In an old letter you wrote to me, you said:
“First of all, the world is crazy.
The way people meet is crazy.”
I definitely agree.
This morning I felt I had to tell you something, I had to force myself, try and express every little thought, to you. It’s not simple.
One or two months ago, I had a conversation with a friend.
We were having a chat, one night, and suddenly we started talking in english, as a game, as a joke.
We talked in english until we went to bed. One hour later.

I went on talking in english thought I had to try to explain many complicated things about my life and my feelings.
But it worked.
And, you see, if it worked once, it can go twice.

Francesco and I broke off.
We were living together near Florence, maybe you will remember, since 2006; in 2008 we started moving to Bari, south of Italy. But we never did. Oh, he did, with a new house, a job he likes, many new happy things. I didn’t.
After this separation, I came back to the city near Naples I’m from. We left our house near Florence in may 2009.
In june, a company I had sent my CV to, called me for an interview.
I wouldn’t answer if they weren’t a company I had been searching for their field of occupation: data storage and digitalizing. It’s something I love, it’s what I’d like to do.
I would create a company in this field, all mine, if I could.
So, you won’t believe, I had that interview.
And I had that job.
And now I’m in Florence, once again. Back? Again? I don’t know.
I don’t really know.
I know I’m scared: I’m scared because I’m in this city, alone. It’s not a sentimental matter, though it could be.

Francesco and I are in peace now, after many cruel months, fulled with troubles, misunderstanding and so on.
We now can talk, laugh, discuss about each other’s life. It’s not painful. It’s something… normal. Whatever this word means to me, whatever it means to you. I’m quite sure you will understand what can be ‘normal’ to me, what can’t.
Don’t look me like that. It wasn’t simple for us, getting to this. But I’m proud we finally made it.

Now I’m working and I do love this job.
I’m still alone in this city, in this city I still love but I can’t love how much I’d like. I can love it to a certain extent, otherwise I will open some drawers that will hurt me.
And the same with people.
I just need something and someone, but I still don’t know, I don’t know anything more precise. I would love to fill up my head, to feel that good old emotion, when something or someone is in your head, in your thoughts, and you can’t help it.
Nevertheless, I can’t think about my life with someone else. Maybe it’s something quite common, since I’m 32, I’m free, and I’m starting thinking I’m a very hard to please woman.
And, I’m realizing I’m a woman while I’m writing.
I ain’t able to see myself again with somebody. Until now, every time I broke off, this didn’t happen. Now I feel I will live my life just with myself.

I had to tell you many other things, but now I can’t remember. My head is aching and my heart too.
Stay well, and take many photos, tell me your stories, show me your places, sing me your songs.

*hugs*

Guess I’ll always have to be living in a fantasy, that’s the way it’s got to be… from now on. [Supertramp]

i’d like to be part of a stolen photo
i’d like to be the charming stranger in somebody’s dream
turn myself in the mirror and see the person I desire instead of me
i’d want endless sunny days and i’d want Time to split up over and over again in pleasure parts I could taste uninterruptedly
hear me breathing sometimes, there’s a melody into body sound, and it’s singing in a low voice
and it’s smiling with its eyes, and it’s never tired

i’d like to be someone’s wrong ideal, love at first sight that upset you, and you won’t forget it anymore
because you will never have the nerve to abet it

i’d like to feed on just drinking faces and expressions and reading some redness on a forbidden pleasure face
snail and insatiable lizard and night-perversion every other day
and rather than symbiosis, an avowed parasitism mutual and cannibal between brain and instinct
it’s cruel games in declared anguish of life

a voluptuous regret
a boring happy memory
a not declared pleasure restrained under bedspread for shame
an organic taste too much easy to remember but vaguely indecent to declare
forgiveness for bad actions that will come
forgiveness for the memory I already have about myself
it’s easy to close the eyes and it’s painful to open them back again on account of too much light
and more, i’d like to be the simple joy in someone who sees a forsaken toy and he’s afraid and he’s desiring to appropriate

i’d like to be the first redness colouring the skin in an april day, the first ecstatic colour taking possession of a dried skin
an old woman’s eyes smiling slowly unworried who waves just to greet

and well i’d like to be every single thing man doesn’t catch yet

[italian original was here]

And it finally came.
What do you know about me. What can I say about me. What do I feel about you.
And it finally came.

Like a spark I wasn’t waiting for.
It’s as if I was waiting with all my senses for the thunder, after seeing the lightning.
And you catch me in this moment I am ready to listen. And you catch me but I will answer so late, so desperately late, I’m sorry it will be so late.

What do you know about me. What can I say about you.
While I’m looking at that cloud, hoping I will reach my man just to let him see the same swordfish I see, while I’m choosing the music for breakfast, afternoon and dinner, I try and think about the things that matter. Things that matter about me.
What can I say about me just to feel you can feel me, just to know you can know me, though just a little.
Things that matter about me that you will understand. I don’t guess that there’s something you can’t understand about me, however. I don’t think you’re stupid.
I am just trying and imagine things in the same way you will perceive them from me.
It will be just my fault every time you won’t be able to catch emotions from me. Remember this.
It will always be my fault.

What do I know about you.
I must admit you know about my country much more than me about yours. I admire you for this.
I know you do a job that I hope makes you feel everything’s worth living, and though sometimes you throw in the towel, you get satisfied for that time you really make the grade.

I know you love a girl who looks you “just in that way”, “just with those eyes”, and you know, like me, there’s no other way, there are no other eyes.
I know she loves the idea that maybe there are no rules, that maybe there are just your rules, that maybe the weird rules you had in your lifes before you met each other, are the same weird rules you are living in and with, now.

I know we both, you and I, can joke, can laugh, can cry, can smile, in the same moment, for words we said on a stupid webspace, and there aren’t barriers, there are just so many miles, but I think we don’t care.

If you let me take a step forward, there are many things I don’t know. But I assume I can imagine, about you.

I guess you’re a man who can’t be esily defeated. You can go so down, maybe much more down than me, maybe much more down than anybody else, but you don’t give up. I see something I feel can save you every single time: the irony you use to fight life. Or to win non-life. Or to turn mis-life into your-life.

What you know about me can still surprise me.
And I’ll tell you why.
You took out of me some thoughts I had stored for possible future use, for possible unexpected expression. You were there when I was sick though you were not, with a handful of words that hit me full-face as a slap I wasn’t waiting for. You know, maybe they were just words, but a lot of words from a stranger sound like three days embracing your best friend.

Anyway, I can’t speak about me. I would like to speak about you, the things I know. I know I don’t have much about you. But I have just a few thing I like. If you follow me, I will start translating something that talks about what I am better than I can do.

from memory:

-you are italian.

-you are a girl/woman (depends on how you see it really).

-you’re living somewhere close to firenze.

-you have a cat & a man.

-you sing like fiona apple.

-you like the beatles.

-you think a lot/too much (just guessing, but i kinda know).

-you like photography & writing.

now, what can one deduct from information like this? well, i don’t know, but maybe something along the lines of: you are watching the cat sneak out of the window, following the scent of a thousand imaginary parakeets, your fingers are still sticky from the honey-glazed watermelon you supposedly ate before breakfast, but as time took it’s turn became the breakfast, somewhere across the sky a cloud is forming into the shape of a swordfish breaking out of a wave, but as you try to awaken your man with your left hand, searching across tossed linen, eyes fixed on the swordfish, smashing through the waves, the cloud shifts & as the tail calmly wriggles into the skywater, you hear him, not snoring, just breathing with life, & you know he too saw the wave breaking, swordfish bustling, eyes closed, his beard scratching against the pillow, & all is good, you put on some music.

my power of deduction is weak right now, but i hope you’ll forgive me. now please, tell me about everything, & so will i.

hugs, mr b

(why is that picture so huge? i don’t understand this, must base everything on luck.)

26/01/2004

No desire to love…
No desire to talk…
No desire to be…
No desire.

And if I had one wish,
it would be getting desire.

23/05/2003 – 02:52

(no name)

So, how could she sleep?
How indeed…
Somebody forgot and put out this fire
And while it’s still burning, night gets enlightened
A night with a silence that is laughing, accomplice
A night that is not going to end so easily
Unless it will shuffle into a dream
The same encouraging dreams from the past day
When uncertain ghosts became guardian angels
And forgotten loves could give the certainty of endless things
How could she sleep, after all,
with her eyes so full with child-like joy
so full with stupid lost simplicity
full with far and suffocated desires
of contacts accomplice and yelled too.
How will she be able to sleep tomorrow
Tomorrow, when she will be forced to forget
Tomorrow, when she will be able to sleep again
Naturally and without fires
How will she dare sleep tomorrow
Every tomorrow, when sleeping will become once again common
When tonight’s uproars will be so far away?
How possible she won’t long for the inability to sleep she has got now?

I will start writing here.
I’d like to publish my letter, with the photo, and your answer. But only if you allow it to me.
I will give you the keys to access this space, it’s yours as much as mine.

*hugs*
Giulia