I stepped off the pavement, walked backwards a few paces looking up, and, from the middle of the street, brought my hands to my mouth to make a megaphone, and shouted toward the top stories of the block: “Teresa!”
My shadow took fright at the moon and huddled at my feet.

How can you not fall in love with a story that begins like that? The Man Who Shouted Teresa by Italo Calvino is one of my favourite pieces of writing, by one of my favourite authors. It is very short, and very pretty, and he wrote it when he was 20 years old.

The simple premise - a man shouts Teresa repeatedly under a window, people join in, and eventually he confesses that he doesn’t know who lives there but they keep shouting anyway - lends itself to the making of a short film. So I was not entirely unsurprised, but charmed nevertheless, that a number of people had actually made such short films. I wasn’t looking. Serendipity. Here is what I found: four video shorts and one pretty creative interactive flash animation. The names are mine - naturally, they’re all called “Teresa” or something similar.

1. boston by gohfish, is set in Boston, in black&white, and most artistically captures the spirit of the story - although the American rather than Italian pronunciation of Teresa is somewhat jarring.
2. italian dub by keepyourdayjob, produced “over a six hour stretch, while drinking beers out of the trunk of [a] car” was shot on Super 16. Nice, but the attempt to make “a total Fellini rip-off” falls a little flat with the Italian dubbed voices and rather dramatic “acting”.
3. kids can read by brian smith is heartening, featuring a bunch of what look like high-school kids outside a suburban low-rise, acting like, well, enthusiastic high-school kids. Who read Calvino, apparently. This is quite true to the story, I think - Calvino was 20, and 20-year-old Italians do behave like schoolboys…
4. Just when I thought I couldn’t find anything more, I came across this: korean, by korusinc. It’s not actually in Korean, though it has a Korean title and appears to feature at least a couple of rather young Korean (or Korean-American?) children. They look barely old enough to read Dr Seuss, let alone Calvino.
5. Finally, the interactive animation by Timothy Moraitis is probably the best way to read the story, if you haven’t gone and bought the book yet. Click somewhere on the screen, and along with some stick figures moving about, the next few sentences appear. Very nice, and couldn’t be done with a much longer story.

All in all, this left me feeling happier about the future of civilisation. One puzzle remains, though: all these videos were American. Perhaps Italian kids read, or make video shorts, but not both?

you whine, you always
need attention
you cry and throw up
exceptions
you never say what’s wrong

you wake me, howling
every two hours,
all night
just to burp. sigpipe.
network error.

frustrating.
and exhilerating.

codebabies.
look, so cute
just like daddy.

am i like
your secret vice
you only admit to
when drunk?

when sober you pretend i
don’t exist you
try to wean yourself off me you
pretend the ache of withdrawal
is indigestion

but you should know,
your stomach
is in fact
some inches below

more experiments in angsty poetry…

i can rebuild these walls
so they look firm again
and guard the heart within

i can rebuild that dam
once again, so it is solid
and the flood is contained.

yet, feeling the firm walls
my fingertips trace cracks and
feel an unsteady beating

and seeping through
the solidity
are those tears?

at least, unlike love,
the gift of poetry cannot
be taken back.

i miss you
drinking double macchiatos
at blue bottle cafe
i miss you walking
in camden town, or across the seine

watching vicky cristina barcelona
on an aeroplane,
at a concert in berlin,
in the hills somewhere
looking for snow,
i miss you.

we haven’t done these things
we haven’t done much at all, and still
i miss you now
for what we’re yet to do.

słoneczko, zonnetje
rayon de soleil
she’s a ray of sunshine
in many languages

no clouds have permits
to amble past
that patch of sky

rain may not pass
but to make rainbows
for her smile, her wrists
smell of mogra flowers.

running out of memory!
or is it disk space;
my darling squirrel
she eats gigabytes,
for lunch.

i am discussing clustered hardware infrastructure at my new startup. there is poetry in everything, even in replicated servers with solid state drives… but this poem is about something else.

The room looks like a war zone
dusty carpet strewn
paper tissues underwear a lonely sock.
And, nesting in a pile of used towels,
those missing spectacles.

A battered typewriter
sulks, neglected
on the desk.

The reek of cigarettes would have
camouflaged the smell of sex, but
you don’t smoke any more…

What bomb exploded here,
that weekend?

They searched me thoroughly,
in Paris.
Take out liquids. Electronics. Valuables.
Off with that belt. Shoes, too! Here,
let’s swab you for chemicals.

Empty your pockets! Put all power supplies
on a separate tray.

Yes, they searched me thoroughly,
those Parisians.
Yet they couldn’t find you…