Thank you for entering my home page. Although it will be ad infinitum under construction, now I feel sort of proud to see that it already has somekind of identity. It is still a piece of imagination and step by step it has been converted into reality, just like light crossing the fog, a dawn, or a violent wave hurting the rocks: an image. One day, in the future, I'll have poetry and then I will have it finally done: it will have a body, and a brain, and a heart. It will be alive, truthworthy and eternal. Just as Beckett said, talking about Vico, poetry as essentially the antithesis of Metaphysics, all passion and feelings.

The title of this page is a not so obvious reference to the second published book of James Joyce, who actually is in the center of this page: A portrait of the artist as a young man. This is about Stephen Dedalus (a kind of alter ego of Joyce himself) and Dedalus, from the greek Daedalus, which means "Fabulous artificer". The hawlike man, trying to get wings.

Dedalus is also the architect of the Minos labyrinth. The man with the technical knowledge to make one lose the way, but also with the secret key to the exit. As time has passed by, more and more I have realized that the center of this page is exactly one finding the key. And finding the key is not only deciphering the complexity of Ulysses or Finnegans Wake, but feeling what the mistery itself represent: that inability of the first word to express what is impossible to be expressed — the metaphor is the poor vocabulary that conducts our even poorer minds.

Will we one day grow up, and struggle not only to survive, but to be proud of being alive? Can we stand up and yell one word, but just one primal word? Are we able to find our own mistery?

I do believe that what Joyce's labyrinth, the mistery embodied by his complex style, has to say is this silence of the primal word: the mythic beginning that has been fogotten day after day by our so computerized apologized society.

So stand up! Look ahead! Be completely alone and lost in an evergreen silent valley and then finally...

Finally understand. So THAT's what is worth living. Not the traffic at 6 pm, nor the boring boss with funny ideas about improving the company's profitability and reaching the economic value added shareholders cry for, nor the charts describing epidemic diseases and apocaliptic disasters and skyrocketening junky bonds from Asian emerging markets, nor the dancers at the club, nor the boys and girls in the streets, nor the man in the bench at the park, not even you with your internetional browser. Just one claim: we will be always talking about being free. Life in big cities is so an undistinguishable life, so empty of real opportunities, our minds are so tied to rational principles and figures and codes and don't do that and don't say that. Where is the challenging boundary?

We are not to be displicent with what is most our own.

There's a song by Suzanne Vega that strangely describes what I'm saying:

Then all we'll need to find is that empty glass, previously filled with the strongest neat whiskey, on that table, close to which Joyce used to play the guitar to his friends and Beckett. They wouldn't talk and you certainly will stay quiet as well. You sit, look at the window, see the sun hiding behind the tall buildings in the concrete jungle you have always lived in. Suddenly, the daylight has passed, and you're alone, you're gone, almost falling into sleep: is it a dream? Suprise me. You're blended with your dearest things. There, in the room with your own portrait.