Into the hall, scared to make a sound, didn’t want to, I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t know Carmine could play like that. Staring at the hangers in a basket in the next room, what do I do?
“La la la…”
Flora’s slippers clicked across the hall in a confident sweep as if it were her house.
I froze, sorry.
“Maria?”
She rang with the capacity to cut through any sound, silence, or sentiment.
I pointed to the hangers, should I act like I didn’t know or didn’t think about taking them, should I bother her with such a request? I didn’t know how to act in this case…she frowned, just take some. I smiled my mother’s smile.
“Grazie,” she seemed sort of pinched about that.
I heard Carmine’s soft voice, his guitar strings, mostly.
I played innocent, how did she feel about it, since we already talked about it? With Carmine’s head graining back for “before” with his silky sails. I had to stay silent even, respectfully, to his playing. I conjured it, the atmosphere: a carriage—crash, into the night.
“Bello…”
I said, even toward her, his mother.
“Si, si.”
Right.
I see.
No, “si, si,” she said, he plays well. It’s true.
Into the room, “la la la…”
You see, I didn’t remember who I was and Carmine didn’t know who he was. He was the boy with cheeks who received this song I sang from Anastasia and remembered it, couldn’t forget it either, that’s how much I sang it. He wanted to learn the chords. He appreciated a little silliness or how I sang it, he felt it, this is what I mean with longer fingernails on his playing hand. The way he carried it…touched me too…with care. He never gave anything away, Carmine, but that did, and we had always been a pair.
“Tweet tweet,” his father made two little dainty birds “tweet tweeting” in a language that no one else could understand. His father didn’t like feeling left out, you see, that’s really what it was about, suddenly touched, a truly hilarious person with a tight alligator smile, putting his head into it, because he didn’t know why I was laughing, transparently.
My song, you see, Neptune coming straight for me, wasn’t just about me. It wasn’t just my song, this song for Maria from ’69 by Lucio Battisti. **You already understand there is more than one song (Naples is all at once) and that Anastasia is more of an intro: I don’t remember who I am.
When I was nine, Vico told me to throw the suitcase aside with baseball arms and led the charge through the casa to his youngest daughter hiding behind a plant with large waxy leaves at four, her green eyes like darts and a gold Santa Rosa medallion on her white tank, sleep and flirty.
The great surprise — “my song for Rosa.”
So, “Neptune” flying the mouths of women, Carmine forgot the door because the conflict over his band was on the rise with his father. He bolted out the door, a black shaggy puppy with the shiniest coat I had ever seen with only one wish— pounce. Rosa grabbed the leash all these years later, and just like that, saying “NOH” her father as she had a different relationship to his showmanship, she became a curvaceous babe in cashmere and pearls, sharp-featured like her father, sensual like her mother, her lips the stance.
“Nettuno!”
We cheered! — my song for Maria and Rosa.
She hurled his name like a bull.
He had sealed the bond between us long ago, he reminded me with the same finger.
He flipped between the two names, cheeky, down low.
Remember?
Rosa and Maria, Maria and Rosa, the names even had weight.
I came into their lives at nine as mysteriously as I disappeared a few years later. The siren knew on some instinctual level—make the song stronger, the ties last. He rooted me not only with a song but a song that connected me to his daughter…which was also funny. These are roots so they also run across, no? Siren wisdom. And Rosa was the one…the most moved to see me, I felt that, which I didn’t know what to do with, because I felt it. Bending her knees, whining to hug me, Nettuno barked like mad! He doesn’t get a leash or tone conceptually, he doesn’t get it, so yelling NETTUNO only means he should continue. Like Vico…his song.
“La la la…”
-
I’m just sharing another snippet of what I’m working on this late evening, listening to Elton John since Rosa and her best friend are going to bring the house down with “Candle in the Wind” singing into cocktail utensils, her sass: Rosa. Rosa will rise a hero this Christmas season. So this style is working if you read my last post. I’m not sure about the structure after this debut but I started this chapter (in my last post) in the room with the “la la las,” hearing Carmine play, and I circled back around now from a different angle beginning to bring in another layer to the story: Carmine. I’m bringing back language I’ve already used like “crash—into the night” from the Modugno song which also applied to family which I’ve said already. Up in smoke.
The “la la la” refers to Domenico Modugno which Carmine plays on the guitar and Lucio Battisti’s “My Song for Maria” that Vico sings to me the second I step on his property just like he did when I was nine. I haven’t even gotten to the door yet. This was my song as a kid. He never called me by name. In that initial scene with Carmine playing Modugno, he remembers a song I sang as a child from Anastasia (that’s what I was working on with my singing teacher). That’s a story about a girl who doesn’t remember who she is — which is step one for me. It appeared, to my cousins, like I didn’t remember who I was. So, that’s when Vico begins to come into the picture with “My Song for Maria.” I could never forget it because that’s all he sang and Carmine couldn’t forget Anastasia.
It’s more how the songs inform one another, how I’m telling the story of it, which has been my greatest challenge with this book because there’s SO MUCH opportunity and meaning. “Vecchio Frac” by Domenico Modugno is about a ghostly mysterious man who walks the streets at midnight with a tux, diamonds for cufflinks, so a well-dressed figure, and Carmine is captivating…telling me this story in his chill, neutral style. Of course, in retrospect, I came back with chic clothing but “who is this invisible man…” who floats away in the end…they loved my clothes, it’s not that, but I don’t remember who I am. Carmine even tells me that he pursued music because of me — not completely — and he wants me to listen to his music lol — he told me that I was the professional, no? He respects my point of view. I couldn’t believe this.
Throwing open the door — this is day one — a race car is skidding on the TV and crashes into a wall, “crash,” which is in the song too. And family was, again, a disaster. So sport one: formula one. I find myself in a conflict.
I’m almost done with this section.
The tricky bit is the band since “what does it mean to stay together?” That’s a question that extends to them. What does it mean to make it? They’ve been together for almost a decade. That’s a question for couples, too, what it means to make a family, maybe, somewhere in there, even if things change and you decide not to have children. My family — disaster. It’s just the truth.
I’m just introducing the beginning of this book, the terrain, since this all happened at the same time, and it’s Naples so I wanted to show that artfully like a song. And I’m coming to understand it’s Christmas and I came early to not tell my story at Christmas. To not dominate the holidays with my story since this can happen with my story. People could get wrapped up. Here I was — after this “Song for Maria” we’ll be moving on to “My Way” because I tried to warn Franco and Flora ahead of time since we’re going into the first feast of Christmas with like fourteen people — and they put on “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. I’ll get slammed — slammed — by the force of football players with doubt once the bare facts, just two sentences, of my story come out because they push EVERY button that exists. Carmine will rise in the ranks, we will entertain the family, because we start playing charades. “What’s the word for…” He can decipher me — see through the nonsensical language with his owl eyes: “Maria is giving a baby to someone in confusing circumstances.” And sometimes, I have to slide in to back him up because the Neapolitans are naturally contrarian — no no, that’s not it, that’s how they just respond. “SI!” No. They even tell me no. That’s a big scene. We’re landing there.
THEN, at gambling games for children, just learning economics with mythology tales weaved in, little five euro bills, so cute. You see, this family perfectly demonstrated what I always got with my story, too. The same questions. I suppose it takes a book to work out a problem? If that’s what the book is….I’ve leaned away from the drama a second but my story caused me problems. The first being “disbelief.” Their disbelief. And look, I just read about some girl who grew up in some religious cult so my story being unbelievable — meh. At Christmas? You see, what we believe…in what context…drove me nuts. People told me that my story was more believable on TV. Okay. Well, I’m sure if you were to step into foster care? Thousands and thousands of kids. I assure you, you would hear some stories, so it infuriated me. I don’t put that onto people but now, I probably would be more comfortable in the space of argument. But I don’t have my language. I can’t. That puts me at an automatic disadvantage. You’ll see — it’s good. Me not speaking the language and how I deal with that is both touching and also — “babe, you don’t have to do this.” You just don’t. Which is what I went through personally when I started writing this because I went through my life, basically. Many points of view on myself that I had about myself to be adjusted, totally. Don’t do this. So that came with pain, no? Feelings. Watching myself put on a show just wanting to be believed, intense, electric, must be POSITIVE. A game. That’s what that first feast becomes.
I’m telling a story that sounded foreign to many people even my Moroccan family (lol). “Dr. J,” this son of a prince or whatever said. That’s my mother’s real nickname. “Dr. J.” And I’ll see in the storytelling of it but his friend, for example, said to me — someone he doesn’t know — that he could sense my pain. No, no no. You see, it took a journey to get here. “Actually, I’ve probably never been in a better place, but did I have to deal with my pain? Yes.” But people could put that on me, put on their affect on me so how did I feel? Yeah, I couldn’t really go there for a while. With this stranger, I’m 37. Um, but sure, I considered what people said, what that meant about the audience, I guess, because my story seemed to come with a responsibility built in. Pain, okay, what can I say about pain. Not anymore. Not my problem anymore. A successful night for me. You see, when I start telling my story, you never know, and I have to bring some feeling into it, I mean, I don’t know what else to say. The prince was chill. It just goes to show that I had to deal with “audience responses…” This wasn’t my first time at the rodeo, in other words, though I’m not sure. People basically told me that I didn’t make sense. Sometimes. My story didn’t make sense. And you know, I wish I had someone like me back then — you might, dear, want to seriously get yourself some help. You want to make sense. Okay? My friends, you know, this story was a fucking doozy. Someone suggested that I make less sense — don’t ever listen to this person. No, no, just please.
This is NIRVANA — “here we are now…ENTERTAINERS.”
I was entertaining in some way. Now, “stop right now….thank you very much…I need somebody with the human touch…” this is my song. “STOP in the name of love…” I’m singing STOP across the board. “Before you break my heart…”
Anyway, I digress.
This family went through the muck of it with me. They reacted as a family, I think, in that, if something goes wrong — you want a family to respond appropriately and if that means “angry PTA parent” well, that’s what that means. Now, I want to be a mom, you see, to be this person if I need to — busting into some PTA meeting in aviators. “What the fuck is this?” I suppose that’s a role and we all play them — mothers say that they can even lose themselves in that real role so we do, we play roles. To me, this is all funny and wonderful because I can play them now. The game of life — wink — I get it’s serious. Very. But that kind of awareness, out of the box attitude, just comes from my past. Trust me, I get that social media is just a screen where people put shit. It’s not that important. And sometimes, even hatred, you see, the people who hate it, love it, they are the most confusing to me. Like, I just don’t care. That will figure itself out in time. For the moment, I’m going to try using it more like a blog. And you can fuck off. I’ll try to make it interesting to me. “Share.” Since this is the “the point.”
“MARIA…” FRANCO FRANZESE.
“WHY are you putting BUNNY EARS on words….”
Flora cracked up. “Franco.”
You see — pause, zoom in right there. Franco confronts. That’s my type of person for the good and the bad. Don’t say anything. SCOUGE. MARIA what are the BUNNY EARS? He made BUNNY EARS prancing down some field…? Carmine’s face. After some nonsensical speech on my end trying to explain “air-quotes,” with his owl-eyes….all he said was “irony…” No? Irony, no? I laughed. His father continued to be impressed by Carmine’s ability to decipher me which was a lifelong gift. Okay, so he tried to — and they really deeply wanted to understand me. It was so sweet. But I’m quoting what SHE said, what IS said, etc. Bunny ears. If you think about quotations, that’s pretty funny. The same with “the international talk” gesture, Franco believed, didn’t understand why I was acting like a crab, pinching at things. We became crabs pinching around some abstract universe. Anyway, later Carmine will say “you want a cigarette…” and at that point, I’ll ask him “how do you know that?”
“I imagined it,” he said seriously.
I laughed. He doesn’t understand why.
“What else do you use your imagination for?”
I laughed harder.
He still doesn’t get it.
“When people talk to you sometimes…do you not see pictures?”
This conversation we had one late night that isn’t late for these goddamn people during this goddamn season of Christmas — we were going out with the band, getting drinks, going to some DJ I don’t know. I never had a group of friends like that. In college, I sort of did, we had parties as a group, but Carmine really brought me in. It’s normal there. I’ve been out with groups before. It’s not to say I wasn’t social but…I wrote CONSTANTLY. Also. At that point. Which is also funny speaking about Carmine’s “imagination” and flat nasal tone like his mother. He told me later that Giampiero called — the lead singer — as we had a couple of secret meetings over the band situation. He’s my friend, still, whereas Carmine…no. I don’t tell Carmine these things. It’s over. His choices. I’m not GETTING UP into his business, you see. Anyhoo, he told me what he said to Giampiero — “no, no,” very natural, even-toned, serious, “you cannot talk to her. Maria, when she writes, there’s a wall around her…it is very tall…and very thick…and,” I could picture the family confirming with Carmine that there is a wall….Carmine? Is there a wall, there is, no?” Si. Pushing up his glasses. “You cannot climb this wall, you cannot get through this wall. We’ve tried. She really does not want to be disturbed. You will have to call back another time.” He described the wall. There's nothing on the wall — you cannot climb it. No invitation at all whatsoever. And they didn’t get angry, they didn’t really care, they just supported me, left me an espresso sometimes. Isn’t that sweet?
This is what I mean about Carmine. We meet on this level. Carmine picks up on things.
I keep digressing. I’m going to go back in today after I read some essays. I’ll work in some more travel — ideally I’d like my Instagram to be videos at golden hour, very pretty, specific. I can just walk around. The Hagia Sophia at that time is worth it. You should go at that time. Just don’t tell anyone else. I’ll try the Blue Mosque at that time, also, it’s just on the weekends that might not be ideal. I have to properly plan my life, take some pictures my outfits — I got a couple of things — since I can now. I can take pictures of my outfits. That was rough people, Dr. J. Dr. J was tough, such a cool villain idea though and I’ll keep that iteration of her in my pocket because that was also harsh, hard in reality. In that, her fabulosity worked? It was the society of spectacle. Yes, she was that big of an addict. Truly. But a haute couture, high-powered villain — you see — who might be like I don’t know, a “two face” meets the Joker — might be rather compelling in some context. Someone who crosses over. Not totally sure. She just might be a Joker already but Justice is still the theme in that universe. You see, someone who knows “it’s all a performance” in a sense or someone who understands what the expectations might be — who can manipulate this, since you know? Right. She plays dirty, that’s for sure. That’s just Dr. J, my mother. Could be rather effective. That’s an idea for later. But if I could write a female Joker — cool. You’d never expect it, right?
Surprise! Pink. You’ll start getting “pink announcements.”
Can’t you picture it?
“Pink?”
It’s a girl?
I just really want to get this book done. I want to be ready next year. I sort of lost a couple of years in that, I would have done this in a slightly different order. Who cares about social media? Okay? I just got out of the hospital…it was freeing. I danced around. I started singing again. A lot of my blocks weren’t there anymore or I could begin to deal with them. I have all those clips. I might not need to go this year though I wish I could send someone for me. Maybe I can ask them. We’ll see. I would send in Carmine. “Make it bello.”
I put aside an excerpt since this beginning section is taking shape that I’ll try and send in…it’s just….you know, you live and you learn. I would have suggested to myself a couple of years ago — just get ready to pitch. Read around, read essays, shorts, just familiarize yourself with the terrain. You gotta make money, well, what can you pitch? You’re going to be there. The angle — it’s all about the angle. I wasn’t “there” yet. Now, I’m closer.
I have to figure out how to sell something. I’m reading around more so than I did in the past. It’s like the advice I got — WTF. Girl, with my rose quartz roller, you can practice writing in a variety of ways. My suggestion would be read and think about pitching some of your stories simply. No? On TikTok, I get it, you can get a book deal, I just don’t know what to say…since travel is not my goal. So sure, I’ll post Christmas in Naples stuff, it’s just that someone kept saying “add the other stuff too” when EVERYTHING I’ve read states that the more focused you are…the better. I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t care that much. I’m just reading a lot right now. Finding my references. Making distinctions. I don't like memoir that much. I can’t help that, I’ve read memoir I’ve appreciated too. But I like autobiography or genre-benders. Very good.
I don’t have any samples that reflect my writing. Which is fine, I have stuff, but I don’t know what to say, they are all early stuff. I mean, look, even looking around at publications, I could have pitched psychedelic ideas. I didn’t. Dumb. That’s what I’m doing now...looking around…figuring this terrain out some years, many years, later. Just like so many…like anyone else. It’s a matter of time, learning, practicing. Sending in shorts, essays, there’s a lot out there. I’m finishing my book too. I have stuff I can start sending in which is my priority right now.
I’m sending out pitches more regularly now. I’ll get faster. I’m reading so much right now. Getting better at — no, not this, pass. Well, what about this? You have to be able to pursue. To keep going. I’m reading successful pitches, mostly, listening to what the editors are saying. Sort of hilarious and scary — “do not insult me for turning down your piece.” Wow, I see. So, on a basic level, that makes me feel better because I can only imagine.
I have a bunch of pieces that I can just send in. I just need to work on them, complete them to a certain extent. That’s what I do every day too. I’m up until 2-5 AM. That feels great. I sleep in a little longer, that seems to feel better even, I’m calmer. I got a little job. I made room for that. But I have so much energy, truly, so I might as well work with that, use it to my advantage. I’m working more than twelve hours a day. I don’t really need to take breaks lol. I got a rose quartz roller — it’s very satisfying. I’m moving on.
I struggled with finding that thread that was going to pull together the ensemble of this book — the storyline. Not just scenes. Like Gaiman said, a very successful writer. “The second draft,” he said in the Master Class preview, is making it seem like you knew what you were doing all along…” Okay, I’ll think about it. That’s what I’m starting to do now. And I think something about this form, this idea, does appeal to this time because it’s like Bukowski: shorter segments. Not to say some of those chapters don’t have length. So much happens though so I can work more specifically and go back and build the narrative in a particular way. You see, you as a reader — you’re going to get it before they do, I do.
Just, I went through so much personally in writing about this. My father’s secret dementia really really affected me. I think formally, they came more and more to light as the story goes on, you see. “I didn’t want to forget my life.” People forgetting, making shit up, it’s so normal it was scary…just because that’s where I came from. “You did this,” no I didn’t. “Yes you did.” Well, YOU. I get it. Yes, yes, I get it, ten years later, my cousins said “What do you mean he had Alzheimer’s?” When I walked through the door with that. I had to hold on that night…and let go. This was a bit too deep, you see — Dr. J. “The truth” as a subject was a touch too deep. I’m fine now. I said it just one too many times. And that’s just about Alzheimer’s, a disease, so insert a more shocking and unbelievable truth such as — whisper — “a child molester.” Since I was there for four years, in this house, because of that. And the idea that I would lie about such a thing is offensive, my mother was OFFENSIVE. That’s the adjective, with her smile. Now, I don’t give a shit about your “disbelief” I would direct you to take a look around at the goddamn world. No, no, no — no “catch a cloud and pin it the fuck down,” okay? This is not Maria. I ain’t doing it. Not unless you PAY me money and this Flora channeling through me currently. I will clarify this and more in this course of this story.
Anyway, it’s form and content. Not just content. It’s not an editor’s job, I think, but if a writer proposes a clear idea, then they might go — yes, I can work with this. I have these scenes — and I’m treating them now but they might be fun as is, too. You know what I mean? Naples is such a theater. I started a newsletter but I might start a blog, actually, that’s not editorial in its layout. Pictures. A feed, sure, I’ll keep my project account. Like an album. Where I can post scenes — more for fun. On mobile, it should be alright. I can use the newsletter for a moment to direct traffic since turning on “paid subscriptions” seems to take a second. I’d rather stay inside this holiday season and keep working on my platform. I have enough Christmas content. I just got a little job — a month, like a whole month off, I can’t really do that, and bringing Naples to life for you — might not be totally necessary this year. I might end up enrolling in a university or some history of Naples program — duh. If they have that, they must. Get a student visa. That’s the easiest. I’m telling you — Maria Mocerino is here with my rose quartz roller.
I’m liking the form and style that’s starting to come out of this content — it’s the Sound of Music. Many notes that make up the whole. Never one note though I had a dream with Stevie Wonder when I was twelve. I couldn’t even believe it. I found myself in some private auditorium at his house or something. I hid in the seats. I didn’t mean to end up here. Stevie Wonder was at the piano with a few cherished guests. “Is someone out there?” He asked. I rose…he was delighted to see me. They all were. He invited me to come down, take a seat with him at the piano. Did I play? No, I said a little defeated, all I can do is play a C chord, and do you know what Stevie Wonder said in my dream? “There’s a lot you can do with just a few notes kid.” This was the wisdom. I woke up. Wow. I was moved. I thought about that ever since.
This family didn’t stop singing to me that year…they so beautifully became a Greek chorus all at once. Now I gotta craft some of that “siren” Vico and me exchange. “In a world that doesn’t want us anymore. Maybe I’ll get to Angela first. The book feels a little like the song: “Il mio canto libero….” Like it’s one of the songs. Even how it builds. There are many Marianni, that’s a cute one, because he starts trying to find my name. I even asked him what my name translates to in Neapolitan. And when he started singing songs…that really got me. The whole time, I just have to figure out where to put it formally, he’s singing and “is it my song?” And no! It’s obvious. So finally, he finds it. Everyone immediately recognizes it. “Yes, that’s you Maruzzella.” Isn’t that sweet? And they set me up very seriously for this translation chorus — they performed for me. They sent in Carmine first…who took the stage first in his neutral expertness. So the battle in the heart, the waves “battling it out,” even that, they loved it, they really sang me this song. Vico says there are so many songs so that helped me with the notes that weren’t so pretty.
Naples is all at once, singing and translating in Italian, their hands trying to explicate poetry, pushing their expressions as a result. All at once. On top of each other. Carmine is — the pointe fixe, neutral, not like everyone else, calming pointing at the moon. Well, yes, he indicated, obviously. We’re having a one-on-one conversation as an ensemble. I’m the audience member…moving through, trying to show them a face of pure delight! Because don’t stop! Who gives a shit if I understand? I’m catching words. They played with me. It was so different, so Naples, too.
I just have to figure out where to introduce Carmine’s thread because I’m coming to realize many things upon arriving: I do not remember who I am and Carmine is in trouble, at a real point of decision in his life, and it’s Christmas and there are people singing songs that relate directly to my story. And Carmine is in this situation. Right now, I’ll basically introduce them “at the threshold” of Christmas. I’ve pushed ahead.
But at least, the music is starting to activate itself in the story which changes everything.
It’s how this section builds — it’s my song, I was home, I had a song. My song for Maria also Rosa. I had so many.
It’s true, they brought music back into my life.
I’m almost done.
The point of the next chapter, basically, or the next section is — MY WAY, Frank Sinatra. I try to warn them — zipping around to the first feast — it’s Christmas. “I told her to get out of my way.” They put on Frank Sinatra and I get hit with doubt, boom. The first couple of facts about my life come out. I’ll navigate through more of a feast structure which is not like this. I can still break it up into “rounds'“ especially about my story.
Thanks for reading!