Everything's great, just great

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.

I can fly anywhere

What can I say? I wrote a lot of things that don’t matter in the end. It’s all about the oldest storyteller. I might start a newsletter for that, but I guess that also means reading things in relation to that, which is fine, I just wish I had more money than I had right now. Yeah, so Tarik is an outstanding person, in that, I gotta get myself moving, and I gotta get that official paperwork to slide—safe, on a base—just in time. It was a close one. It’s um, a tight moment. I want to remove the obstacle, but there isn’t a job, right, I have limited funds right now. So, something will pop up. I’ll start pitching. If I need to, I can take out of my IRA, it’s just I don’t want to do that. So, fingers crossed. I hope I’m making the right decision here. I suppose there is no right or wrong, but I’m just in a tight spot. In the end, even with what I have to pay extra, it’s still not much to American standards for rent, let’s say. Over the year, it’s not that much more a month. It’s just the price went up, too. Plenty. I’m supposed to maintain that state. Is. Plenty. Okay, so I’ll try that. Plenty, plenty, plenty. I have plenty. I’ll keep meditating on that. Plenty. Plenty…

On the wings of my fancy...

If it’s not about the energy, “it does not concern me.”

I met the wise screenwriter some years ago at Tiago Cafe on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

I always appreciate his reflections because he keeps his state very simple. He doesn’t have a destination, he would say, which would challenge the idea that life isn’t about destinations. I have goals, that is, I do have a destination of sorts. He’s passed that. He’s doing something else. And I enjoy that my wisemen are wisemen, first of all, and there are three, this is true. The wise screenwriter placed his tin of cigarettes on the cafe table and thought that I was remarkable, and that was basically it. He was the first person I truly trusted. That can sometimes get rocky, though I don’t put that on him, but I do trust other people, it’s not that. He gets it. He gets the energy can sometimes get me a little confused. It’s being alive. He wasn’t a “woo woo” person, or he isn’t necessarily crafting the energy with language. So, psychic, um, channel, portal, these sorts of words, they are all great, turn on TV babe. He knows and understands that I’m sensitive in a particular way. “ASSET. THIS IS AN ASSET.” That’s all he says. It began with “You’re making it up. You’re creating your own reality.”

We met while I was living in my sister’s loft above the apartment. He’s a heavy hitter. He was really a rock—it’s the name of the movie. I think sometimes that has its own effect, energetically speaking. In that, he’s doing what he’s doing, as he said to me long ago. “I do not know what you’re doing. I know what I’m doing.” Not my problem. He’s a big meditator. He’s the one who got me into it. “Keep your state clear.” Just my text to the wise screenwriter on Halloween that I was breaking down the boundaries of time and space to confront “time bends…” I was confronting it. He’s not getting rocked by my psychological experiments. He called it an arbitrary line. And did I understand what that word meant? Again, my father had secret dementia and he used word that didn’t quite make sense. It’s a good idea, to him, but I didn’t need to explain the reality to him. “Just put me there.”

I take a moment for the wise screenwriter because he’s just so clean, clear, and focused. I was lucky to have met him, even talking to him about my experience of reality made sense to him. He was the one who used the term “bleed throughs…” in terms of information coming in. He called the oldest storyteller a psychological device and a good idea. He read through all my drafts, so he had a sense of what I might be dealing with. He read Rosa’s Room in the middle of the night. He had no comments except he thought it was good. That’s it. That’s all I needed to know. I don’t need critical feedback right now, if that makes sense; it’s like, good, you enjoyed that. The rest is up to me. I obviously want to write something that’s enjoyable to read, nothing too glaringly—I didn’t get that. It’s the exercise of Rosa’s Room as well. He knows my whole story probably better than most—the wise men.

It’s a simple approach. I’m like “dealing with my relationships to things” and he is meditating on the word “is.” Everything is. Is. So, he can move from one thing to the next. I always appreciate his approach. That’s a solid. He stood as a solid, immovable object, on the outside of my life. That’s a friend. He’s the one who said, lol, “words are not your primary form of communication.” Feeling is. So he doesn’t necessarily need to say that much. “Remove the obstacle.” That’s the wise screenwriter. “Remove the obstacles.”

The wisemen were the real men around me during that shift. “Changing your idea set is a physical process,” and he has a way of saying process that is very reassuring as well as satisfying. If it’s not about the energy, this is his occupation, then he’s not interested. That ended up really helping me quite a bit, and it always does. It’s real. That you know. In terms of dealing with pretty much anything and everything, I would think that energy would be the approach with mental health issues, too. And I don’t know what to say, more and more, in that, I read an essay about a woman who was in the mental hospital like four times. I saw Lady Gaga talking to Oprah about her anxiety and depression. I cannot really relate. I was repressed for a long time. I got in touch with fear, I got in touch with my nerves, and maybe even my time-bending experience, I do not know, since that was catastrophically large, and the make-up of both my parents and yet, I’m on the other side of that.

That’s it.

He felt, having not really spoken to me during that period, that it might have been a little more like what it’s like on the other side so to speak. I had no real issues like that. I had emotional problems, but then, “the problem” was the problem itself, that I was a problem. He had a way of speaking directly to my four-year-old, somehow. “I was four!” I believe he said in such a way. “A four-year-old is a baby.” It’s all about those four years. “There is no such thing as maleficient forces,” and he said it in such a way. “Now,” he reassured me. “I know that might have felt true once upon a time…but there is no such thing as maleficient forces.” And that hit me at four.

So “is” is the state.

It can get a little confusing, especially right now, I think, just because I’m outputting. I’m in a new city. I don’t have a job. I haven’t secured my visa. Remove the obstacle. I don’t, and he’s the same, want drama, but I got plenty of it, which is also an asset, I suppose. In my life though…I don’t want that. Everything is about my work right now which, right now, is drawn from my life experience. I like my mosque meditations—of course, the wise screenwriter had a really good feeling about the Mosque Meditations and feels I am in-between, betwixt and in-between, which is what happens when you get caught up between where you are and where you wanna be. Right? It’s great because he really doesn’t give a shit. He’s not changing his stance. He’s never going to have a problem with me. That’s it. He’s very calming. He can be. “Is.” Ride the wave. Spin it up. “Don’t know why you’re on the cover of Vogue, but, these are effects.” Forget the A to B. Continuity is bullshit. That’s what he said over poké in Beverly Hills. I wondered how did Jamie Foxx…”continuity is bullshit.”

“You do not have to manage it…”

He pointed outside of Taschen.

“You do not have to manage the shift in reality…”

“Manage?”

“Yeah.”

“You like a meeting,” he said.

I’m going to forget the A to B a bit, because, yeah, for someone who is so nonlinear I can get very literal, though that’s softening out. I suppose I’m being more open about myself now that I’m writing. I suppose everyone does get caught up in the mind, actually. I’ve been maybe more heart, or trying to speak from there, but when you don’t know quite where you are, I think the mind can switch on. I’m not that stressed out or churning over this moment in time; it’s just that sharing my ideas can stimulate me. I’m making a reach—that’s what writing is. I’m trying to make a connection. I want someone to enjoy what I do. The wise screenwriter doesn’t want to hear something smart, he wants to read something that’s true. I will figure out the rest. Because he “did it babe, I did it…” I know that it’s possible to build a successful career as a writer—there’s nothing impossible about it. I’m not one to judge but there is a thing called judgmental energy, lol, and we refuse it. Next. He’s a fun character because he’s the wise screenwriter.

“The I Tanya DVD is a SET UP.”

But he was the one who said “what’s the feeling…” when he read my initial drafts. I had no idea. He knew. He wasn’t going to rock the boat. But um, yeah, he delivered the topic sentence of my life to me. “The topic sentence is: I was given away to a total stranger when I was four.” It was a psychological process, let’s say, that I went through. But that’s basically it. You know, I don’t even know what to say, except maybe I’ll look up some literature on that. On “neglect.” Etc. He didn’t sound that surprised. He didn’t go, “yeah no.” But then, I wrestled with him, too, with what people believed to be true or how they made meaning out of the story, what they gathered.

My experience in a mental hospital was terrible and hilarious; I read my rights, kindly, and got upset, kindly, that no one showed us where the water was bringing it to my roommate who was sedated after I started inquiring as to how she got here. I began doing focusing exercises. “Did The Red Book taint Carl Jung’s reputation?” I bring Hades in there—good idea. To him? Very good. That’s exactly right. “You do not have to become the experience.” Which I didn’t. The hallucinations themselves were even guides in letting go. That was a whole thing. He thought the feeling in my gut was justice. The other wiseman said “you were finding form for your feelings.” I don’t know what to say about what I experienced in my body, but that was confusing and very painful. I couldn’t exactly say, okay, I’m feeling things…alright, to the wise screenwriter, he’s not going to really say anything. I haven’t really talked to anyone about it. I wish I could say something definitively because what I experienced would suggest that something more than neglect was happening back there, I just don’t know what to do with that. Even the word neglect. I mean I’m over that. It’s just my mother had sexual perversions, so that’s a little weird, and I really dealt with that, if that makes sense. And you can’t talk about that, and I read about sexual assault every single day…the Catholic Church: my target. Maybe it’s time to unleash my undercover investigation with the oldest storyteller: the best thing that came out of my four-year investigation into the Catholic Church as an organization beginning around nine years old…many years later. And I really don’t know what to say about my father. I really don’t. But my mother seemed to come from, I don’t know, quite a past. If these perversions were true, once upon a time, unclear. Scary. But? I did feel a lot, and I cannot deny the increasing ease I feel. When someone is talking about their rapes; it doesn’t sound true unless she came from some whoa…whoa, whoa. She was a little like that, so. And my story is a little—uh? What was that?

In the end, as the wise screenwriter said, “it was a therapeutic event.” I would imagine to him that sure, a psychosis could be that. He just said that’s not what that was. It didn’t feel that way to me, though there’s probably something to say about the collective, the therapeutic event I initiated as Jung did, and he said his name quite seriously with me, during a time of personal crisis. And it deeply affected him, “Yes, he, too, was upset.” No one wanted to talk about that. But The Red Book is one of the most significant documents in the field of psychology. Who knows, maybe one day, I might get a clear answer, though my body seemed to suggest that there was one. But then, I don’t know what to say. I’d rather say, no, there was none of that. For me, at four, at eight, the lie alone was infuriating. Her sexual persona or how she treated herself was difficult. That’s why I sort of went for her. It’s just that “you probably weren’t bathed either” was already enough. Not that anyone meant to cause any harm here, but it didn’t seem I was cared for properly. So, yeah, the rest of it, I can’t say anything.

“You should trust your body…” Sure. Then, I was. That’s just utterly crazy. Unfortunately, it’s so common, which was the other reason why I investigated her, not what happened to me, because I couldn’t bare the lie, that someone would lie about such a thing, knowing that this happens and concluding that this might have happened to her and that got confused; I mean, I had no idea what to do with her. It was—don’t look away, it was alright, just tell me. What’s the ultimate shame mother, since this is such a shame? It’s filthy, literally. I don’t know what to say about the drugs, you see, you cannot exclude that in my mother’s case. That might have taken some time for me to fully realize, but she was on “so many pills she couldn’t even say her name straight” that was the escort. And the wise screenwriter has no problem with him. I don’t either. He was mysterious; I didn’t ask him questions. Again, he would have sent me to boarding school. He’s paid me more courtesy than my own mother did, quite frankly.

When I say “I don’t think so” then I don’t know what to do with what I physically experienced. I don’t even know what to say about her. That’s pretty much it.

I think the thing is, these dynamics didn’t go away after this experience that I had. It was physical. And the idea that my mother would be “trying to tear us apart” in his words was ludicrous. I was four. The woman wanted nothing to do with him. Not from my standpoint…since I was sleeping in the same bed as he was. I demanded my own bed at four, and then, she took it. But “we stayed together for you.” These were the sentences. I wasn’t there for half of their relationship. I felt like I was talking to people who were taking crazy pills. I had no idea what to do with this. What was the story? The wise screenwriter informed me that a four-year-old is a baby. Even just, wait, was I not fed all the time? Just come on. What snacks did I have? Snacks. Nothing but birthday cake in the fridge? Is this for real? I remember a banana gerber bottle in the fridge though. Banana. Isn’t that funny? I might have recognized pictures early. IRSHELP, the license plate. I knew what that spelled. I’ll post the photo of me—the one…trying to communicate…

I don’t even want to talk about any of it, you see.

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I was a really happy baby, too, but this photo made me laugh…because…

When I admitted to myself like, uh, maybe this did happen, that made me feel better. The panic, quite frankly, quelled. What do I do with that? I would have to go take walks. My dreams in particular, thankfully, were rare. I had sharp, intense feelings that required my absolute total focus. I did not deserve harm. It was terrible. Just because of the nature of the dream and the sensations that I had. I would literally have to talk to myself. How that mixed with the people surrounding the message that kicked off the final battle, let’s say, was also confusing. It was like a sick day or three. Eating, just eating. I mean, I don’t know what to say about “the oldest storyteller” except that story actually helped me through that. I mean, the toughest thing was eating, at times. It’s more common than one would like to think it is, so even that, and I was just like, okay, so this is the lie? I’m experiencing the lie. All the same, I can’t talk about it. It was how this story reappeared in my life that threw me over the edge; that, too.

I appreciate having a blog, or somewhere where I can voice this. I don’t know what that means outside of here, but I’m writing about my life right now, and I don’t want to feel like I shouldn’t or something. I look at photographs of my father, and I just can’t imagine, right, at the same time. I think sometimes about his dementia, if he happened to have specific paranoias, which he did, maybe that affected me. No one wants to hear about rape that much, I’m sorry. “Someone was raped in your room…” I couldn’t even believe that. Showing me how this person entered. Was that the dementia? I can’t speak to why this theme, in particular, was around me, and that got scary, very, too, all things considered. That went away…it was a period. The way this type of issue can be denied and masked, and even the way these four years I lived in another house were handled around that subject…a little tough to digest.

That was the reason why I was there. Money played a role. Just being like, I was home a couple of times? A few times? Looking at my childhood photos…how would one feel? Finding these times, looking at dates, and this was after I got out of the hospital. Because…the story was…and distraught doesn’t even begin to describe it. I don’t want to remember this regardless.

I always appreciate the wise screenwriter; I don’t talk about that with him. He knows the story. He was the one who suggested replacing “lie” with quotation marks with accused, simply. He’s just the wise screenwriter, so it’s just the content. He could point me to watch this or this. It’s not this. He’s not afraid of anything or he’s not swayed. I watched all of his movies, actually, and at times, it did make me laugh; “it being too much.” He never made me feel like I couldn’t talk about anything even if it was in my own space, type of thing.

Now you see…the IRSHELP license plate is real and I remember this photo. I was trying to communicate. That license plate blew my mind back then. I knew how to spell Vanessa Williams, too, because I saw it on TV so I punched the letters on my label maker. I didn’t want “Maria” as my name. This was common. I did not want Mary’s name. I did not want this fate. His mother was not my concern. My name was Vanessa Williams. Print, print. I pasted the name across all my agendas. Truly, I went around “my name is Vanessa Williams!” I even ran away from my parents on a boat headed to Tijuana with the name Vanessa Williams. We stepped on and I bounced. When adults started coming up to me, I started acting—oh, pushing open the bathroom door. Seriously. “Mommy!” I started blending into different families. They would notice me just sort of standing with them and they would ask me who I was, and where are your parents? I would wave and run over there. If someone asked me what my name was I said “Vanessa Williams.” No one put together that the four-year-old girl calling herself “Vanessa Williams” and the missing girl being paged named “Maria” were the same person. I remember being in whatever cafeteria, under a table. I hid in plain sight. I heard the speaker. But my name was Vanessa Williams. I didn’t think anything could happen to me on a boat. I was just walking around. Eventually, it was almost time to go Tijuana. I was hiding behind the cleaning thingy. Adults were gathering around my parents unable to find “Maria.” I popped out. “My name…”

I have time to explore what I want to write about or what is that I’d rather put aside, so-to-speak. I don’t have to include this part of my life. In terms of writing an essay…I’m not sure if I would write “the thing I do not know.” In thinking about mental health, just because it’s the subject, it’s the subject, so. Both of them were…sick. I don’t know what to say about the event I went through but that’s all it was. I went through a short moment in time when that past opened up and it wasn’t the same…I definitely went through states I never had, though I also had releases of traumatic experiences, like I didn’t know I was ever scared. Going through the draft, even that photo up above, I got in touch with that. I felt where that repression was even stored at least in my case. Then my life around me started to appear a little differently to me. I got triggered here and there in button spots I didn’t really know were there. If there’s alcohol in my burger, no offense, at four, like I do not want this, “only a little for the flavor” like this is my flavor. I’m four. Why are you giving me this lone burger patty? That was remarkable even that she made me food, I remember. Based on how this person, quite frankly, treated me…even in these four years I was living somewhere else…her issues, her wounds, her pain, trust me, I got it. I don’t have anything to say. I just got here. I knew I was worth something; I refused to be affected. Going through the basic human feelings…it was so not about me, so why? That’s what I mean. Why are you putting on an aria, like it was chilling, of ignoring me in this other family’s house that I am currently living in…then, there’s my father watching some weird “be happy” game to destroy the child molester thing…what am I supposed to do with that? He can’t take action. He respects this unspoken boundary though he doesn’t know this person. Mental health. As an essay? Um, so, both my parents were mentally ill, so let me maybe break down that phrase and replace some of that with guilt, pity, shame. There’s depression, anxiety, and my father had an anxiety disorder and he was, even if he wasn’t diagnosed, not sure, depressed. He also had dementia, whichever disease, at that point. I don’t know anything about their pasts, I mean, I don’t know how much one knows about their parents. In this case, I didn’t know what to say or what happened to them.

I saw a glimpse of my mother, which I was expecting, in the first love—my father’s first love. The book of poems. Love is the greatest invention, he wrote. He crossed it out and wrote inspiration. I crossed that out, snooping through his drawers, and circled invention. He never looked at this. I wrote an essay, I’ll post that soon, but it’s just me trying to do something with these four years, but maybe in the end, it just doesn’t matter. He saved their letters; they always remained friends. She seemed to like me, by the way, and I wondered if he never had gotten over her…and she didn’t really love him…and that threw me because these poems were the first sign of “an affective life” in him; I was trying to evaluate as a rookie psychologist what mattered to him. Someone said that it didn’t matter if she did only that he felt it, and you know what? I thought, I’m going to say no. I want to love someone who loves me. Not someone who he never got over or even if it was the romance of her, or whatever that was. Maybe my parents were particularly sentimental. I don’t fully understand their relationship…given my mother’s general operation…you understand…around men…maybe wasn’t always that way…but the chaste complex was…weird. It was just when she started talking like that that I didn’t know what to do. In that, maybe if someone was direct with her at an earlier point in time…I didn’t know what this was. Was anyone ever there? Do you know what I mean? Had she really grown up in a horrific world…or was her psychology different at baseline, or both, I should say. It’s not wrong; different isn’t wrong. I don’t even know if different is the word. Twelve people sleeping in the same room… might make a mind look different than another who had fewer people around, quite frankly. The death games. And the thing is—her sister, caught you. I was four, I was listening. I ran to get her help. I was fast. I got the message. Maybe she was going through something…but my mother told me she married a murderer who beat her to death, more or less, and then called her. I was standing there at four, being like—why is she telling me this? Um, I would hope this would not happen this often? To be over it? So what’s “the sick game?”

Yeah, mental health. There’s that. I tried “Amaretto Dreams” even…just trying to find some poetry. In the back of Cutlass on my way to the police station. Ah, dinner opera, while I was living at some other person’s house for this reason. Even our being in matching dresses became disturbing. Nothing matters. There are all sorts of ways I could treat that, it’s more laughing at the clean, cut, that’s what it was. It isn’t the type of scenario that I want to get sentimental about or express any remorse, or connection over. There is poetry or feeling that I can access that might give that scope and dimension. Understanding, sure. I’m getting there. I’ve been trying to not tell the story so much but maybe try sensation as an in, or something. They are just sort of new, if that makes sense, as figures. I contemplated their psychologies, but my feelings in relation to them were blocked. I had to clear emotion, even, especially with my father since that was mind-bending in its own way. Even the facts of my life landed later.

I’ll probably do snapshots or something through the years…since it was an important song in the Brazilian-Jewish household. I appreciated a break from the Catholics, I assure you. I was vocal about my feelings about the Catholic Church early, four. I had many questions. I just got here. I saw a structure that might work…in going into these different houses in a fluid sweep…but what did it mean? What did I learn? I suppose a lot, but then, this kind of writing is about giving; your giving. Maybe all writing is that, but it’s a personal experience. It’s a story. I’ll continue to play around. The dimension of it is fine. I had to settle the “lambada parties” or how I framed all this for myself, personally. It just fell on me every time. I say that without anything attached. But heartbreak, since that’s what the song is about, is a moving theme even given the cultural marriage: Brazil and Jewish. And they can’t even claim that according to some since the mother converted, but the six children were raised Jewish. Even that. Six children. This woman had six and she wasn’t looking for a seventh. I’ll maybe try that. Since it’s joy, too, and people are connecting and dancing…it was amazing to me at four, five. “But this is sad.” I can’t really claim any of it.

Speaking of the IRS, I owe them a little money, but I got a little refund from the state of California, so thank you. Mouhcine handled that for me this year; it was quick, painless, and no, I do not do my own taxes. It’s done. That, I learned early. “Do not mess with the IRS.”

Alright, it’s time for me to go to sleep.

Thanks for reading.

I can be whatever I want to be...

It’s done. I found an apartment. I like my reflection shots, personally. But still, I’m going to keep I love you more than Maradona on Naples, I think, but the search for home fits. I am grateful that Tarek was able to move faster than anyone—this is an ER doctor. I wish I could give him an award for outstanding world citizen. Our Eastern European roommate goes down, Muhammed must escort him to the hospital and stays with him all night…with Tarek. I’ve had nothing but a seamless experience here. So fine, this other apartment fell through. Tomorrow, it will be done. All I have is a suitcase; I’ll move. I’ll turn in my folder. Tarek doesn’t really see why I would be rejected. There are 10 million refugees in Turkey; I am not a refugee. Almost, exactly. I hope not. I have money on paper. I have to find employment but I don’t need to work in Turkey. I’m looking to extend my tourist visa, so that just means money for them, so I don’t see why I would be rejected. If that’s it, that was pretty painless. Maybe I’ll get a residency permit out of it, I don’t know at this point, but I’m turning in the paper. I have health insurance; that was rather easy.

I don’t want to move right now. I would love to see my friend in Beirut, but I need a base. It’s not a bad idea. Istanbul is an amazing city; Turkey is a truly important culture though I don’t know which one isn’t. It’s been funny, as it always is, getting in touch with some American viewpoints about “Turkey” or “the Arab world.” I don’t know what to say. It’s Turkey. What language do they speak in Turkey? Is it safe there? Someone said that France is a culture of criticism and the United States is a culture of fear. Again, I’ll post our conversation soon, but I said that to the refugee camp manager—a culture of fear? Does that make sense to you? It was “a good point” to him that “it’s all about freedom” but there is a lot of fear that comes along with that culture.

Technically, how do I, this “Arab world” is rather diverse. It’s a little bit of a problem in my opinion. My stance was clear at nine years old in the Big Sisters of America office in Santa Monica—”I would like an Asian big sister…” I am in Asia, though I’m on the European side, but I am in a city that is also in Asia. So, Arabs can be Asian. I’ve very much appreciated my travels and being cradled, in a sense. No one knew what I went through, in that, I just looked obsessed with work, maybe tight on funds. I have an active mind from their standpoint in that I’m thinking actively, or I’m in a particular state of mind; I think that’s it. I move around. Depends. I just left a voice note for Aziz. Next time, I’m going to the club with Aziz. I’d like to go back to Fes, but I have to think about what I could pitch about that family. That’s a big deal. I’d go back to Anas in Marrakesh, too, sorry if my spelling is not correct; Silver in Berber. His grandfather was French General’s chef. Even just the palace; it was Muslim and Jewish craftsmen who built the palace. They in-laid a stone to commiserate that partnership in pink and black. It was the first place in Morocco that had electricity. They know I appreciated it. I planned to go back. That’s a little more of “travel deeper” vibe. One step at a time.

I didn’t want to have to make sudden moves and no one wants to deal with those, so I’m glad that’s going to work out. I’m going to apply for some jobs and head over to the Hagia Sophia a little later (with the Oldest Storyteller in mind) and I’ll continue to work on my chapter outline. And I’ll post some Tik Tok videos and Instagram photographs of Naples.

Thanks for reading.

In my own little chair...

Good morning with snail cream. Should I? Is this okay? I didn’t look it up. With this one, not sure about the formulations, or how much snail is in this, but I do not want to offend anyone. This is my objective in life. No offense.

I made some inquiries as to what my options are. I know that people take all sorts of risks financially or they make all sorts of decisions like if someone needed to use what they have, they wouldn’t really think twice about it. I made some poor decisions a couple of years ago, but let it all work out to my advantage. The couch in that apartment—it’s the perfect couch for Death. It truly is. Just for that description. I know, I have to make myself laugh. That ended up being a time of lessons. Just because I went from no rent to the most I had ever spent.

It wasn’t a manic decision in that I have never been manic. I wanted to be able to maintain a new bar since I struggled even with the money I had, too, since I understood from a certain standpoint it was not that much but it was something that allowed me to start over at twenty-six. But if you were to see where I lived, I was always lucky in terms of the spots I found. It was more about whether or not my choices ended up supporting me. Now, I have a different attitude. I lived in my sister’s attic, even, or the Chelsea Hotel for free, etc. So, it wasn’t like I was necessarily running around, but still, it’s been ten years. Not everyone would set themselves up that way, but I was trying to use that money, again, to help myself. The choices I made though in steering myself as a writer, I would give someone like me different advice. Like make sense.

I just can’t tell the same story around it. I’ll see what I can do there, quite simply. Hopefully, it won’t matter soon, but it did support me; it’s not a small point. Money. I suppose if someone were in my position…at the point I’m at, what would they say? Go back to the states? Well, today, you can technically find a remote job, and it’s less expensive, and I hear it’s sort of a mess? Is this true? I’m fine with creating my own way, if you would, since this is also a skill. I am also in a different place, but it’s obviously still my life. It scares me sometimes because this approach didn’t work for me. I eliminated what I had to, if you will, as to the effect that money had, in a sense.

I’m also not like that. For me, President Barack Obama is the touchstone. On all accounts. Fame? President Barack Obama. Etc. There I can close my eyes and ground. Just because he’s a former president so that’s that. I follow him on social even on Medium. I don’t think that anyone would judge me for having money? Do you know what I mean? But what that means…to have money, I’m not sure if I would quite place myself in that category, but I did have a foundation on that end. In my twenties. Before that, that was a different story, although I could take classes. I was not without, but my father became increasingly depressed around money. Just to say.

My friend offered me some money because my hospitalization a couple of years ago inspired her to write an episode called “How do You Solve a Problem like Maria?” That song. It’s not even based on anything that happened. We all know what my opinions are—it’s all about the escort. Again, just stop. The escort is not concerned about a girl with a book. This is a personal call. But he’s one of those characters that can just walk in. He had that effect. That’s a skill. Besides, there is no reason for him to pretend that he didn’t work for the government if he did, it was my mother’s…storytelling over there.

Riiiight. No, no, I do not know what the truth is. It’s not the point.

In this fiction, Maria goes into a mental hospital to protect her book from the spies since Dr. J told me that the escort was a secret spy—that’s the story. I’m thinking public records. What’s coming up? Since across all computers, in this case, it’s like—where? Where is she? If you want to disappear, it’s no phone, no card, nothing. That’s the reality of that one. And there’s a book about that, about a man who helped people disappear. Marc Eliel spoke to me about it. As the escort—I’m going across the board—where is she? Does my name get registered in a hospital? I don’t know how that system works. That’s what that version of myself does, and that got me thinking about it. It’s fine, but it was more of an offshoot.

In the end, she couldn’t give me the original amount she had intended to, but that’s fine, but I thought I had maybe a little more than I do. It’s for my work, but what isn’t right now?

It’s just the escort, this is the point—this is my concern. Game over.

This is the man who saved my mother—Dr. J, seriously—from these four years I lived in this other house because she was a genius. I leave his country of origin aside out of respect since that had its own effect. Seriously, that country has gone through a lot.

This was The Spy Narrative.

I thought make it a Scotsman, make it from that area, even an Irish person. Regardless, it could be played by a variety of people. The escort ended up being a really fun character to think about because he’s an interesting villain. He’s not against me. He could dialogue with that idea, for sure, very calmly, wherever he is, she, too. He has power. In the sense, he’s not losing his cool, but it would depend on where he would be activated and how the story would go. He gave the impression that you didn’t mess with him. You didn’t question him. Which worked. That’s what makes it interesting. Normal life.

At least I have some good characters. It was just my real life. He saved my mother from total ruin. I was eight. So, the idea that I came from money, I would let the escort sort of handle that one. With a minor shrug, he would suppose I might have been attractive, or sort of got by. He’s already over it—he’s a spy, no? Like he gives a shit. I like that kind of searing “it’s handled.” Yeah, on that level. Pull yourself together. Some chick in a mental hospital? Can’t get over her past? A book.

This is my version.

Anyway, I could talk about the escort all day.

Even in a totally serious spy scenario, I could see him in various forms being quite compelling.

She’s great, she’s doing her thing, and she knows—since I said it—that I wanted to use that. It’s my life. It’s just that in my conceit; me? In that scenario? It’s all about the escort. That’s who I’m outsmarting, or that’s who I am up against. My mother, sure, but it’s really him since she doesn’t go anywhere without him. He provided a tight container. Very tight. That’s basically it. Was it a little rocky, you know, sort of. In that, I sort of dream of being able to talk shop about lots of characters, since I enjoy that, so I would hope that my life would inspire a screenplay. I might very well try that out myself, as Joan Didion also did. These sorts of people. That’s not a problem.

That’s basically it. It’s just to say that it’s already happened.

It’s going to be fine. My mother was in total shambles, and that’s not where I am at. I was never there. I went through a moment in time. In terms of making jokes about drug addicts or having a point of view, since the escort doesn’t give a shit. Dr. J’s makes a potentially strong Joker idea. My mother is almost a book in herself in moving through what she taught me about psychology even, and that comes from very little even one-on-one since I hardly saw her after four years old though she might really think that’s not the case. I could also talk about that.

Do I reflect something back on her? I don’t care.

I cannot totally describe the source of that delusion because the utter theatricality of it would perhaps make her more suspicious if not villainous. I could probably break that down though; her believing that she has a relationship with me and that’s pretty real.

Dr. J was a special person; she was not your average situation.

Just the mirrors, too. Where you don’t know, I guess, what the reality is: real not real. Depending on where she came from, and thinking about the issues involved, I thought that there are some realities—taking my four years in this house—where the truth didn’t matter, do you know what I mean? I was very young, but I was thinking, I guess, on that level in some simple way since the problem was unavoidable. It’s not like you couldn’t see it. And some real stories are maddening, can’t they? The truth can become a field day. Even in taking what it is that we don’t talk about, projection, how a person will naturally tell stories…because making-meaning is the most fundamental need, desire, if not human act, no? In some way. How a person “thinks they know.” They think they know what’s going on. And—in the villain version of Dr. J—it’s that psychological “there is an ultimate truth” depending on who you’re talking to that might just be one’s greatest weakness. That’s a working hypothesis—I know.

You’d never expect that I would calculate to that degree — my lying experiment in the fourth grade. Oh no, you’re even making that up now. No, sorry. That’s not my interest. Not over something so insignificant when across the yard a girl lied about her father taking everyone to Disneyland to win the elections. I know. Maybe she thought it was possible, you understand, and her father said—what? That’s like two hundred people? That’s quite showy. That would be a touch funny, inappropriate. I would have probably begun—lol—talking to these people about what this all means.

I set up a container. It was over the impending release of Mortal Kombat IV, but we were also in the fourth grade. It was despair. It was extremely thought out. I suppose I was a child, so if that ends up being a useful container in some way, then so be it. I was trying to understand because I saw lying as such a problem. It was in my life.

I never did something like that again but I tried to track where we might lie and why? I can picture Dr. J, the character, it’s fine, “who’s the liar?” Sure, not everyone is, but if we were to put my evil brother into the mix delivering the news…yes, I would send him in to be the most sincere Clark Kent. Yeah. “Hey you remind me of a Clark Kent, haha, ha.” Throw in some “girlfriend” from Arnesic and Old Lace to create problems even for him. Performance artists. Do you know what I mean? I would do that in some reality—straight for Fox News. Send someone else into the liberal bucket. No? These are my Jokers. “What is going on here?” And I appreciate some people going—yes. Go. On TV. I had a fun time at least seeing “my evil brother” in this sort of world. It’s funny to me but I’ll probably end up trying something.

That experiment ended up being quite grueling. In a state of sort of panic, driving around Los Angeles with my father with Alzheimer’s looking for this game for English class, I didn’t understand how one could get to a point of not caring? That was difficult. I came from a family of liars, basically, and even that, it’s a complex statement. I’m talking about my parents, but I could get sharp. Now, my Brazilian caretaker could attest to getting wrapped up, truly speaking, in this insanity. She lied. She concocted a game with my mother around my father. That was justifiable. He was…a child molester. That was why I was there. Maybe even the escort could, in real life, talk about “the stories” she told and how “truth” was assigned to which one. And some of that might be rather revealing about how we handle certain truths in the world as well. Like, in the work place, sexual harassment, assault…I just read about a police officer who assaulted children. So, it’s there. It’s very real. And he had some “mental health condition” obviously. There’s something off there. If someone says “dementia” I don't know.

That story did fall on me, regardless of how old I was, which is—for a villain—potentially also a point. Ah, the world is mad, meaningless, and it’s the sweetest, ah! The most selfless, saving the world, even, isn’t it so sincere? For some, it is, so who cares? Or, I mean, there are lots of people who care…that’s why they do what they do. And the stories that might be told about them, even, are those true? I don’t readily or immediately believe any agenda, or anyone, in a sense. But it’s human, you see, to try and belong in that way. To unite around a point of view. In this case, the truth becomes a bit of a field day.

Dr. J was a kind of prodigy, too—and even that. She was quite mad. A Mad Hatter. As a character at least I could draw out that appeal. Only because—you’re not expecting it, I don’t think. It’s a little rage, on my end, which is fine, kicking in a female Joker—that one. I’m just talking about my mother, too, you know? What am I going to say about Dr. J? That was wild steering and even if I were to take my own choices, I might be able to relate to the sharp edge; the value in her mind even if that’s gone. And is it? I have no clue. I could do a lot with her, even as a redemption story, etc., or one who comes out of completely insane, impoverished beginnings? What was that?

I didn’t know why the line “I was trying to find something useful” in Christmas in Naples is a Sport seemed to pop up as “one of those lines…” I don’t remember what they said, I’ll have to check. I’ll be putting it together. I think sometimes, oh, I don’t have enough to fill the time. Then, I remember the escort. I don’t have to include him. They, I mean, I swallowed every time. “What happened to your mother?” After these four years? I plunged right in, more or less, because I didn’t want to seem affected. I was even in a state of disbelief. “So, some man, flew in out of nowhere…and saved her because she was a genius…”

That’s a…what? Are you for real? So, I suppose the story itself had its entertainment value that I might have seen as a positive, which, I think, speaks for itself. In that, entertainment is even seductive. The number one show on TV was about the mafia, since Camorra might not mean anything to the average person, and they were all riveted. I didn’t know if we were talking about “the real” or “the show.” That line. So, the show as a concept (the wise screenwriter) is already the subject of a book. It’s more that, there’s a lot going since it’s about family, at its heart. No, I think you’d rather concentrate on the family with maybe me relating to my story like that.

Unbelievable? You know?

I’ll go to the Capodimonte then and I’ll bring Ignazo in—the politician.

I could definitely do The Joker’s Daughter, which would be a character that would interest me. What that would mean. That’s a future idea. I’m not even thinking about it, but I can now. Anyway, that’s just a thought ride I took today. Dr. J, alone, that’s quite a name.

I gotta go try and find an apartment.

You don't have to read this...

This is myspace—yes, remember myspace? I was on that. I believe. The world had changed. But the sport continues, regardless.

I will try and keep works in progress about that, and maybe that will become a Substack but I also do not know what that means. The point is, the truth is—you make your own destiny. Only You 1994. I’ll keep a corner for myself because I need support right now. This is backend, I sold all my clothes, and I got snail cream. That being said, the plot thickens in Istanbul.

She can’t find me an address. So now what? In the next couple of days, which is all it takes to get a response, so that works in my favor, I have to see if I can get another spot. I have another fifteen days on top of it after the 90 days to turn in the application, you see, this is the loop of immigration where it’s okay over there, but I know, I know, that over there it might not be okay. I have seen this loop interconnecting dance before where they suddenly don’t. This is an illusion. This is the immigration system. Turkey has been super easy for me. No complaints. The immigration system has its own time…as well…I don’t know what I’m going to do. I could go back to Naples, but it’s more where I am at financially, and I’m just settling in, and I had hoped to get Naples in the fall. That way it would be, besides spring, which is so funny, the only other season I have yet…to see but there’s a transition in the seasons. I get there toward the end of spring…and the end of fall…

Hades is here, regardless, you see, that’s also funny. He doesn’t care. For one. For two, it’s all Hades, technically, you know what I mean? It’s just different.

It’s interesting to feel like starting, in a way, last summer or starting at this time makes so much sense. Like i’m on track somehow. I don’t know what to say about what I went through or what happened but I did feel so much support in getting here, whatever that means, so I appreciate that. It scared me a touch because I am walking forward on this line having felt rather pulled…I mean, I feel better and better, right? So, I have to keep on trusting that.

I’ll see if I can find an apartment in Naples, again, most people would be flying home about now. I can’t quite measure it because something should pop up. It’s less expensive to live out there, quite simply, which in general wouldn’t be the worst idea right now. It was my plan. Just save. And that’s why I’m still alright. I’m doing all my “money drop from the sky” and jobs, the whole thing, but it’s just…whatever is…bright and dreamy, the best, so that could also mean— I could hop on a plane and end up in Liberace’s car as a hair stylist I know did straight out of Ireland. Literally, she walked out of JFK and into his limo. She wasn’t expecting that. Isn’t that just magic? I mean, I don’t know what that was, but here she was from Ireland…and she ends up in that limo. Life is life, but I found that funny.

I can pitch things in Naples, etc., but that’s where I’m at.

I want to go to Beirut to see my friend because it’s been forever and I could stay there for a month. I wanted to have a job first so I wouldn’t have that hanging over my head with a friend I haven’t seen in a while. So, I’m thinking.

That’s the news. I tried reaching out to other houses but to get someone to sponsor me hasn’t been that straightforward. At least, this person was someone I knew so I was going to move. No. Not happening. I’ll see what I can do over these next couple of days…and decide—back to Naples or Beirut? Or? Where in the states?