Another morning, another round...

Another morning, another round, desserts for breakfast as many as questions…Franco Franzese didn’t stop. He came after me with plate after plate question after question. I had the same drive, a song and dance, even, since that’s what this was to me—a show! What a show. And what can I say about that? Someone told me that. Made me feel like a show. I had to seriously think about that. It’s not that I wasn’t physical, wasn’t theatrical, wasn’t dealing with many things at the same time.

I’ve hung my hat.

That made me feel like a completely fake human being when that is not remotely true.

I was going for my run…corro primo. I cannot eat. I couldn’t say no, thank you, so I avoided the exchange entirely. Training them. And me. So I could get to lunch. Yeah, that was true. We’re family, they said, and at the time, what did that mean to me? Were you safe? Did you have twisted ideas somewhere never ever ever having thought that you might have them? I was light on my feet, amazed with simple things like Flora stirring vegetables, the taste of the food, and was I a dummy?

You see, I had these internal moments too, coming to get to know my mask though it was this mask that this person who called me a show thought was so remarkable, no? So what am I supposed to do with that? Not speaking the language tickled me. My imperfections, um, I tended to up-play, I don’t know. I’m such a different person now it feels that I don’t even know what to say about myself. I didn’t care about sounding smart…I never thought I did…though I suppose I am very smart.

Why was I looking into Flora’s eyes and wondering…what am I doing? What is this edge? I never shared. Haha, I like that they think you’re slow, someone said, and it’s true, it was funny when I was as fast as lightning.

Even this book, sometimes, like who cares? You know? I mean, someone suggested that family was my big idea. It doesn’t look like that. So in the end, I feel somewhat confused. Like I got into a weird relationship with someone who might have imposed onto me without just — if you’re going to get involve anyway. Try speaking directly. Okay? Take some time to figure it out. If it’s not family, then what is it? I couldn’t care less. That was traumatic patterning. Drama = problem. Fuck you. Why don’t you pick another idea. One that might please you. Not hurt you.

If you got problems with yourself to that depth — then go deal with them. I just liked people who were older because they’re older. Been around. A little longer than me. But I’m telling ya. I wish I could go back…the second I stepped back into the country…it’s not that, you know, in many ways, Scott was a good friend. He might have called me every day which actually triggered me like, I might have but then, you know, I would really get wrapped up if someone expressed an interest. And I wish I had breaks. Like, sure, we’ll be best friends. Pumping the breaks. You know? I look back like — just please. I wanted to do theater, I wanted to be an actress. Couldn’t do it. So, if that my soul desire? You know? Am I going to turn this wheel just because I cannot live with that regret? You know, that’s what I’m thinking about on this late evening…after doing a good job at meeting all these daily deadlines. People do a variety of things in one day and move things along and I can get more done. Read more. Write more. Get better at publications…keep on bringing in miracle energy. So, that’s where I’m at. I haven’t been able to manifest what I want.

I’m in Istanbul which is fine, I’ll see if I can visit some places, though I just don’t have much money right now. So, pitching, the top things to do in Istanbul, yeah, dunno, I might as well reopen to life a little bit. Not wanting to stay in this place. However, since I removed David, I feel much better. Adam, it’s more like, I have nothing to say…simply. Good night.

I didn’t want to take on problems, be a problem, and yet—were they right? Was I wrong? Should I talk, should I say no? Stop? Can’t. It was a dance, which is how I moved, wasn’t it that, Franco Franzese the cop. In my chair, with the giant window behind him looked like a two-way at the station at night. His concern. The um, we’re trying to get to know you. Inquiring into my story…because that’s what I tend to do…to others? Dig into their wounds, I don’t know. But all the same, I had to concede, compromise, meet, learn. Appreciate, also, because they appreciated me…for my edges, chaos, all this confusion I was trying to clear up…

We were just talking, yeah. That too. Merry Christmas. A good family filled with people, just people, who came with their levels of awareness, their contexts, their strategies, defense. That might mean they bump into you. It was a sport. Careful handling; there’s a little a lot of that sometimes in funny directions like mystical being triggering as a word and do not, but do not, offend those people…do you know what I mean? I could maybe try to swim out into the Netherlands with my discourse…trying to fit my place in the world, drawing connections with no ability to. No words. How silly. I had to laugh. They just interpreted me. Why I was. Wait, what? No, no, “the humur of the language…I do not speak…”

“SPEAK!”

He insisted.

“SPEAK!”

Sometimes, I could lose the thread between you and I…and in a story, on the page, I saw the fun, its potential, these moments stumbling around in the dark spouting Italian words in a Neapolitan accent lost, needing someone in the boxing ring to quickly dress me up and throw me back into this ring that I was in. Franco and Flora seeing this not knowing why I was in a ring. Franco Franzese making boxing fists like he was rooting for me. Si, si, Flora said. There we moments, and would they even reflect back that…that’s what they saw? It’s my story. I suppose there was so much happening I didn’t understand. It’s just, in writing about this, I saw my parents with every action I took, when they weren’t even there back then. I was just trying to tell them this story about “another family…” wondering what was missing on top of being met with disbelief and belief….

Merry Christmas, swimming through Franco’s desserts, gift baskets, and remembering Gumby doing the Charleston. It was a feast.

I said the sentences, they were understood. If they had captured those two sentences, the first two, about my parents, but then, I didn’t either. We were lost together in this story and maybe I needed people who could hold a space and really try to place the reality on the table—Flora. Not wanting to well, totally show my insides, do you know what I mean? So, um, let me look up child molester, watching your faces put it together, I thought about it…a couple of times.

They were good people, and through this writing, I came to feel my loss, no? For the first time, what I didn’t have, what I didn’t want, what was natural, normal, necessary. Could they relate to me? Did it matter? That would be Emma. They didn’t understand that a mother and father sitting me down talking to me plainly with cognitive wits intact, you know, basic functioning specifically was…not…what was there. And yet, no matter what, people are still people—they can hurt you, cross lines, um, be. That too. But you couldn’t hurt me. No one could.

Another droplet. I like these little droplets. I’m not sure, in reading Post Office if I want this vibe the whole way through but there’s something to it. Right? Because I have to switch after that, sudden changes, getting hit…with another feast, another subject of conversation coming back as if we hit it out of the park and now it’s back. We’re back, I’m flung forward, into this conversation…needing to kick, Flora! Who’s kicking it back. We could change subjects too—moving on, undercut, on my ass, wondering what happened. Sort of breaking, surging, though it might not have appeared that way, to come to a sudden halt. Something like that.

It’s the sport…it’s the sport of Christmas, too, and that heart and drive through it in a “woman” yes, there are women athletes, Olympians, also. I was meeting Olympians, you see. Seriously. I saw lasagna this afternoon and went, just wait, ten layers at least. And twice, on Christmas Day two types of lasagna on one big plate…it’s just an appetizer, not the only one. I wasn’t going to make it. The darkness, I saw the darkness coming. “You don’t like it,” no, that’s not, no, I am not going to be able to do this.

I’m sort of taking a break today, kinda, because I finished this round. There’s the shaving away, what comes up to the surface, and the skimming away, making choices. Like, okay, it’s the sport. That means is my story too, but trying to find the prose for some of these sections that might be harder to put into dialogue. Since smear, face-planted, do professional players apologize? No. I apologized so much. Franco and Flora told me—stop. Please stop. Sweet no? They weren’t uncomfortable with conflict, in a sense, but these are people where…nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. That’s something in itself.

You know, they all have their inner poetry, which is what I always searched for in another. Vico, I got attacked basically for asking about the name of the plants, that’s his thread…through the natural world as a siren, truly, that’s what he is. A retired doctor. A farmer, first. A real farmer, in that, they grow their food. There’s something attractive about that language….the names, connecting to nature, my nature, in a deeper way. Wanting to know the names of the trees, what grew here, the agaves, just monsters, and the cacti. So that’s his world. He could be French, you know, there’s that too, also funny. Since the Sorrento side says ouais ouais, they say ouais ouais.

So long ago, I mean, the French ruled and that history comes out though they weren’t even around yet, so.

And Angela is beauty in the deep, or finding beauty in the deep if not drawing it out of me, you know, my eye, the way I see things, she liked the way I saw things. So, beauty becomes her healing too, if not surrounded by broccolini and the garden through the glass…she’s in that atmosphere. That’s them, since I’m on that side of things right now…so once they see the plants…a region coming to life in a more mythological character…in that, he tells me myths, he will for sure, in the end, so they will understand.

I’m obsessed with Vico, the character, as I am with all of them, but you know, maybe it’s my acting training that is coming to assist my passion for characters and remind me that there are people out there who live and breathe characters…you know? So that’s me. That’s my passion. Good. So, I get to write a whole family of them. I see Vico as being representative of the French, also, just because he’s chic in navy, primarily, and he says “ancay francay, Napoli ancay francay” and the Neapolitan French thread is very funny. They could almost embody some of the cultures that ruled Naples. Genaro could be Spanish, he could be Hungarian looking, even, I don’t know. He’s Hades; that’s the point. So it’s a Neapolitan story, no, the sound of music…which is what it is. And that makes sense as the story goes on, there’s more music, we’re at a party…it’s just Naples, just because of its history, it also made sense for this angle into my story, even. I could see the cultures…Vico would nod and understand…in the person, the living culture, history, it’s amazing.

They saw…there was something not Italian…they saw the Brazilian, they did. They were…Vico didn’t care. It was too obvious. “My Way Brasiliane.” Si, everyone agreed this was “My Way Brasiliane.” A Christmas story.

"I'm just trying to be a good person," he said

There’s a steady stream of people coming through, sticking around, working remotely from Russia, Egypt, Eastern Europe, even, and an Iranian from California. He works for a VC; it’s only a matter of time. It’s going to fold but in the meantime…not bad, yeah. He took care of the little guy, the cat, stick skinny because of the parasites. He checked. He took it to the vet, which I thought was sweet. I kept saying that to him, not really thinking about that, over a meal. He didn’t think it was sweet.

“How are you doing without a community built in?” He asked. Pouring myself some chai out of a tea kettle that I had to buy to take with me up the stairs of this old school. I thought, is he saying that to me? Or, in general. He was asking honestly. He’s been traveling for a moment, and that’s been his major lack, what he misses. I had to think about that at a long table in this open kitchen with laundry machines turning.

Well, I supposed that I was trying to create that right now…I was trying to build something as a writer that would bring a community around me, no? That’s what I keep on reaching for—people. I don’t feel lonely, I thought about it, but I didn’t know since you know, my God, I keep filling this moment with such hope as much as I can muster, gather, give back since it’s a moment so uncertain yet I’ve never felt more certain. I appreciated the thought, the question, since he was, at 24, wondering how he was doing himself. I poured him tea. The Russian, um, my friend in a way, I just don’t remember his name off the top of my head…has a kind smile.

Later, we were investigating the kittens, the American and I. He said he likes Americans but not what we did, not the country, he’s never going back. He was checking on the kitten. We tend to keep each other updated on the status of the kittens since a couple of sick ones came our way…he said, at some abandoned table on one side of the courtyard…that he didn’t really wish or reach for extraordinary goals, dreams, like he doesn’t have to change the world, if that makes sense. He preferred being a good person, taking care of what was there in the moment, like the kitten, simple things.

I said, later, since we switched tables, the little tomcat, my little eight-year-old boy being a normal kid, to share some green, to be upfront about the subject. Well, first, I gave him my analysis of what he said to ensure that I understood him. I summed it up. He said, good job. Good. Good analysis. I wanted to make sure I understood because sometimes people talk to me and I don’t, so good. Good. We agreed. I admitted I was in that headspace. I said that I appreciated that thought, I used to be the same way, in a sense, but I don’t think I ever really thought about it. I came to realize in my thirties since I am one of the older ones here that I wanted to perhaps…not change the world…but step out into it…bringing all those stories with me…maybe even yours.

I could picture the scene, some guy taking care of a kitten on some basketball court in some building in Istanbul telling me his perspective and it might reach someone else. To be a good person in the moment. You know, in a small way. I am sailing off, it felt, though sharing the same space as someone else with my tea, since this is what I do right now…taking off…though I haven’t moved yet. I don’t want to but I am already on my way…somewhere else. The Journey by Sol Rising. I don’t need to hear it but I can picture my dance to it.

I’m reading Bukowski so I thought I’d try a flow more in that direction.

It's raining this morning...what is my "I" right now?

Someone suggested that I don’t write blogs or even a newsletter because who cares right now? It’s an energy leak, etc. I agree with her which is why I stopped. Barbara Harris just makes sense as a project that doesn’t take up that much of my time and helps me. As a newsletter, I don’t know about the title, but it’s Barbara Harris, there. For now.

I don’t know what “I” am about right now. “I,” identity, ego, even, that dissolved and changed. I’m cruising on my ferry boat between two states. I went through a rather profound shift in self; there’s not a part of me that feels worse, you see, it’s the opposite. It’s thrilling, humbling, mindblowing, and deeply relieving.

I thought I was an aware person but once I cracked open my own childhood, I was thrown, I never really dealt with it like it was a real thing. I know from experience that many people don’t…deal with very very real things as if they were real. That goes for child molestation, you see, too, these sorts of traumas that might disconnect someone.

Right? My story was always what it was. That’s the other thing. I’m talking about…the same story but it’s not the same story.

I was given away to a total stranger when I was four. I don’t have the pulling sensations I used to have, maybe not aware of them, like if you’ve lived with something your whole life, can you feel it? I don’t know. I didn’t know pain. That wasn’t what I was looking for, wasn’t anything I wanted to take seriously because it was ridiculous. My parents were ridiculous. No way. Plus, he’s accused of child molestation, all sorts of things, by a total wack job, outta the park Dr. J. And her ridiculous song and dance, I mean, you’ve never seen such a display of haute couture, wigs, and sighing love, taken away by you…to encounter the opposite. Then, this mother who took me home for a day, a few hours, gets entangled in this spectacle for four years, my father coming by the visit, sentenced to stand in the threshold, etc etc etc. Who is sentencing him?

You see? A guy gets home from vacation…a work trip…and…four years later?

Obeying some rules he doesn’t even…know about? Do you see? He can’t cross the threshold. “We” know why…that’s the point. He’s a child molester, everyone in this family…knew that, that’s what we believed. He’s standing there and watching me play a game that I’ve been instructed to play which was to laugh, play harder for the, um, child molester who comes by sometimes. Calls, you know, to invite his five-year-old on vacation as if I am an adult with these understandings, even. Like what is vacation? Man? What is this word? I suppose I got it conceptually, at four, he’s not there.

Not like, oh I have to go pick up my kid now…since…he comes home to a wreck of a lady who was always a wreck, leaving his child with an addict…as he’s going on his vacations, okay? I was four, totally confused. So, no, my father…he’s over there, now. Someone who cannot take responsibility or even remotely recognize his involvement if not direct contribution to this story. Hello? Are you there? You see? It makes them both appear suspicious, like do you know what you’re doing? And I have in a sense made peace with them this way. Had to work out the crazy, the illness, in you two, in this situation, who gives a SHIT about the other families, no offense.

That story is like—wooooooo….I’m seeing dandelions in the breeze. I figured that one out. I can’t get my parents help, basically, do you know what I mean? They did not do this for me but he tried to get me a psychologist when he’s denying his illness. They were sick. You had major problems. I wish you had been properly investigated. I was a touch too young. And maybe in the grander scheme of things, this was the best option…the path I took through that. I don’t know. You know? I was lucky, I always was. I would like to develop this gift, skill, whatever. I’ll take it. Run with it.

Now that I no longer think I was a terrible person at four…etc…I can move on with my life. I can forgive myself for the true mental confusion of denied dementia. I can take the lessons I learned but much of it was about letting go. Totally letting go. What do we hear in songs? If you love something let it go…and if it comes back to you, then you know. Are these not the words?

That’s what I’ve done.

I don’t know, I let go of things I might have really loved too and found them again and moving from a place that’s older and innocent at the same time…this makes sense. This might have been mine. I disposed of too much because so much came attached, with it. So…maybe if you let it go and it comes back, in fact, it is real if not worth the effort.

I wasn’t expecting to have such a profound revelatory experience type of thing…except, whoever is attached to that person in the past…you can keep her? It was time for me to grow up in the experience I had because it was also my power, I feel empowered. I know what I did, too. I’ll take my own brilliance and let it speak for itself.

I suppose I went through such a profound shift in self that it was inevitably going to change my relationships. I am not approaching them on the same foot. I have friends but some went away. Have a good ride. Come back? I am definitely not going back, basically, you know? It makes me laugh who I might meet…from here.

I can’t imagine getting on a plane to go to a new world, that’s what the US feels like. A long way…I’m turning my wheel, obviously, and maybe it would make more sense to head back…I don’t know, it feels like it’s so not home. I think that’s where I’m going in some capacity. I suppose I would go to NYC, first. I guess I’m staying in Istanbul through the fall…and heading to Naples for Christmas…and then, I don’t know. Ideally, everything moves quickly, and I sell my book quickly, and all that, but I don’t know. That’s my focus…I don’t want to be a freelance writer, like that. But beginning to think about essays out of my story is getting easier. I was encouraged a little too much to not dig in.

Dig in. That’s also a good idea, I guess depending…but I feel generally better now.

I guess I needed to flow out a bit these past couple of days just to take a break.

I have to go read and keep building. I’m trying to sing a couple of days a week not once.

I suppose the “I” will keep figuring itself out as I keep emerging. I feel like myself, I don’t know, but I don’t have blocks. I don’t know what my niche is so I’m just trying to lead with me, what I have, and hopefully, my instincts are correct, that would be weird to believe that one’s instincts aren’t…at least, I’m having fun with oh, I could perform in some capacity, sure, and I have a phone. That’s in my hands. Okay. I can sing…okay. I am finishing this book and hopefully, some magic will happen…

I gotta run. I’m sharing photos of myself as an exercise, basically, since I tend to share other photos because they are more interesting…but I’ll try that.

Am I supposed to share this on social media? Is that what people want to…? I would rather speak to you in French, I believe. Maybe I’ll look at that later. Thanks.

A midweek start to my online diary...

I have no clue what to do with all these platforms. I have started like eight blogs to remove them and a Substack that I still don’t quite know what to do with. That’s a newsletter platform so am I supposed to drive traffic to my website? Should I publish a piece about Barbara Harris on my website and then send a newsletter to inform people? I say that because I thought Substack was invented so I could start my own publication. That people might contribute to, follow. So…that’s what I doing. I’m not going to start a blog then.

I thought, oh Barbara Harris, as a newsletter. I’d like to continue working on it and I could see that being an interesting one.

I was looking up Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday because that’s one of two people that Barbara Harris was compared to once. What did Mary Martin say? “She was so excited by what she saw…I’d never seen anything like since Laurette Taylor.”

I thought, oh I could look up these two women, you know? As well. I haven’t done that yet, so I could fill in the gaps I have. That newsletter can include more than just her…I can build a world. I can keep that up once a week. I’ll keep building. Besides, I’m trying to turn my wheel in that direction anyway…That feels right to me.

I should be able to have Christmas in Naples is a Sport blocked out and basically done by the end of summer. I’m so happy. It’s really coming together. I got out of “assembly line time” and that really helped. Instead of doing blocks of time, I have a general to-do list, several major items, and then I keep track of what I do every day. Check in at the end of the week. That’s freed me up.

I should be able to edit or rewrite a better book proposal at the end of summer. I’ll probably start before. I left the beginning of the book, the first third, aside to work on the rest of it only because I know generally what happens but not exactly sure about the order of it. I’m just building the rest of it…and it’ll help me figure out what the beginning is at this point.

I’m reading Bukowski’s Post Office for Christmas in Naples…for the short chapters. I thought that it was very for this moment in time, actually, shorter chapters, segments. I also like that voice, even if it’s not mine, and I can have scenes of dialogue. I’m searching for other references. It’s not a memoir either but it’s an autobiographical account, so. I’m taking you through the sport. But there’s also memoir in it. Maybe in the end, that won’t need to be there. Maybe find a memoir to refer to these sections. I’m going to bring in some flashes of my parents right now so you get what I’m not saying.

I just have to just decide if it’s gonna be more of an autobiographical account of the sport, which includes my story, or something mixed with a little memoir. So I’ll build and shave away. It’s really coming together though…

I should be able to sell what it is, like I understand that exercise, at least, a little better.

There’s something about that voice in Post Office…there’s heart in that drive and the feel of it, the rhythm of it, too, even to break up the feasts…because the feasts are long, and I can cut through the whole thing…right now it’s not all feasts…we go to Naples too. But it has that feel.

At least I’ll have the basic manuscript done.

Most of the food is basically there. I have to figure out what we’re eating on sort of nonfeast days. I mean, whole fish, vongole vongole vongole, but still. It’s a traditional menu, I found old recipes, so wouldn’t I work some of that in? Something. I have. That’s what I mean…it’s meant to be super specific to Naples, to honor that culture, tradition, since that’s also the point. I could do that in a couple of different ways, but I’m the person who looks it all up. It becomes entertaining. Me telling them “the story of the dish,” not loads, but some.

Once I get to the manuscript, I’ll be able to engage my cousins in a more serious way. I’m just using what I actually ate. Once my cousins can read it, I can ask them to think about the food that is in it. What should be served? For the plants, I’ll talk to Vico then, but I have most of that since I found a document from the national parks that wrote about it, basically everything that grows in the region for Vico. I got…attacked, basically, for asking about the plants in depth, but they don’t understand what I’m doing…that’s Vico’s poetry, he’s a siren, farmer. Skipping around French, Neapolitan, and Italian pronouns and verb conjugations in whatever which way.

He’ll take me through the garden, the farm, though right now, the farm has more to do with me and my story. The “tomatoes are from Peru and permissions are from Japan” so my story doesn’t sound that unnatural to him, I thought that was a good moment. “Everything flows as in everything changes,” he’s both teaching me the phrase, mostly, but it obviously holds a larger significance,” so it’s good because my story at least let’s them shine in a particular way.

Even about some of these varietals. Like his ancient apples, what? He’s making his siren squints with fierce sparkles throwing us so back it’s—forward through the past even if it’s so long ago. There’s Vico’s farm with a pizza oven with sugar canes and there’s the Masseria…so maybe I’ll include the masseria, which it is in memory, but I’ll go back.

People don’t really eat outside without a heat lamp in the winter but I sort of want to put a meal outside in one of those locations. It’s a bit cold. You know there’s artichokes smoking all winter off the sides of the road…so there are people with farms who cook on the side of the road…my cousins won’t take me to do those things yet…but there’s all that. Vico is fanning his babes all Christmas long. Tending to them.

I didn’t know about the full circle nativity parade that comes through Vico Equense on the Feast of the Witch until last year—splendid, unbelievable moves here. We’re going full circle in more than one way—we’re ending pagan, right? The original full circle. We’re also ending on the Magi maybe because they returned to their respective homes by then? Sure. We’re beginning Christmas over again in a golden light on the 6th. They are coming with gifts. Nuns are on the balconies. Christmas doesn’t end.

These towns have their little rituals, that’s what I mean, so if there’s a good one I don’t know about, I’d like to work that in. Maybe. Whatever.

In any case, those sorts of details, later. Flora could teach me how to cook something other than Gattò if there’s a dish that would be better to teach me. Um, Vico’s grandmother could, who doesn’t have so much a role yet but she’s there. Vico’s grandmother, I could build maybe something around a dish, an old one, that’s what I mean. Someone will have to teach that to me in any case.

I have them give me the expressions, the ancient language, so maybe I can keep coming back to that, the learning. I mean, I sort of ask in the moment, but I began telling them in broken Italian what the STORY was behind the dish, type of thing. Haha. A source of entertainment. Bravo!

I don’t know why Bukowski makes so much sense…but it does. Sitting in that energy has helped this move along.

I have never been happier, more energized actually, in some ways, you know? Very clear, grounded. It’s really coming together. I’m very confident and relaxed, actually. I’m at my digital nomad hotel with a pink lamp, a fan, and the kittens’ eyes have been treated, even. So, I took down the blogs I have on this site, don’t really need them, whatever.

Maybe I will keep a more personal space for myself in a sense, a diary?

I’m not writing this into someone’s email.

I think I have an idea of what might be fun on social because…uh, talk to you about books, or? No. I don’t feel like doing that. Telling my story in that way, dunno, so I’ll probably make a Christmas in Naples is a Sport account on Tik Tok at least, Maybe Instagram.

I think I understand the…”just get it out there to as many people…” right? I just mean in this…what gets posted onto to Instagram gets posted onto Facebook. It’s wild to me. I’m just trying to understand the Monopoly game, you know? Like, okay, so this account MUST be connected to a PAGE not a PERSONAL account on FACEBOOK. Well, why do I have a personal account? What is this? Why do I have so many accounts? No? Who cares about my personal page? Should I make this the “intimate space?” Where I share stupid photos of me? And my thoughts in the moment? Oh, that’s Twitter?

I think because I’m naturally a curious person…I was told to learn this tool, someone suggested it, so I’ve just been looking at it because I don’t understand it in the least. We’ll see. I’ve been figuring that out…it’s there and in my position, I might as well use it. Might as well have fun.

The event of Christmas in Naples makes sense to me. I can build that little over time. I don’t think there’s any point in making it right now.

I’m not at all looking to be an internet celebrity, no, but if it can help me get seen by someone then great. If it’s fun, okay. That’s more of the idea, so I’m just putting that out there and beginning to steer. The singing one is sort of just for me, but it’s not. I want to sing again so I’m warming up every week and getting into better shape. I’ve looked at some accounts, very basic, straightforward. I like to”act” some lyrics out, too, sure, thinking about these lyrics. That’s related to my book.

I’ve just come to understand that the more niche you are the better on social…so why wouldn’t I do that? I don’t need to sing all the time, for example, but if it’s better to just have another account for that, then—fine. I’d like to share that.

The story of it is good—singing in parking lots, projecting my voice into a space that doesn’t disturb anyone. Along the Bosphorus. I found the edge of the world in a parking lot, a drop to the sea. There were too many people in my spot next to a JOKER graffiti, I promise you. It was a Sunday and sailboats streamed past, many, even a couple of red sails. I started working on some songs with karaoke tracks. I have to continue practicing; that’s a whole exercise. Singing into the Bosphorus, you know, I’m sort of laughing. I never did anything with singing and that’s what I wanted to do…and if I’d like to do that, then why not take some steps? Try some things out…?

Christmas in Naples is a Sport. It’s the sound of music. My cousins sang the entire Neapolitan canon when I got back…Vico is a siren casting a line, like a fishing line, across the table…and keeps on trying to find my name on Neapolitan and sing other songs with messages, everyone got SO into translating or communicating what the lyrics meant to them to everyone at the same time. They just couldn’t believe I stopped singing. That was shocking. I was so tight, closed off. Did I think I was that bad, was I bitter? Somewhere? About what? That’s what I mean; did I not do what I wanted to do? You know? So, what do I care? I just started singing again…a little bit, working that in.

And then, I might as well do a Tik Tok in French lol because I think that might be good. That way I can use it to brush up on some grammar, too, since I need to practice. I’ll just be talking to you in French about French. I did a long video recently so I’ll check that out and see if there’s anything I can chop up in advance. It’s supposed to be funny. I hope so. “No, no, nonono, je vais pas vous tutoyer. Je vous connais pas. Je ne vous connais pas. Pas du tout.”

I figured that would be better. Just doing something fun and easy. And I love French, so. I think I’m funny in French, I think? I can try out a couple of things, right? it’s not like this is taking up my whole life.

“Quand j’étais petite…”

“Il était une fois j’allais au banlieue pour rendre une visite à Asmaa…” maintenant, ici, je vais décortiquer la phrase précédente. Je répète—décortiquer. Cet une verbe et je vous suggère de le retenier…et violà, la raison pour laquelle—d’accord?—moi, je suis connue…c’est bien compris ce que je vous dis. “Décortiquer” ma phrase, parce que elle n’était pas bonne, non? Vous voyez? La precision de ma locution, la fluidité? Décortiquer ma phrase.

Haha. I will try to remember other good ones.

I’m having a good time…

A la fin, monsieur tartempion uh, on s’en fou ce qui s’est passé à cette visite chez Asmaa…l’importance c’est la phrase, le point grammaire qu’on a appris ce jour-là. La reste, je vous dirai plus tard, c’est pas grave. Je vous souhaite un très très bonne continuation. Decortiquer ma phrase.

“Moi? J’avais un question…il est où le subjonctif passé? Il faut que…il fallait que…vous voyez? Il eu fallut que…moi, dans cette position, qu’est-ce-que je fais? Il est où la subjonctif passé? Oui, je comprends, je comprends, je pige meme, d’accord? Subjonctif, oui, present, on sait où c’est employé mais le subjonctif passé? C’est ça le question. J’ai demandé à tout le monde, d’accord? Il est OÙ le subjonctif passé? Personne pouvait me dire. J’ai insisté, non, dis-moi, vous me dîtes ici, “il fait que…il fallait que…il eu fallut…” completez la PHRASE.

Finalement, j’ai vu le subjonctif passé. Je l’ai vu au expo. J’étais époustouflé, mais époustouflé. “C’est bien le subjonctif passé?” C’était, je croyais, dans la première ligne…j’aie photographié, oui oui, j’étais certaine meme. C’est le subjonctif passé. Un dame lisait “la texte du expo,” je ne sais pas, la sommaire, quelque chose comme ça, et je me suis approachée de cette dame comme c’était célèbre…”Excusez moi, j’ai, um, c’est le subjonctif passé? C’est bien the subjonctif passé? Ici. Et…elle m’a dit un peu…oui…oui, c’est the subjonctif passé…

“Non,” j’ai dit contente même parce que je cherchais le subjonctif passé depuis un moment, j’ai admis. “Pourquoi c’est employé dans ce cas…vous pouvez décortiquer—je lui ai regardé—la phrase Madame? J’ai fait la liste, okay? Il fait que, il fallait que, etc etc etc. C’est ça. J’ai vu le subjonctif passé au expo. C’était quelque chose…a voir. Une presence…Que j’aie photographié? C’était quoi…the début, le début de la phase c’est…c’est…ça indique tout. Le départ…au départ…oui, je suis dans le vague maintenant, l’ambiguité, ça passe en français, je peux entrer dans un atmosphere, meme, non? Dans less nuages…il y a cette type de poesie qui existed en français, aussi, oui. On sait bien. Je peux aussi vous amèner dans un petit voyage imaginare et je vous jure une dame va dire “c’etait extraordinaire.”

Ca, je le sais bien, au depart. Je pense. Je me suis retrouvee, je me suis retrouvee.

Those are my immediate thoughts…about social, etc. What has come to mind. I miss French so it’s fun to write a little to come up with ideas.

Thanks for reading.