And here we go!

Ok...(almost) all booked for Salisbury too, and we pray for good weather...
Now I've got to pack and then shower and then have something to eat and then leave...and pray some more for everything to go smooth...
Last night, summer fair at the band, the first of three nights of music and food and fun: I worked like mad and had a fantastic time, really. Drummer friend's group played for a couple of hours and then another group played, great.
I said goodbye to Guy (who looked for me to chat a bit before leaving); to Rambler friend who's desperately trying to finish his dissertation in time...; and to all the others. It's been a good evening and night but I am happy to leave and make the most of this month virtually by myself, only me, the course, books and my notebooks.
I'm not sure I will be able to post more during July because...well, because. So if you don't hear from me again, have a good time and come see me in Brighton!
(And a note to Rigmor: I will try to email you when I'm there, so we can try to meet after such a long time. And Charlotte, if you are reading, let me know about you too!)
Love, sunshine and hopes from your truly.

Another countdown and so many thoughts

I am writing. I am writing. I am writing.
I know I am repeating myself, but I can’t avoid it. It feels so good. I am reading, and I am writing.
I am also going to leave in five days, all planned and ready, and I have too many thoughts on my mind, to be honest: friends who want to see me before I leave, they make me feel as if I were leaving for another exchange year like Hull 2000, the teachers’ list, a shopping-errands trip to Bergamo with Lady friend, more work in the house to leave it nice and tidy for mum.
I spent three days at home with father only, she was on holiday with her office: I ran for hours, read, slept (it is so hot now), gone for a long walk in the woods with dad, up to 1.300 m above sea level, all Sunday afternoon. I have also gone to rehearsals, as my previous post says, and I’ve been cultivating strange fleeting thoughts since then. Yesterday, after the walk, after the necessary shower, and during a tired dinner, I texted Guy, as it’s become the habit of my Sundays, to know where he’s been, being a mountain person like me (I’d like to go trekking with him since none of my friends goes, but…), so I told him where I had been and enquired on his day. A laconic answer on the place he went, and a wish of a good week. I hate short texts, by the way. I write a lot, and my texts are always extra long and superkind, because I cannot send the tone of my voice as I’m saying something, so I need smileys and special expressions to show that I am being a) nice; b) funny; c) joking; d) ironic; and so on. Once again, written communication is not easy.
Anyway.
A thought in my mind is going on and on. Another thought that has been brought back to the surface after being buried for so long during my dark time.
A degree in psychology, how about that? I can work and study at home, there’s no need to attend the lessons in the university I found (which is not as good as the oldest faculty of psychology of the nation, which anyway would be some three hours away by train and requires 100% attendance, meaning that working students are not allowed…). I have downloaded information and am seriously thinking about it. I also intend to find more alternatives to that university, like some place else, which could give me the same interesting subjects and conditions. I am spending too much time on internet but it is necessary that things are carefully studied and thought. I haven’t told my parents about it, yet, because first of all I need to set other things clear and running.
Plans of these days before leaving:

- see Bride friend tonight and Gym friend tomorrow
- see if Library friend wants to meet me for another tea-and-chat
- go to uni town with Lady friend
- register to teachers’ list
- go help for the band summer fair, starting this coming Friday

Not much to do, after all, which is giving me a lot of time to write. I usually write about an hour a day, which is about two pages, and it isn’t difficult, words are happy and tidy when they line on the page. I’ve never felt this good.

A bit of this, a bit of that...

I am just back home after rehearsals and I feel like writing. I am writing like mad these days, page after page, almost entranced, and it feels so good, so good, so good. Next week this time I’ll be at the summer party, in the band’s shirt and wearing some nice skirt, I thought, a sporty skirt that looks good with trainers, although I could also wear sandals; there isn’t much to do on the first night of the party, but drummer friend is playing with his group, so I guess there will be lots of fans who follow them around the valley like I know they do. Anyway.
In the middle of some complicated score, (ex) friend arrived, shining and smiling; after rehearsals she joined us, and I couldn’t almost look at her; she hinted at my tan, I pretended not to hear; I hoped I would have to drive shop-a-holic friend home too, so that I would leave her first and would not be obliged to spend some time in the car with her, but shop-a-holic didn’t quite catch it and so I was left alone, and subsequently spent about 20 minutes talking to her, trying to be general, no details on anything, not wanting to hear anything from her, not wanting to give away the little nothing I have built during these days. In the end, she decided that next week I must do something with Guy, because he’s obviously interested but cannot move first like I wished he would. So her plan is to keep her cousin away from him, and all the others, so that we would have some minutes by ourselves…shame that I heard him say that he may not be there, on Friday night..I was already thinking that in that case I’ll have to invite him for a coffee on Saturday morning, since I leave at midday, and..Oh, I don’t know. It feels strange. When I analyse certain behaviours, it comes clear that he is interested, and that some of his friends are working for this thing to happen, like when playing partner invited me and Chorus friend for breakfast, that Sunday morning: he had never had such a thought, not even when we were friends, and he is not close to Chorus friend at all, so he could have simply said goodbye and left with Guy for a men’s breakfast. Maybe we are just building meanings around trivial moments, to please our imagination, to feed our dreams.
I have little to do and think of, these days: packing list is ready, I have a couple of laundries to do and some shopping too, a few friends to see, and more running and writing until I have time; I haven’t decided whether I should take my laptop with me or not, to keep writing, or if my long-forgotten notebook will do: in that case I will need to print the first pages of what I am writing, to keep it going the way I want, as a reference. Yes, maybe I’ll do that.
I had prepared a sort of compilation for Guy, did I say that? I probably did. I keep changing my mind over it, and I keep pretending to forget to give his cd back, even when he comes to say hello: it’s in my bag and I know it, still I won’t make my hand take it and give it to him. I want that to be a moment of intimacy, maybe, an exchange of something we are now sharing (a very interesting cd of an alternative group, and Rigmor, if you are reading, I will send you a copy, I have the feeling that you may like it). In the end, anyway, the compilation will be changed, I need something better than that, less cheesy (and mind you, it wasn’t really cheesy, there was lots of rock and parts of soundtracks, since he likes cinema, and I like it too, and I chose the nicest I had), but still a piece of me. I will prepare it now. I am made of many pieces, and every compilation is different, my mood being so variable, so unpredictable; for example now I am listening to the soundtrack of Pearl Harbour, a movie I have never seen because I can tell it’s predictable and cheesy, but the music is good, although not very original. And my mood being kind of melancholic, The Hours is also good for this writing. However, I have made compilations before, and the implied meaning is very dangerous, especially because I wonder if playing partner remembers that I had made one for him too, (already) ten years ago. Oh, such a long time ago. He must have forgotten by now. A Christmas present of a snowy night, mulled wine and songs and finally the gift before saying goodnight, and three kisses of merry Christmas I did not expect at all, that filled me with joy and warmth. I still feel the touch of his skin on my face.
So I wonder if Guy will think/understand that I am presenting this compilation to say that I like him, a sort of interested present, if you want to look at it this way. Then again it’s not, because I give presents because I like making people happy, I spend lots of money over little gifts and stuff that I know my friends would like, or that would make them smile. Do you understand? It’s like the need to know what makes you happy: if I know, I will do my best to make you happy.
Ok. All this music has made me feel like watching the movie again (I’m talking of “The Hours”, of course).

On blogging and friends

I've received an interesting email from the friend whose comment made me angry the other day. He said exactly what I expected him to say, and this set me think about so many things at once; I will try and put them all down here, and I hope I can do it clearly.
I started this blog for one simple reason: I have always kept a diary, since I started to write, which means a real hell of a lot of time ago. It used to be on paper, but having had quite a lot of free time at work I had decided to continue writing in my working hours, occasionally, and not in my own language, for the sake of a continuous revision and use of the languages I have studied in my life; in fact, I used to alternate English, Spanish and French, so it was also a useful job. Then I discovered this blog world, and I thought it would be nice to have my own blog, mostly because this way I didn’t need a pendrive, floppy disk or whatever, internet would be enough to record my crazy thoughts. There is no need to say that I write so much that I usually write a draft, first, on Word, so that I don’t have to be on internet for too long, so basically I have two records of the post I publish. You never know. I have informed my friends of this blog because I like them to know what is going on with me, since I am such a lazy person that I never write enough letters, no matter how much I want to.
This blog is useful for me because I can say exactly what I mean: when I talk, thoughts confuse me, they really clog my brain, and I can never say everything, or the way I want, I can never give a proper form to my thoughts; I have always been a lot better at writing, also because deep down I am very shy and oversensitive, and if something strikes me I can simply start crying like a child (it happens when I am really upset, but I get upset very easily, unfortunately, especially over things that concern me). So, when I couldn’t explain my real feelings to shop-a-holic friend, I texted her angrily about it, but then I posted the whole story, and the reason (or lack of) of my behaviour, and she could understand more. Things are never very easy for me when I speak.
Also, I write to remember: my mind is very elastic, I have a fantastic memory; unfortunately, time seems to change my memories (it does so with everyone, I expect), and if I write something down I will have a “real” account of any event, and a permanent record of my feelings. Sometimes, I said it before, I happened to forget completely what it feels like to be in love, or to be really angry, or to be joyful. During my depressive months I was (un)comfortably numb, and this is no joke: it was only work, gym, tv. The band meant nothing, it was my weekly duty, the gym too, the weekends were useless days off that I used for running, out of my strong sense of duty, watching tv, waste time. Nothing had any importance to me. I am glad I wrote about that time, because now that I feel better, although it still stings to think of it, and I feel that I will bury that whole set of (lack of) feeling, because joy, excitement, energy will overwhelm me and I will not be able to remember that I had such an awful time.
Ok. With this in mind, I have thought about that comment. I knew my post would call for such a comment, so it is my fault, I am conscious of it: so I was angry for that comment and I was angry because I had caused it. Then more things hit me, and here they are:
The culture gap, or age gap, or whatever gap – as my shrink said, this is a typical time for a depressive crises because of my age, some sort of turning point; most of my friends are married, some have just had children, some others are moving in with their partners. I have always felt the strong need of a family of my own, ever since I was 15, so it is no wonder that now I feel terribly bad about it, because I am still alone. Also, in my culture this is the common age to get married and start the real adult life, the one that includes a job, a family, you know, the happy set, all inclusive.
Leaving my job awakened me; I am grateful to myself for having the courage to leave it all behind, the certainty of a payslip for the rest of my life, the comfort of a job two minutes away from home, the plan of a single-sized apartment for me. I am grateful I quit, because I was born again. All these years of inexplicable pain were somehow erased, thrown away to start again; and with the new feelings of freedom, of simple joy, a well-known feeling came back. Love is so strong in me. I love my neighbour children, I love my friends, I love my parents even when they make me so angry, and now I probably love Guy. Or am falling for him, I don’t know. I don’t care. Just feeling this hot stream of love in me makes me smile, because this was one of the things I had forgotten, and doubted I had ever felt. So when I said that I really feel the need of a boyfriend, I am not talking of ANY boyfriend: I have been lucky enough as to have some wanna-be boyfriends, but just as we were saying with Chorus friend, you don’t begin a story only because the other one wants you, it must be a two-way decision. When I say that I need a boyfriend, it’s because in my mind I already have a candidate: it used to be The One who must not be named, aka playing partner, and after him there were only passing crushes. Things are a bit different with Guy, because I am different, and the world we are living is different, and we are both grown-up. Adult. About time too. When I was in Swansea, and my mood was really high, I never felt the need for a boyfriend, because there was nobody I was interested in, nobody I could imagine myself with in the future. I guess this is one of my problems: I always look ahead.
Finally, the need of a child: again, it is a matter of age. I have wanted a baby since I was at high school, and I envy like mad my friends who are living this joy now. I remember being angry at one of my friends because she was saying that she did not intend to marry, and children? No way!, and she had been with her boyfriend more than 5 years at that time. Me, single and with little hope to find a partner, I was so angry, for a saying in my language says that “he who has bread does not have teeth, he who has teeth does not have bread”: I wanted a child and had not even the chance of a long-term relationship; she had a boyfriend and children were the last thing on her mind.
Now I think that the baby and the boyfriend are two separated matters: I wish I could have both, but I wouldn’t mind having only one of the two. Of course, if I find a boyfriend I hope he will want a family too (otherwise there is no way our relationship could last more than a couple of years); but if I don’t, there are many ways I can have a child, in the future: adoption, for example, and all that jazz.
And last but not least, and this I found…uhm, I cannot find the word now. I am talking about something else he said, some sort of advice, which made me smile, it was so…really, I cannot find the word, not even in my own language. But my reply is: of course I wouldn’t go around like in medieval times, spreading the voice that I am looking for a boyfriend in order to have a baby. I am not 1) stupid; 2) crazy; 3) in a rush. We often joke about it, but obviously you don’t begin a relationship telling me that you want children from me, come on! And this is probably another culture gap, as in, there must be somebody who actually starts talking about children on the second appointment…but not here.
I wish this friend and I could be better connected: our minds used to be on the same frequency in the past. But now, he finds funny things that are serious to me, and he takes seriously jokes or words I say for fun. Communication is complicated, and made more difficult by experiences that have not been shared, by the difference of culture again, by words not said, by lack of verbal exchange, by meanings implied but not understood, by lack of real knowledge of the other. I don’t know much about him, I’ve never known much, even when we were under the same sky; still, I always think of him as one of the best friends of my life. I tend to be an open person because I want people to understand me and know me as I am, although I keep my secrets, of course.
It’s been difficult to write all this: I have thought about it most of this morning while I was running, and words were clearer then. I feel I have forgotten some important point, or not expressed it properly. Then again, this is a complicated subject, and half an hour of writing cannot really do much.
It was good for me, though.
And now, let’s get down to business.

Words are flowing (back from Parma)

Just back from Parma, for a weekend with Chorus friend; the city was not as I expected, and I was very much disturbed by her neurotic housemate..However we had an enjoyable weekend, walking and walking and walking, and talking talking talking. We watched “Hero”, the first of the trilogy from Zhang Yimou (the second is “House of flying daggers”, beautiful, and the third one is just out, “The forbidden city”, and I can’t wait to watch it), and went to the opening night of the city poetry festival which featured a concert and some poems read by a great theatre actor and by an actress whom few people liked, I have to say: you could hear some annoyed low chatter every time she stood up to read. Anyway. The music was beautiful, and the cathedral was beautiful, and the night was very enjoyable, although we were very tired from all the walking.
Trophies of the weekend: two books (the new one from McEwan, how couldn’t I? and one from Joyce Carol Oates, since I was in the mood – I am re-reading her “Wonderland”); a good tan; a nice tiredness in my legs (but then again, I’m lying: we walked a lot and I was a bit tired, but I am used to walking a lot. In fact, I arrived at the station tonight and had to come home on foot, and it was no trouble, if only the air hadn’t been so hot and humid: welcome, summer); a lot of thoughts in my mind.
As a matter of fact, the trip from Parma to my county city, where I had to change for my hometown, was a complicated irresistible sequence of thoughts, visions, sudden epiphanies. Words are literally flooding over, and I feel them rushing out some unknown space in my mind, circling endlessly before my eyes, projected like the images of a movie.
I wanted to add a couple of trivial facts: one, I have received formal confirmation that I am accepted on the course in Brighton, therefore I will buy the ticket tomorrow, and start sorting things out before I leave (there is also a new job possibility which I would like to investigate, a one-year project organised by a university, and I may be the right person…cross your fingers, folks), in a list I have yet to prepare…Two, (ex) friend texted me last Saturday, to inform me that she had missed rehearsals again (as if I hadn’t noticed), asking me how things were going and all. It surprised me that she texted me so early in the morning (I saw that it was some time before 8), and that she texted at all. As if nothing happened. I wondered (and wonder now) if she understood, if she thought it normal, if. I don’t understand, and although I talked about it with Chorus friend for a real lot, I still don’t know how I should behave: if I live with her as if nothing happened, she may think that what she did was ok, and she will do it again; but if I behave and show the anger, which is not anger, really, it’s confusion, sudden lack of trust, disappointment, then she may not understand or underestimate my feelings, and how will she react then? Are we in some sort of competition for the attentions of Guy? Anyway. Three, Guy is wonderful, although I am still prone to pessimistic thoughts at times, especially after Saturday night when we never had a moment to be together and chat. The night went really well, I am glad about it: although the drive to the place was unbelievable (a steep slippery extra-narrow hill, right the size of my car, at the end of which my car was almost perpendicular and I couldn’t see what was going to come…I arrived and looked cool, and my friends, especially the male ones, congratulated on my smart guide, whereas the girls congratulated on my courage…I said it hadn’t been that bad, and it hadn’t, really, only the fact that the car in front of the car in front of me – we looked like some expedition in the jungle - had to stop because it was slipping down, and everybody on the other cars – including mine – had to jump out and go push it to help it start again, and then performed the same thing on the car in front, and then on mine, and the narrow road which made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, and the slippery hill…well, as I was talking casually at the beginning of the dinner I reached for some water and noticed my hands…shaking! Then on the way back, being one a.m., no lights whatsoever to show me the way…but at least then I knew what to expect!), I was saying, although the drive was amazing, the place was lovely, the food was fantastic, perfect, delicious, and we did have fun, took pictures, ended with going to the band to sing and play, and look at old pictures (my, have I changed! And luckily, I look a lot better now…), until I left them, being past two a.m., and I had planned to take a train at 10.30, and I wasn’t packed or anything, yet (in the end my parents drove me, having decided to spend the day somewhere different than the lake). But when I left, we had already said goodbye to Guy, who had excused himself at the end of the dinner, for the morning after he was leaving for a trekking trip as usual (lucky bastard, I want to go trekking too, and all my friends are too lazy to join me – it isn’t really safe to go trekking alone around here, in case you wonder why I don’t just go by myself). During the evening we were not sitting next to each other, being separated by Money friend, one I used to go out with (and the whole group of friends) two lives ago, in the famous summer of ’98; luckily Money friend is a heavy smoker and would go for a cigarette after each course, so Guy and I would find ourselves closer, and could chat, and laugh, with the other people. We were never alone, and the place was too small to allow anything of the kind. I texted him on Sunday night, I think, to ask him about his trip, and then again today, because I was in a bookshop yesterday, and I suddenly thought that he may like one of my favourite books, because he likes cinema like me, and this book is written in a cinematic style, so much that Cinema friend and I were playfully planning to adapt it into a screenplay: I am talking of the beautiful “The house of sleep” from Jonathan Coe. I told him about a book he may like, since he had told me that he’s stopped reading, now, and asked him what he liked reading. He replied saying that he likes Coe (!!!) and another one (Murakami), so I remembered that one evening on the bus, back from some concert with the band, we had talked about books, and probably also about Coe and the other one. I was so happy to read that, it was like our minds were connected (of all the people I know, there are only two who know and like Coe…).
It feels difficult at times; and then, I am going to leave in 11 days, and be away for a whole month or more, and then there would be summer holidays at the band, and if we don’t meet at the band I don’t know if I should ask him out sometime, during those three weeks off, provided that I am home and not still in England, that is. I don’t know. This Friday we have a concert, so I believe it will be almost impossible to have a minute with him, except while we carry and carry away all the chairs, stands, percussions and all. Then another week without contact, and then the night before I leave there’s the summer party, and we work all night waiting tables, although Friday is usually a quiet evening. I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t want to think about it. I am happy just lingering here, talking about him, thinking about everything.
Since I left my job I feel so well, and so full. I am never hungry, I feel I don’t need to eat, there are so many beautiful things to do instead, like writing all these words that are no longer clogging my mind senselessly, but waiting, queuing, just a little restless, a shy chattering noise, lining and waiting to be called out, to form rivers of meaning.
Plans of the days to come before I leave:
- book flight (haven’t yet..ops!) (Update: damn, ticket is so high up now! We'll wait and pray....)
- see Teacher friend (Wednesday night, can’t wait; she’s bought the new McEwan too, only hers is a signed copy…);
- register for the teaching list;
- apply for a couple of interesting projects (long story to be explained some other time);
- check packing list and do the necessary laundry to have everything, buy the rest (example: toothpaste for sensitive teeth, or I die);
- go see Gym friends (B&S guy is leaving for Dublin in a week, wish him good luck, he can barely say his name and I’m almost sure he will never understand a single word of what he will be told…);
- meet Gym friend (note to self: send her message for birthday…)
- top up phone (20 cents left…ops2!)
- tidy room properly and clean house;
- keep up with the running routine
- finish book (as I write, I think that this task could be accomplished tonight) (Update: liar! I'll finish it this afternoon, 50 pages left)
- beauty routine to complete (yes, I still am that vain…)
Last but not least, on the contrary, the most important thing to do, and I hope I’ll have enough time:
WRITE. All these words in my mind…I feel so well!

I am waiting...(and I am angry)

Woman from university told me she would send the pre-course task right after our interview; actually, she sent it 26 hours later. Of course in her email she asked me to send it back to her as soon as possible; I printed it and sent it on the following morning, asking her to let me know ASAP if it was ok so I was admitted and therefore I could book the flight, and also to let me know if I could change my choice of accomodation...I faxed the whole thing YESTERDAY at 2.30 English time.
Notice that now it's 2.30 again, 24 hours after I sent her.
DO YOU THINK SHE HAS REPLIED?
....................................
So I am still waiting and thinking of what I could do in case they decide they I am not "suitable", after all. And frankly, I don't feel like thinking about it, because I have so many things planned for THIS course and month in Brighton that the thought of starting from scratch makes me itchy. In case I am refused,though, the main plan is:
- go visit Chorus friend;
- go see teacher friend;
- find another course (there's one in Oxford that I was also interested in);
- take a little more time to register for the teachers' list instead of rushing to the office next week;

In the meantime, I have decided not to publish a comment I received about my previous post, and this is because I get easily angry (a side of me I would sometimes like to change, but then I think better) when I receive this sort of comments, especially when they come from somebody who is a close friend of mine. And who probably doesn't know me as well as I'd like to. See? I become bitter over a trivial thing! But still, there is, I believe, another culture gap here, and I can't be bothered to discuss it here.
I will forget about the comment, but just one thing: this is my diary. I write what I feel and think, mostly for me. I appreciate comments, but not when they touch a very private and personal sphere of my mind, especially to make fun of it and of the feelings I have.
I am angry now, and I am sorry to be. It must be also because I am nervous for this course-thing, and for the dinner tomorrow, and for the rehearsals tonight.
Case closed.

Today I have...

...spent hours waiting for an email that was sent at 5pm...
...seen a friend I missed...
...held her 4-month old baby for more than 10 minutes, basically because when he woke up and she took it, he looked at me, smiled, and decided that he wanted me to "walk" him around the house...
...felt so much the need of a boyfriend, and, of course, for a baby...
...taken a siesta after lunch (which is one of the Pleasure of Pleasures, and should be legalised, no, made compulsory for everybody)...
...planned the trip to Parma...
...watched two episodes of "Poirot"...
...looked and listened to the fantastic storm that messed up the garden and made me smile for a whole hour...
...thought of Guy for a real long time of the day...
.........
in fact, I am thinking about him NOW...

And the countdown has begun

So, I’ve, just passed an interview, THE interview to be admitted to the course in Brighton, and in a couple of days I’ll book the flight: I’m planning to leave on the 30th, however it seems more sensible to leave on Friday, the 29th, to have more time there to see the place, go and pay the rest of the fee, settle in properly. If I want to leave on Saturday it is only because I want to spend at least one night at the summer party of the band: last year I didn’t have fun, it wasn’t very funny; this year…I don’t know. I’d like to spend a nice night with my friends, waiting tables and singing and dancing, before saying goodbye and go home to spend a restless few hours before going to the airport.
Yes, I know, I am lying; no, I’m just hiding the truth. Let’s say it: I would leave on Saturday to spend the evening with Guy. As I said before, hopes are high. Even more, they are super, since on Saturday, this Saturday, we are going out for a special dinner with the people of the website of the band, and, you know…Chorus friend says that it would be a good occasion to clear things with him, and I know what she means…she means that I should “attack”. Me, I think that it would be a good idea to spend some time together, talking, having a laugh. Ok, ok, if something more happens I’ll be the first to scream of joy, but I said that I have high hopes, not that I believe in miracles…yet.
Anyway, let’s focus on practical, important things: here’s my list, in casual order:

- receive email from woman of university, complete task, fax it back to her
- wait for answer, then book flight; in the meantime, decide the best day to leave (note from the author: date decided. I will leave on the 29th, if Ryanair doesn’t play tricks and changes the fares…)
- make packing list (weather in Brighton for the month of July???)
- (this has little to do with the rest, but…I must pay the gym for June, and since I will leave earlier than the expiry date, I will go four times a week, starting from..this week! At first I thought I simply wouldn’t go, but I need moving, and I need seeing my friends and trainers there.)
- Make packing list (yes, I’ve said that before, but I really don’t know…laptop or not laptop?)
- Go to visit friend in Parma (I have become the Italian traveller…Trieste, now Parma, and in between the –imagined, or not- beginning of a romance…)

Ok, ok, there aren’t really many things to list. It was only to clear my mind. It makes me feel like the time when I left for Swansea, when they called me at the beginning of September and I left three weeks later…
I was also thinking of buying a one-way ticket, because I don’t know what I will do once the course is over. I need some time to think about it, but my mind is clogged by other thoughts. More specifically:
The thought of the dinner, Saturday;
The email from university woman which has not arrived yet;
The balance on my account, which I should check, and the money I should transfer on the credit card, not to mention the possibility of something as old-fashioned as traveller cheques to get some cash: English bank account is now closed and withdrawal means almost 3 pounds for the commission each time! Then again, if the weeks will be dedicated to intense study and little else, maybe I don’t need much money…and the course and the accommodation will be paid on the first day by credit card. Seems sorted, then!
Finally, I am furiously daydreaming, I can’t help it. I am doing it now. I realised that I was doing it while on the bike, instead of focusing on either the work-out or the packing list I thought I would mentally make up while cycling for twenty endless minutes at growing intensity…but no, my mind was on another planet, in some other dimension, forward to another time. And people, it felt great.
Hopes are high.

All you need is love

Another update, since the night is rainy and my mind is exploding with thoughts and ideas and feelings expanded everywhere: every particle of my tired body is pushing me forward.
I am thinking about the beauty of love, and the miracle that happens when one falls in love with somebody; I had forgotten about it. I remember being deeply in love with The one who must not be named, aka Guy’s playing partner, by chance. I remember blushing when I heard his name, and loving the sight of him arriving at the band on his moped, his fingers moving on the oboe, the concentrated look in his eyes, the smile that I photographed so often. I remember too many things, sometimes.
See my photo archives dated back to 1997 and 1998: it’s an endless series of pixies of him, masked among photos of other people, casual groups of people and his lovely beautiful face shining through. A friend had bought a small notebook, on the cover there was a picture of Leonardo Di Caprio, and inside it was a whole collection of photos of My boy, to look at, keep in my school-bag, show my friends during some boring lesson: I was a child and hopelessly in love. It was beautiful. It never hurt.
He was the only person I have ever been in love with; when I realised that the love was over, nostalgia and melancholy took over me, swept my mind away, and my heart broke. I guess that was one of those important moments that make you change, in a way.
I don’t think I will ever feel that way again, but it’s obvious: feelings change, although their substance remains the same.
I understand that my love for “him” will be unique and unforgettable, like the moments shared with my (then) best friends in the fantastic summer of ’98. I understand and I accept this, now. It’s taken a long way to get to this moment, when the past becomes a shiny page I can look at with a peaceful state of mind and with no regrets. Such a long way. It must be the music that makes me feel so; and the beauty of living for today, with a serene thought towards the future, and the love of my friends, and the love in my heart that is opening to the world, although slowly. In a way, I am already accepting myself, the person that I am, more than I used to; this is good: it means that I am also opening my heart to myself, loving me before beginning to love the others. It sounds cheesy to say here, but a song comes handy now, to explain what I need to say: all the love I have is in my mind. Sometimes it is so easy to forget. And this thought is so beautiful that is makes me cry with joy.

And another update: I am crazy, yes, I think you know. I have just sent a message to the Guy asking him what makes him happy. It is a question that nobody asks anymore, isn’t it? Has anybody ever asked it, really?
Blame it on the music, people, blame it on the music.
What I mean is: I love. I want to make people happy, the people I love. So I need to know what makes them happy; I need them to share something with me, the way I would like to share something with them. I think this is a “rational” reason.
Let me love you.

High hopes and spirituality

Hopes are high. And I feel well.
We had to play, this morning, for the arrival of a new priest and the Corpus Domini: a long march in the sun, up to the church, song after song. Then we split and went back to our cars.
Before starting, though, a long time spent chatting casually: Chorus friend and I talked for a while about the “problem”, and I noticed that when the girl, should I say my ex-friend, I don’t know yet, anyway, I noticed that she arrived and not looked at me, and sat talking with shop-a-holic friend, and so I don’t know what to think. Not that I cared, honestly: my only concern was whether she would try to meet, talk, touch Guy again, and what she actually thinks about it. Lots of stories she told me, I know, have never been true, not a single word, yet I’ve always accepted them, but her behaviour was unacceptable and unforgivable: I told Chorus friend that I don’t know what to think, and I thought of the paradox, that if every time I proclaim to have a feeling for somebody she goes after him, what would happen next time, say that I tell her that I am falling for a girl, would she go for that and try to…? Ridiculous. Anyway.
On the way back from the church, Guy came next to me with his playing partner and told me something about his job, so we started to talk: playing partner was left behind, when I turned they were all quite far from us, and we were chatting casually of this and that, and I was happy. So so happy.
When we arrived at the band playing partner parked and invited us for (a very late) breakfast, so we all went to a coffee shop; by “we” I mean my baby friend and her artist cousin, Chorus friend, playing partner and Guy. We spent a whole, a whole, a whole hour talking and laughing, drinking coffee and fruit juice: my mind went back to a few years ago when it was normal for us to do these things, back to when we were friends, and we used to go for coffee while waiting for the mass to be over and go back to play. In winter the waiters of any coffee shop would bring cups of hot chocolate and cappuccino, trays loaded with brioches, jars of milk, fruit juices, pots of tea, and there we were, all around the tables, our instruments on the floor or on separate tables, and us there, chatting, laughing, warming up by small sips and long laughters. It still happens now, although we are not the same people, somehow. But it’s good.
Back at the table with them, I felt so happy: the morning was hot and sunny, there were people on the streets and the sweet smell of cooking, midday approaching, and cold drinks on our table.
I was happy, simply happy, because he had come next to me, he had looked for me, to talk, just talk, about his job, about his plans for the summer, about the plants he grows at home (gardening man!) and we had joked, we had laughed.
I still dream of holding his hand, while we are walking side by side.
A couple of my friends, who have been informed of this “thing” going on, are surprised and happy for me, say that we would be a good couple, and they’ve never said anything like this before. Future-teacher friend told me how happy I look now, how full of hopes and energy, how strong I look again; they all encourage me to continue, pursue this crazy idea of being with Guy, and although fear paralyses me at times – I can’t look at him, afraid he would see too much –, I also believe that these positive signs he is sending are good news for me: suddenly we are more than two playing friends, suddenly he comes to say hello and talk, suddenly he looks for me and texts me, so who knows, maybe soon we will be more than just friends.
I am not being carried away completely, ok? I am just idling daydreaming about him. It’s Sunday, allow me!

Other things I am thinking of: how I hope that the woman from the language institute emails me and tells me when the interview is (no news yet); how I am determined to go to England all the same, and I am looking for alternative courses to attend in case that interview doesn’t end well; how I am positive, anyway, that the interview will be ok and I will leave in a couple of weeks; how much I will enjoy spending these two weeks moving the books downstairs and putting them tidily on the shelves, before going to some lesson, before going to the gym, before studying my bassoon; talking of which, I am also thinking how much I like playing it, no matter how hard it is – small hands mean more trouble, but hey – and how well I can already play it, even though it will require a lot more practice than with my sax, if only because I have to read on a different key (and how difficult is it, people, when you’ve spent 13 years of your life reading in G? The answer: A LOT). Also, how lovely it will be to spend some more time with Guy, next Friday, just chatting and maybe planning a walk somewhere.
Finally, I am thinking of moving and finding a place to live by myself, and this means that these two weeks must also be dedicated to the preparation of covering letters to schools in the hope that some of them will want to hire me, and I will have the funds to move and live a “healthier” life.

I’d better go and play my bassoon, now: I’ve been taught more positions for the complete scale (not all of it but most) and I need to revise right away or I’ll lose them!

One more thing: one thing my shrink made me think of is spirituality: I seem to have lost my spiritual me. Not that I’ve ever had one, I think. When I was at high school I was into New Age thinking, but never completely: the side of meditation, and a few other things were somehow refused by my squared mind; like the side of my mental me, which I found during the Transformation Game, the side of telepathy, which somehow I want to believe but I resist to the thought. It makes me feel a fool to believe it, and at the same time I feel something. It’s like religion: I have always envied the strength and passion of the real believers, their utter Faith. Years of religion taught at school, and knowing the mass by heart haven’t given me much, to be true: I should say that God is not speaking to me, than, or that my heart is not listening to Him, somebody could say. Or maybe this is not the God I need. This is complicated, I should stop here.
Anyway, I think it’s time to take some time to investigate on my spiritual me, and with more intensity than I used to: step by step, and writing is the first giant step I usually take when I begin an investigation inside my soul. I’m not really going back to New Age or stuff like that, but…I’ll work on it. I want to take my time for that too.

Plans for the summer and a heart problem

End of the day. A productive day too, after all. My days are so…productive, now: I work out, I read like mad (6 books in five weeks, ladies and gentlemen!), the house has become the kingdom of tidiness and cleanliness, all my lessons are prepared, and I am full of energy. I sleep eight hours, solidly, from midnight till 8, and there is not a day when I don’t make the most of my time.
And now I’m back to writing too. Five pages today, and five pages I am proud of, because they mark the beginning of the new era.

An update on the other news: I have applied for a course in Brighton, to obtain the certificate of Tesol (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages); I am interested in that course in particular because it includes some practice too, a sort of traineeship, which is definitely more interesting than just studying the theory of teaching. Now I have received an email to confirm my pre-enrolment, and then I will receive another to set a telephone interview, and if they see that I’m “suitable”, then I will be officially enrolled and I’ll have the right to pay the school a hell of a lot of money for a full-time course to begin on July, 2nd. People, are you crossing your fingers? I am determined and full of hopes about it, I know it is the right thing for me, I am convinced it will be useful, I am confident that I am “suitable”. I’ll prove that. So, if all goes well, July will see me in Brighton. And maybe then I’ll spend some more time there, once the course is over, maybe I’ll find some job to spend August there too. Gym friend has already decided that in that case she will come over and see me. I plan to meet a couple of friends I haven’t seen in a while, with a little luck.
Anyway. Other plans on the job side will see me go to the official office for schools, and register there: we have decided (Lady friend and I) that I have no missing exam, and that the guy at the Unions is getting something wrong (a problem with a word that means “exam” but also “two-semester exam”, and he is trying to make things more complicated because of that); so we will go to the right office and set things going for the next school year.

On the side of heart news, I am still a bit annoyed by what happened last Saturday, which I’m sure has little importance, but it bugs me that one of my closest friends must be such a hypocrite. You judge for yourself, here’s the story.
We were at the dinner after the concert with the band, and we were sitting in front of the guy I like, and next to his playing partner, who is always joking with my friend for some reason. Guy that I like shows some trick and we start joking and laughing, wine passes glass to glass (by the end of the evening our table had won against the other table for 12 bottles vs. 10 – I didn’t drink, mind you), you know how it goes. My friend says she needs to go to the loo; when she comes back she doesn’t sit between me and our friend, but in front of me, next to the Guy ; in order to understand how his trick works, she tries to make him teach her, and she takes his hands; this shocks me, because she knows that this is what I should be doing, if anyone. When we go back to the car she asks me if she can sit in the front seat – Guy is driving. I obviously say “no way, this is my place”, and I explain, and this is the truth, that I feel sick when I’m not driving; I would set her on fire, if I had the power I swear I would have already done so. We arrive at the band, and we stay there for a while; the other guys are outside smoking, and we are inside, because it’s a chilly night, after all. We have really no reason to be there, just killing time. She is sitting in front of us, who are standing at the kitchen counter, and she says something about this guy of the other band who looked like him, except for his hair, which were better than Guy’s; she comments on his hair style a bit more and when he mockingly shows more concern, she gets up and rushes to hug him.
This is when I decide that yes, I must learn some voodoo rite and set her on fire. Really.
Guy and his friend leave to go pick up another friend, so we say goodbye. Five minutes later I drive her home, and I go home in a really bad mood.
I am, honestly, speechless, and I wonder: should I tell her? You cannot be serious when you tell me you’re happy for me, because I feel better now, because I am interested in someone after such a long time I thought I had forgotten, you cannot tell me that you’re happy when I tell you that he may be interested too, asking for details, calling me even, to know more, you cannot do all this and then stick a knife in my back like that. I am really, really angry.
Then I think that if I tell her, maybe she will see how much I actually care for the guy, and what will happen then? Shop-a-holic friend said not to worry, it is her way of action with that section of the band (two guys only, really), but I had to reply that it is not! Because now she jokes with him more than before, and she gets physical, which so far she has only done (occasionally, mockingly, slightly) with the other one. What shall I think?
A mail from Chorus friend confirmed my malicious ideas, and it is not a good feeling. I am quite happy that on Friday this girl should not be here, we have a concert and he has to lend me a cd, and I would like to spend some minutes with him alone, or something. I don’t know. It bugs me to think that I cannot even trust my own friends. I mean, she was the only one who spent a whole afternoon with me on that awful Saturday night in November; the only one who knew about how I really felt, the only one who had time for me, when shop-a-holic friend had her friends to see (and now there’s a boyfriend: we’ve lost her completely, I’m afraid), when rambler friend is always away for university stuff and girlfriend stuff, when work-a-holic friend is…well, work-a-holic.
Damn.
Maybe I am taking this too seriously, but I’m annoyed, and I want to see her next movement with the guy, when we are both around. I am curious to see if it was only on the spur of the moment, being an exciting night of music and wine, and if it was, how can you trust someone who will not care about your feelings but will do whatever she feels like? And if it wasn’t because of that particular situation, what does it mean? That all of a sudden, because I am interested in him, SHE is interested too?
It reminds me of when we used to see shop-a-holic’s friends after rehearsals, and I had told her that one of the guys was quite cute, and we had spent a pleasant evening together: the week after she had sat next to him and talked to him for a whole hour, and we (all) had had no possibility to talk to him.
One good thing: we asked him what the hell she had been telling him for a whole hour, and he replied that he had no idea, after five minutes he had stopped listening. Ha!

Prep - Curtis Sittenfield

Once again, don’t trust book reviews, but only your friends’ opinion: charming friend had called me the night before meeting for our “anarchic bookshop dinner”, last Thursday, and told me that she would bring me the above mentioned book, thinking that I may like it. And yes, it wasn’t bad. A quick reading (courtesy of a rainy Sunday, I read it in an afternoon and finished it before 2 a.m.), and sometimes intriguing.
Simply, the story is that of Lee Fiora, girl from Indiana, who wins a scholarship for a prep school in Massachusets, and moves there for four years of her teenage life. And the rest is the usual: trying to survive in a high-class environment, trying to find friends, trying to be popular, struggling with Maths, conforming to the style of the school to the point that your own parents are not so smart anymore when you see them, and the discussions that follow because you have changed into another not-so-nice person for the sake of appearances, the relationship with the other sex…
Two things: one, the girl is really not cut up for that school, but only because she think so. My humble opinion. She doesn’t even try, and when she does, she changes herself and, head down, she runs into disaster every time and spoils any possibility she could have; predictable.
Second, come on! She has a crush on this guy for three years, and being the disaster she is, she ends up with him in her bed for 6 months? This is not real. But I am not making myself clear.
What I mean is that she is terrible, she barely speaks, she hides in the girls’ dorm for the weekend and for the parties, she avoids contact with almost everyone excluding her room-mate; she has this terrible behaviour with boys that even I, being even more shy than her when I was her age, did not have, and in four years she does nothing but live like some silent unseen bug in the corner of a room; she is not attractive in a physical way, and not even charming in an intellectual way, she’s a half-failure all over; and this is not told in a convincing way: while reading you think: come on, just leave the school! Or do something better that just staying there and ranting about things and people, and driving yourself crazy with imaginary situations!
Her description (the author’s) of the other students are quite stereotyped, so are the final two pages of each section of the book, which sound as if she thought that there had to be some moral to be explained at the end of the chapter, but it’s usually corny, easy, superficial.
I read that the writer won some literary prize when she was 16…Unfortunately, I also read that the rights of this book have been bought from Paramount..Ladies and gents, I’m afraid we will soon have a new “Dawson’s creek” (or maybe “Beverly Hills 90210”, since it’s a high-class set) on screen. Happy?

La catedral del mar - Ildefonso Falcones

Another book that asks to be finished as soon as possible, because you just want to see what will happen, and when there are 20 pages to the end there are still so many open doors that you wonder whether anything will go the right way…(But it does, don’t worry).
As I’ve said before, it all begins with the marriage of this Spanish guy, in 1320, and with the event that will change his life: his lord comes to the marriage and demands to use his right of Ius Primae Noctis (which of course was that awful law that allowed the lord of a land to lay with the newly-wed wife of any of his farmers).
This opens the way to: the birth of a child; the escape from the tyranny of this “lord”; the arrival in Barcelona, when the works for the new cathedral of Santa Maria are beginning, which will be so important for the above mentioned child, who is going to be the star of the story for the next 500 pages. A lot of things happen, as told before: war, plague, riots and fights between Christians and Jews, fires, love and sex, tyranny again, betrayals, the Inquisition, and still this cathedral to be finished, little by little. When the last pages arrive, you can finally breath: 64 years have passed, and a lot has happened, and it’s almost 3 o’clock at night….
Warning: we are at page 612, and there are 13 pages to the end. The star, Arnau, whose life we have followed all along, must tell something to the woman he’s loved for the past 10 years, and what he needs to tell her is a secret, a vow taken after his first wife died..but we are not told what is the vow, why should we, we were there when he took the vow! Only he took it at page 327!!! And so please picture me while, it’s almost 3 a.m., after reading for hours, craving to see the end, learn that I don’t really remember what happened when the wife died. (I did remember that the scene of him bringing her out of the house after her death, carrying her in his arms, looked a real lot like a scene of “The betrothed” of Alessandro Manzoni, back to 200 years ago, a masterpiece of historical fiction (and of Italian literature). ). Anyway, if you read the book take note of the pages I have just told you, because you will need them…

The restless sleep; inside NY City's cold case squad - Stacy Horn

Ok, I bought this book because I had read some enthusiastic review from a fellow blogger, and me being fascinated by crime and investigation, I thought I’d give it a try. I read the whole book on the train from my town to Trieste and finished it there.
You know? I only wanted to finish it and begin another book, something more interesting, better told, something good.
I’m not saying it was completely bad: I have already judged it, but on second thought I’d take away that 7 and give it a 6+. Let me explain why.
The book is divided in three parts: “Catching the case”, “Banging on doors” and “The blue five”. So, it begins with the description of some murders, proceeds with the investigations, ends with the how the cases themselves were (or not) solved and ended up in a tribunal when possible. There are interviews to the main “stars” who formed and were part of this Cold Case squad in New York, and there are figures on crimes, murders, dates, details on bureaucracy and all that. Now, all this stuff made the book extremely heavy and boring. Frankly, and it’s only my opinion, I don’t care to have all those figures thrown in front of me while I’m reading of how a murder happened and what the detectives did, to be told that this detective did that, then that detective came in, then this other decided to pass the case here, then this squad was renamed like that, and blah blah blah. It interrupts the flow, and not in a good way either, it just makes me want to skip all those boring pages and go back to the main story. And I had this feeling at page 5….not a good sign.
In the end, and one more time, never trust: reviews on newspapers; reviews on the cover of the book (“There is rarely a dull page”, said “The Baltimore sun”, but I doubt we’ve read the same book); reviews of fellow readers, unless they are your friends and you have more than 3 books in common (Lady friend was not sure about buying “Middlesex” because nobody on Internet BookShop had liked it, whereas she found it beautiful, and so did I, and we think those people on IBS should reset their judging system).

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides

5-Alpha-Reductase: when I tried to pronounce it by heart to Baby friend, who is studying genetics, she brightened and said “oh, yeah, I know that!”, and pronounced it for me, explaining exactly how it works. The story of Middlesex is about this gene, but not really: it is the story of the whole family beyond and before the birth of the narrator, who hides in the development of love and life as his great-grandparents move from Greece to America, united in a marriage that should not have taken place because they were brother and sister, thus opening the way to the whole story; the story is beautiful, believe me:it’s witty and funny and it makes you laugh and cry. Since it begins in Greece in 1922, and then it moves to Detroit, and finally to California, there are many things moving between the single story of this couple, what with Prohibition and strange religious leaders, old habits and new currents, freaks and conventional people, and as the world changes, so does the life of the characters, until we get to Germany, and our narrator is an adult ready to be born again.
There are sweet characters to mention, especially the narrator’s grandmother, who made me cry so much, but I won’t say why or when: if you get to that point of the story when tears are flowing down independently, then you will know what I mean. There are also some moments that remain in my memory, like the (somewhat cheesy, but what can I do?) clarinet songs played on Desdemona’s body; a death; a riot; and the journey to California and what came with that.
It is definitely worth reading: sometimes it looks like John Irving (whose work I love) for this twisted, mingled, long accounts that don’t let you sleep, because you just want to see what will happen next.

As I’m writing, I have made no research on the author, so I only know that he lives in Germany and that Middlesex won him the Pulitzer prize in 2003. There will be an update when I have the time to investigate, also because his biography on the books doesn’t talk of any other work of his apart from these two.

An update on books

Some day I will write a "review" of the books I've been reading...my bookclub is quite lonely...
For now, just a quick list of good and bad books:

- Middlesex from Jeffrey Eugenides, birthday present from lady-friend. A 10+, beautiful.
- The virgin suicides, still from Jeffrey Eugenides. Very good indeed, and I think I will watch the movie again.
- The restless sleep- inside NY city's cold case squad by Stacy Horn. Not perfect but interesting; let's give it a 7.
- La cattedrale del mare (La catedral del mar) by Ildefonso Falcones, long and interesting, if you like family stories mingled with history (the construction of the cathedral of Barcelona, inquisition, plague, Jews and Christians...); 8+.
- The labours of Hercules by Agatha Christie, who is my favourite writer when I want to read something relaxing

Currently reading: Prep by Curtis Sittenfield, but I've only just begun and will comment on it in a while.

I've just enrolled to a summer course in Brighton! For the CertTESOL (Teaching of English to speakers of other languages). I'm so excited!

More news to come soon, complete with an update of yesterday's concert (and flirty time with sexy-shoulder guy) and the rest.