One day, a man with beautiful blond mustache told me - I want to be a director -. He said
now so decided.
I thought it was very charming, as if he had said astronaut or a dancer, whereas the same cynical vague chance of success.
A few nights later, in a scene by candlelight, on a bed with sheets burgundy-red, murmured kidnapped "You are beautiful in this color."
"Shit, director inside" I thought.
I realized then that he was serious, or at least acted as if it were really believed, had the right direction, the right attitude.
I want to be a director.
I want to do.
I want. I
. I felt ashamed
tremendously.
I, on the contrary, I often hide, I always get distracted, I let myself be swayed, I say, I'm not so sure.
Displaying the time and talent wasted in towers Smemoranda thick dense, as if it were impossible even before you begin. Without courage.
a girl was always the same story sound like a great book, do not put the subject, I do not follow the most, I'll explain a real shit and I quote Gibran down to half of what I say is incomprehensible, but I say that the ' other half comes pure and crystalline.
Not much has changed since then. My difficulty has remained more or less the same. I can not explain myself well, to make decisions quickly, m'incarto as I speak, I make serious errors in spelling, I invent things, evade responsibilities, I'm fucked. Always been a girl of eight, ten maybe.
But I tried to distract myself from the idea, for a very long time I have not even considered a realistic possibility but who do you think you are?
I swear I've got evidence, to support projects that seemed most interesting, useful, fun, socializing, practical and consistent. We always try to hold off my nature. She's not really sweet, caring, condescending, like me, is irresponsible, selfish, dangerous, naive, fierce. A little girl, what a shame.
I can make the bride, the daughter, my colleague, the other part of the apple, the missing link, the useful part, but I want first of all to write in peace.
Virginia Woolf is right, you need a room for himself and I thought he is unable to you never write anything worth reading. Maybe I never really looked (shame increases exponentially).
everywhere I go and I'm always passing through. What is wrong with me? Why do I always find myself with my legs slowly sinking in the quicksand of interesting projects that are not for me?
are nearsighted, but do not wear glasses. I always read with very little light, alone, when I should / could sleep, and I have always written everywhere, even on trains, flights, car seasick in the street. If there is no computer in pencil, my favorite, although it is not the only scripta manent, it does not matter, I do it always, since I remember munching after getting fucked while crying.
in 4th grade I wrote a poem in rhyming couplets entitled The pin Chamomile. He told incredible adventures of an unfortunate badge of mercy. The emphasis
declamai with my girlfriend of the heart, during the interval, and we laughed so much to piss on him. What made us laugh even more, struggling to quit.
around this problem we ran into the bathroom, we took off our wet panties and hid, locked in a plastic bag, obviously in my portfolio because I was the most disorganized.
remain in a state of total happiness for the whole day, giggling all the time, repeating the and taking steps funniest screams at the top of the teachers. That day we were invited to dinner at the home of a friend of ours and after eating revealed the secret. She was shocked so much that he insisted earliest two of his. What gave me I still have, as a warning You can not go around without pants, not you, that's all.
My father once said to think big, I still remember. He says things like Ginger Rogers did the same thing as Fred Astaire, but with a skirt and high heels, then when I explained that I was doing and also why I was fired, has injured thumb and forefinger together as a say "and the money?".
My mother, however, is a manually very clever woman, good at drawing, pottery works, creates forms. After that I for years I avoided like the plague his lab, I heard that someone said to me 'It' craftswoman of the head, no hands "as to justify myself, and I would not be sorry.
Maybe he wanted to say I'm one of those who may not show it to you, but maybe I'll write.
However, the first and only time I have paid in a nutshell a bullshit article, I felt great, even if the euphoria was short-lived, time to consume the money. But he did peep a little 'pride.
Everything becomes more powerful, it's like a shock, a circle it closes. When my
fomento tragic side are one of those who like to be a bit 'wrong, a fancazzista, too.
The lump in my throat every so often there yet, but I can finally take the piss, tirarmela a crazy, put "writer" in space to indicate where there is "Occupation" (as if writing was a job). Still struggle a bit 'to take me seriously, there is still an embarrassment, discomfort is not won, but I'm writing.
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