Anything you can do I can do better; I can do anything better than you ❞ ♫ ♬


Give me Finnick returning from the war and kissing his wife first on the lips and then on the stomach

Give me Finnick and Annie cuddled up at home at night, talking about baby names and all the possibilities for their little family

Give me Annie ecstatically yelling for Finnick to come look in the mirror with her because she finally can see a baby bump

Give me Finnick buying too many stuffed animals and baby toys for the nursery and Annie banning him from going to the store on his own when she sees all the receipts

Give me Annie getting crazy intense sugar cravings and Finnick calling up Peeta desperately asking for baked goods because Annie NEEDS THEM NOW 

Give me Annie telling Finnick whenever the baby is kicking so he can put his hands on her tummy to feel it

Give me Finnick worrying about not being a good father because of his past and Annie rolling her eyes while she tells him about all the wonderful things he’s done for her and the baby

Give me Annie worrying about not being a good mother because of her mental illness and Finnick reminding her that she’s been recovering in leaps and bounds ever since the war ended and that he knows she’ll be perfect

Give me Annie absentmindedly singing lullabies with her hands on her stomach while Finnick watches with a grin on his face because he thinks it’s beautiful

Give me Annie excitedly arranging little outfits for the baby, complete with sets of little baby booties

Give me Finnick growing increasingly anxious about Annie and the baby, always hovering by Annie during the day and reaching for the phone to call the hospital whenever she fidgets uncomfortably and Annie needing to stop him from panicking and dragging her to the hospital too soon

Give me Finnick surrounding Annie with books to read and snacks to eat and notebooks for her to write in when she’s on bed rest

Give me Annie tying knots to distract herself while she’s in labor while Finnick tells her stories and strokes her hair

Give me Finnick holding his son for the first time, too overcome with joy to speak, leaning against Annie’s shoulder and kissing her temple every few minutes because he’s so happy to have the two people he loves most together and safe and happy

Give me Finnick carrying his baby around when he’s a few days old, his muscled arms looking massive around such a tiny baby 

Give me Annie kissing the baby’s forehead and cheeks and nose and tiny earlobes and fingertips and toes

Give me Finnick shooting out of bed each night when the baby cries and insisting that it’s his job and Annie needs to sleep even if Finnick is always the one getting out of bed to help and is probably only running on caffeine and sugar

Give me Finnick presenting his baby to all the victors proudly and getting overly offended when Johanna makes an unnecessary comment about his absolutely perfect newborn son

Give me Annie curling up next to Finnick at night after they’ve finally gotten their son to fall asleep and telling him that she’s never been happier, and Finnick agreeing and thinking for the first time in his life that maybe all the pain the both of them went through was worth it

Give me the life that the Odairs deserved dang it Suzanne Collins 

Chiacchierando di musica con un amico mi sono tornati in mente i concerti che andavo a sentire “da giovane”, visto che allora non c’erano i cellulari per fare le fotografie e la macchina fotografica era un po’ un lusso in famiglia, non si dava in mano ai ragazzini, non ho “immagini d’epoca” da mostrare come mi ha chiesto, ma solo memoria, visto che poi ha ribattuto ”finché ti resta”, come a dire, data l’età tra poco scorderai tutto, ho pensato e io me li scrivo, per combattere la demenza, dunque:

Clash, Piazza Maggiore a Bologna, concerto storico;

Bauhaus, col grande, immenso Peter Murphy, ai tempi di Bela Lugosi is dead, quando i punk pogavano e io, dopo aver conquistato la prima fila, massacrata da salti e sputi me ne sono fuggita mogia in fondo alla sala, comunque c’ero;

e poi: Devo, Theather of hate, Virgin Prunes, Echo and the Bunnymen, Siouxsie and the Banshees, oh, si vero, anche i Talking Heads sempre a Bologna, alle caserme rosse (come posso dimenticare David Byrne?) Killing Joke (ma qualcuno li conosce? spero di sì) Cure, Adam and the ant, Simple Minds (era appena uscito New Gold Dream), Tuxedomoon, Eurythmics, Style Council (quanto mi piaceva Paul Weller!) Talk Talk (vabbè, dopo un po’ di tempo ci si era ammorbiditi). E probabilmente altri ancora, l’ordine è  assolutamente e puramente casuale, non certo cronologico, sarebbe troppo.

Merita una nota a parte, che non posso dimenticare perché Bologna era rock, gruppi storici visti tutti: GazNevada, Skiantos, Confusional Quartet, Stupid Set e Windopen. E poi, bè per chiudere in bellezza ho uno splendido ricordo, una serata con Andrea Pazienza, che era considerato una rock star, disegnava fumetti dal vivo con musica in sottofondo, e io ancora mi do’ dell’idiota per non essere andata a farmene fare uno, lo guardavo ammirata da lontano (la timidezza, quella, c’è sempre stata).

Fuchsia (Fuchsia) - confiding love

Beautiful child of a tropic sun,

How hast thou been from thy far home won,

To bloom in our chilly northern air,

Where the frost may blight, or the wind may tear?

Doth thy modest head as meekly bend

In thine own bright clime, - or doth exile lend

To thy fragile stalk its drooping grace,

Like the downcast look of a lovely face?


I would very much like to write a long, engaging entry about the amazing legends, fascinating cultural histories and uncanny coincidences surrounding the Fuchsia. I’m afraid I must disappoint- this plant, dazzlingly beautiful to the eye to the point where it’s difficult to comprehend its existence, was discovered by Europe only fairly recently as far as botanics go. It simply hasn’t been known in the Western world long enough to gain legendary status, and so its history, like its needs for cultivation are very simple.

In the late 17th century, monk and botanist Charles Plumier found the amazing flower in the Caribbean, and named Fuchsia triphylla flore coccinea, after Leonhard Fuchs, one of the three eminent fathers of botany. Funnily, English-speaking people technically pronounce the name of the Fuchsia wrong; instead of fyu-sha, the original German/Latin is pronounced fook-see-a. An especial delight for children and comedians in Dutch-speaking countries, where the pronunciation is a lot funnier. I would be remiss not to share Annie M.G. Schmidt’s classic ode to this flower, as well as Herman Finkers’ delightful ditty.

Poetry recommendations: (x) (x)