on the Fediverse

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 #Introduction #Blogging