This entry comes your way in English, and not in Italian, because the target audience will probably be made up of English language readers.

I stumbled upon a fantastic site of panoramic pictures of Italy, and seeing as I have not been to Italy, in the concrete sense of the statement, I just loved it.
This site offers 360-degree picture, as well as 360-degree e-cards, for various Italian cities, such as Rome, Florence, Venice, Bologna, Siena, Pisa and Verona.

The quality of the pictures is impressive, and I appreciate 360-degree photography quite a lot. Once you’re at the main page of the site, all you need do is click a city name by “Explore the panoramic galleries” and your browser will handle the rest. If you like slide shows and Italian scenes, then this site is for you, go on, don’t be shy.

The Online Etymology Dictionary defines Meta as a prefix meaning 1. “after, behind,” 2. “changed, altered,” 3. “higher, beyond,” from Gk. meta (prep.) “in the midst of, among, with, after,” from PIE *me- “in the middle” (cf. Goth. mi�, O.E. mi� “with, together with, among,” see mid). Notion of “changing places with” probably led to senses “change of place, order, or nature,” which was the principal meaning of the Gk. word when used as a prefix. Third sense, “higher, beyond,” is due to misinterpretation of metaphysics (q.v.) as “transcending physical science.”

The definition above need not interest you in its essence. It is alluded to in this introductory entry to make clear what is meant by Metablog, yet another series to be featured in Tololy’s Box. It has become a habit of mine to found a nexus of entries, as you might have observed.

What interests me in the etymology of meta, and what is in verity the meaning I will be using in Metablog, is that which states that Meta is a prefix meaning “after or behind�. To dilate matters a bit more, and depending on my own understanding of the prefix in terms such as, say, meta-theatre or meta-linguistics, the prefix is used to indicate a species of knowledge that discusses its own principles and theories.

As for blog, that word still has not found a proper meaning that convinces me, because the variations are so wide and amazingly hypnotic. This word I leave undefined, and you may outline it as you please. Now Metablog will, as I would like to design it to be, handle issues related to blogging in general, and not the Box in particular. I may start from the Box, but the scope is always larger and the outcome could be applied to a number of blogs, hence the naming of the nexus Metablog. Tololy�s Box, in its Metablog chain, is a sort of a blog that talks about blogs, now Meta is almost certainly clearer to you.

Notwithstanding my admiration for the Circassian culture and traditions, I am not blind to many of the flaws that distort the beauty of this civilization. Some may have harbored the illusion that I am in favor of anything Adiga, or perhaps that I aim to portray a polished image of the people because they are my kinsfolk, the people who thought as such would readily see the mistake they have made.

Having grown in a multi-cultural community, and having known a decent number of Adiga individuals, I have been faced with an ugly face of reality; racism. I am not about to pass a generic judgment over an entire race that contributed to my existence, but I speak from personal experience when I state that some Adiga individuals are racist. This may come as a stun to you, but if I were fond of using the word victim I would probably attribute it to myself and add �of racism�. I am not for victimizing myself, however, and thus the usage of the term does not appeal to me.

I would like to shed some light as to why some Circassians are racist. To start with a bit of a logical observation, if unattended with scientific evidence as yet, I think it is because Circassians were persecuted out of their native lands into a fresh environment in which they were, and still are, a minority. This sort of history put in mind could help observers understand the circumstances, always rejected but subject to study, behind racism.

This sentiment of a whole nation of being �small� in a yet larger society would make this community a somewhat closed one. Fear of losing heritage or letting language and customs slip by could also contribute to a sentiment of loss thrust upon this mind of the people, to which the people may react in a debatable fashion by imagining that they are better, and definitely better off without merging with their hosting community.

Looking different, I am sure, also helped form this belief that some have of being superior to their Arab neighbours. Circassians have a distinctive appearance that is mostly easy to recognize from that of Arabs. Another interesting bit of the �why� behind this racism, as I have come to learn, traces its roots to geography. Circassians used to live in a most beautiful environment of greenery, snow-topped mountains and abundance of water, and were transferred to a completely different atmosphere. Amman, the capital of Jordan, was when the Circassians came but a humble village with very little water and marginal greenery compared to that of the Caucasus.

One of the most disturbing, but altogether amusing, stories told about the Caucasus, the homeland of Circassians, is that which has it that when god created mankind he divided earth between the different races. He left the final piece of land, the Caucasus, for himself. But when he saw that the Circassians were left with no piece of land, he gave them his share. This is a story thrown back and forth on some Adiga tongues, and it ascertains their so-called �superiority�.

There is another fable about Hitler visiting the Caucasus and hailing the Circassian people as the �purest Aryans�. Some youth actually find pride in telling this story, and they draw the swastika to express their outward support for what could be called neo-nazi influences. I have no record of the authenticity of either one of these tales, I narrate them here because I have seen a number of Circassian youth recite them and make them their bible, from which they derive authority to regard others as inferior beings.

I bore witness to a number of incidents where I tasted the bitter flavour of racism practiced by some Adiga people, despite the fact that the blood that runs through my veins is in fact, if I want to divide it into two quantities, half Adiga. I do not wish to recount the details of the situations I found myself in because they do not add to the soul of this entry, but I do want to state that racism is blind. It is inexcusable, that we pretend to know, but I find it utterly blind.

I do not think the people who believe in racism fully realize what they are in favor of; I frankly think they are misguided. This is why I refuse to retaliate and be regarded as an extra misguided person, I would like to believe I know better than to pull a tooth for my own, or turn the other cheek.

A last appeal is due to all my Adiga relatives and readers, I did not post this entry to attack a culture I find most rich. I would like people to understand that this post springs forth from personal experience, and does not go so far as to condemn a whole people for the actions of some. Most Adiga people that I know have the warmest hearts and a unique heritage to share with the world, this is precisely why marginal defects present within a small group of individuals should be mended lest they harm the bigger, and more tolerant, image of the rest.

Should you be unable to read Arabic, and thefeore unable to satisfy your curioisity with regards to the short story in the following entry, kindly email me with a request for a translation as I am working on one presently. I trust there is a good number of automated translators online but, if this be your desire, I will gladly provide a translation of the text; the working of my own mind and language.

This whole setting that I am in seems to contribute well to the propaganda that I am a real employee at a real establishment, working in real time and being read by real people. Reality is, as you might�ve guessed, a problematic issue to my perception, as I prophesy it is for many others.

I normally go about my daily business in tennis shoes or toe-exposing slippers, those foot necessities-turned-embellishments I enjoy having and using to the max. Then came the genesis of my professional misery: No tennis shoes or jeans at the office, so said the Big Boss.

A fellow employee protested, as did I but did not voice it, and the Big Boss was pretty gentle about it. I honestly expected a Hitler-like decree of the obey-me-or-die sort but I was (un)fortunately disappointed. The man simply said that this has been the establishment�s policy for years now and the people upstairs want their employees to look �professional� and �tidy�, or something to that like. I respect that and I truly respected the way the man above squished a humble employee�s would-be revolution.

I have been giving this matter too much thought but it really gets to me. I do not see how the quality of my work is affected by the sort of textile I put on my skin and what shoes host my feet. If I were to be serious about this and yet retain what sense of sarcasm I could have I would ask: Do I think with my shoes? Do high heels mean that I am more professional? Or, say, do jeans mean I am not?

It is rather illogical, in my assessment; to be caged within what common rules of acceptable �professional� dress are when there is no calling for the business at all. To take myself as a model; it is not my job to meet clients, be they potential or existent, and I do not leave this cubicle until the clock announces my departure hour, much to my heart�s content. I deal with words, and not people. This being the case, why should I not wear my comfortable casuals that could in fact make my life much easier and, marvel of all business marvels, boost my productivity?

Today’s celebrations should carry a special flavour, hence I shall post a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class in some five minutes. The comical yet sardonic bit about this brief tale is that I did not want it to develop into this shape at all. I commenced my writing session, against my will, and I devised a semi-plot and thought I would see it consummate.

Short-lived were my expectations. I soon forgot what the plot was and about five ideas crowded my head simultaneously. I was frustrated and wishy-washy about which to so proudly pick and claim my own and which to discard.

An eerie feeling of how twisted the whole situation is took over me and I convlused and scratched my head in the process. Then I adjusted my protection glasses that make me look like the nerd that I probably am, and I resolved to let the “ideas” flow with no plot prepared.

Well what do you know! I had my story readily. One last thing remains to be said about the satire at the end of the tale, a word of advice, that is, if you feel the presence of subliminal messages, do not scold yourself. Sometimes those happen, sometimes they don’t. In either case you could be mistaken and self-abasement is usually called for in more crucial issues. Save that for later.

The tale behind my becoming the leading rooster of the chicks and chickens is one not too long to narrate. I was told that when my chicken mother laid me as an egg, alongside my sibling eggs, that I was a bit distinct in color. My egg was more on the yellowish side and its shell was harder.

She settled on us, my chicken mother, until the eggs hatched. The other eggs all opened up with a weak picking from the soft beaks of the other baby birds. Mine was not so easy to unlock, I picked at it endlessly to no avail. My chicken mother gave up on me and altered her attention to the caring of her other babies. So much for motherly love, in retrospect I say. I eventually grew weary after that trial and I heard my beak creaking so I decided to try one last time. Lo and behold! It worked.

Once out, my chicken mother cared for me on equal foot with her more fortunate chicks. I was a weak male chick, really; playing with my peers, picking here and there for seeds and what not but never volunteering for a fight or anything of the sort. My friends came to call me �Rooster� as means of teasing me about my helplessness. I did not even mind that.

There was an ugly old rooster in charge of us, group of chickens. He was known under the name of �Spike�. My chicken mother often told of his unlimited strength and adventures. She even fabricated stories of him defying the farmer and preventing him from taking eggs and such. Those were lies, now I know that for a fact. But at the time when we were entertained and petrified by them they seemed utter reality.

I was playing casually one day with my chicken friends when Spike came up to me and lashed me with his tongue. He spoke ill of my mother and I was enraged by his behavior. I picked a stone and threw it at his arrogant head and the old fellow crumbled to the ground, his limbs shook and twitched. His crown got smeared with dirt and eventually his limbs twitched no more.

My friends and I stood awestruck for a long time. It was a painful pause during which I did not have the slightest clue what to do. Then all of a sudden my friends started laughing in a down right repulsive manner, they dragged me off to the chicken shed where we lived and there they proceeded to telling everyone what I, in a moment of fury, had done.

To my great surprise the chickens did not seem to mind Spike�s death. Ceremonies took place and I was crowned the leading rooster of the company. They still call me Rooster, it�s severely odd when you think of it. I am an ineffectual chick by my own admission and yet they applaud me as a superior rooster. Who ever said that governing the company requires preparation was doubtlessly mistaken.

An unfinished short story project of mine reads:

I sit to my usual desk, mouse in hand and a monitor emitting harmful radiation in front of me. I start the ritual with an invocation to all the juices of creativity possibly existing within my frame: � Oh holy imagination ooze! Come to your suppliant and answer her demand, once more!�

I wait for a minute or two, anticipating a future rush of adrenaline and proposals; I slide to the edge of my yellow chair as a result of this state of acceleration. Nothing happens. �That�s odd�, I think to myself, and I wait some more.

This is the 100th Tololy’s Box entry. I am glad that the Box is growing, and helping me grow with it. This may stun you as a surprise but I am thankful for the presence of my readership, without whom I could’ve lost interest and ceased to “blog”, what ever that means. Cut the tech talk, I can’t do math.