As my life started over a few years ago, I’ve trying to personally navigate from here. It’s not that the world doesn’t have so much to offer. Even President Obama as he walked through the streets of Paris said that the city almost made him want to put the dreams of becoming President one day aside… for another life. Or, at least, I read that. And, on the one hand, I find myself at a strange juncture, personally, because if I don’t have to feel in any which way…why feel at all? I just caught a glimpse of a quote that The Paris Review posted by John Steinbeck — “I feel worthless today…” he begins. I don’t know if I simply overanalyzed in the past decade, but I find myself cocking my head, like, well, I don’t have to feel that way though. But then, that’s not true, that doesn’t mean I don’t have those moments…looking around at my life right now…wanting to cry sometimes… for listening to the people I listened to… my head swirling in some solo universe where I am the only one in it. I had to separate myself from some, but it’s more that I’m abroad…I think, in terms of my value set, I prefer the concept of mutuality. When it comes to my relationships. However, I feel lucky on the one hand because I’m living in a great city, in Barbara Harris’ full tone. “This would be a great set for…” full of emotion.
I wouldn’t suggest to someone that they follow my footsteps… which is a strange sensation sometimes. I’m not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to say — guess what? I don’t care. All that stuff, is gone. So, I’m going to take a deep breath and not take the bait. My head feels clearer and clearer every day. I’m happy to be here. I’m feeling — well, I made a commitment to looking at myself deeply as I’m using this manifestation workshop now to support me in finishing this book this month. And I choose to believe it’s going to be amazing. I’m going to keep releasing the past. Thanks to my energy workshop, no one in my head with me. But Jesus, some people can really make it seem that way. And unfortunately, I suppose, I’ve been mostly struggling with that. Felt a bit drowned out by some of these external voices that came into my life. I don’t believe in an ultimate framework. But then, everyone — or many people — speak to one’s inner power to generate results in their life. After all, I just walked into a wine bar in Istanbul and found myself in a production house the next day. Manifesting that. Sending nothing but — it’s going to happen vibes in that direction.
So, now, after a hell of a time — I just have to finish this book. I’m going to use this blog, again, as an aide as I’ve closed the doors on the world a minute, I don’t have any desire to do anything else but to finish it. How it all fits together — today, I find myself going, maybe that goes earlier to then go, I just don’t know. I’m supposed to decide though, that I choose to believe that it’s easy and fun to manifest this amazing book. It’s just there are so many parts, so many people, or at least it feels that way. I like Bukowski’s Post Office as a kind of guide, and I’m reading Joyce Carol Oates right now. I suppose I got really hurt when I started writing this book, so it’s time to let that go. I’m just reading for the moment. I spent a few days just reading one section… so, I was about to say that I just don’t care that much about my family story, really, other people seemed to. And that’s why I chose a different thematic category to approach this round of manifesting — purpose. I am connecting with that. Mission. Something grounded to drive me through that now. I think in my own life, I don’t know where I got sidetracked there, but the “it doesn’t matter…” line confused me. People are motivated by different things. That’s helped. I’m not living in the future, though I’ll employ the Anthony Hopkins method — condense time. Since you can. Theoretically, that amazing version of this book already exists in the framework of all that is, but I’m here. As I am writing.
I feel it’s going to be so so great, I just want to finish it. And then, move on.
I’m hovering over the Feast of Santa Lucia period right now — Angela and the garden and her being an empath (since she is) and the house is a means of reflecting on beauty, nature, my mother… she’s healing. That works. I can feel that. It’s more how it all fits together.
I’m sharing this section…something about me connecting with the garden, farm, nature, feels right:
Vico seated fanning his artichokes green and purple, proudly, as if they were his babies. He beckoned me to make haste, I had to meet and appreciate these artichokes from his farm. Now. The patio was covered in buckets of exploding greens. Beneath yellow blooms, a white outdoor dining table was explosive: piles of baby artichokes and broccoli di Natale next to a wall of buxus. Up the steps, to a soft sheet of grass to show me the garden, it was winter, so it was mostly green, the dirt dark and wet.
Birds of paradise. Sage. Amarilus. Agatha Panthus. Bougainville. A monster of an aloe vera plant. Silvers of bright green lace stacked: the delicate asparago, he said, sparrow grass in the asparagus family. A plant between a mango and banana: pawpaw. A cherry tree. Avocado. Pomegranate. Grapefruit. Here, eat it. Vitamins: he peeled it, broke it. Yellow flowers, spring, something… Mulberries. Basil. A blueberry bush. I took in the smoke, grass, flowers, sea… He tapped his chest twice. Passing a squat palm with stiff leaves, “his son,” he said. He tossed me a kumquat. Down the terracotta steps with bowls of plants not in bloom: strawberries, amaryllis, fine hot purple flowers, but white flowers were in tiny bouquets. Lantana, potted with an olive tree. A yucca plant shot up and folded over the double kitchen doors, from this angle the interior impenetrable through the glass: a flash of Angela in the kitchen, smeared over green.
Angela and Vico passed each other in the hallway of high school: Angela on her way in, Vico on his way out. He caught one look at her eyes as dark as the deep sea and innocent to their pressure, his blues brutal. It was love at first sight. They created a little “scandal,” her family insisting that they wait until they were older. Vico demonstrated, protested, and continued to. When she graduated high school, she took off with the budding general practitioner. He would cry, proudly, THREE babies—victory! Showing me three fingers. Three. THREE. Tough lip. We did it. Victory.
I remember the first time I saw Angela…Vico dancing and singing his song for Maria and Rosa, but no song could overpower the sense of smell, that carnal desire… something delicious in the air… with a depth of flavors…it could even mute sound, bend time. I was hallucinating. Sniffing, the deeper siren lesson: cooking, an act of seduction that no Man can resist, lures you in…and you don’t even know what’s happening, how you got there. A siren much sneakier.
Magenta swam across white tiles: wet. A breath of a curtain dropped to the floor with a trail, clear morning light flooding through tall doors onto the floor: matte black and white. Steaming gently rising from pots, the air appeared pixelated, the light mixing with the steam that her fertile figure in silhouette moved through, a siren of indigo, space. She took my breath away. Objects came into focus, a composition formed around her. The first — her face was even blurry — as if that’s not exactly what beauty is, though it is, I understand, but this was a perspective dawning in me, and she almost became one with the room.
She brought out my eye, my wound, because my mother was a great beauty and yet she was so ugly, strange, even cruel, though the most joyous, hurts to say it. Angela was not threatened by me. That struck me, though I had no form, yet. Not to say Flora was, but “my mother was a beautiful woman,” Angela said. She stirred me somewhere deep, unknown, which is why I wanted to approach her cautiously… feeling into this energetic exchange that she might not be aware of… as she has an empathic quality…she draws it out, and she did — the subject of beauty, my mother, to the surface. But then, turning around, thorns on stems. Only natural. Coming from her, it validated my analysis, since it was…um, “a maladia,” even, something got twisted, and here I was — bark twists, it was healing.
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Beautifully, let’s say, my perspective on this subject feels the strongest —it’s just that, at first, I was mostly concentrating on these adopted families — and I have some conversations built with Angela around them — so I’m just trying to make choices…since she’ll talk about everything being energy — snipping broccolini. I suppose Naples is all at once, all over the place, hilariously so, and then, everyone plays their own role. Carmine and I are in deep discussions over the band, the band, the band. And Franco is a torpedo — morning, noon, and night — COMPLICATE, this STORY IS COMPLICATE.
And then, there’s Christmas itself —
There are a few different parts and I don’t know how it all fits together yet.
So I’m going to tuck in, get some early shut eye, tonight, and keep going tomorrow.
This is it though. I can’t work on this much longer. I don’t care where I am. I don’t care. I’m just working out, doing yoga, getting massages, and working —
So, I choose to believe that manifesting a book — this book — is easy. At least, the basic order of it.
Talk soon.