Fugue

Perhaps I presume, but we'll presume then. Melinda looks like a gentle soul who perhaps took a knock or two during the recession, and despite the fact that my virtual life hasn't done much for me, or, the little it has done is a little late, her picture with the boy recalled home and some better moments in Ridley Park. It was not all sexual abuse by proxy of my mother's men. She picked them up like stray dogs. Joe the Flop, Walt the Indian, a Jamaican I never met, Don, Beaky. Men drawn to over-sexed fat volatility, even my ailing father on his knees begging her not to divorce him. Mom had a way. I guess men smelled she was a whore, ignored the weight. 

I am so depressed I am like blackberry juice on the fingertips, and want to give my notice, without a damn plan in all the world. I want out, more than anything, I just want out of this building, though it is the same in every public housing building, and all tenants spar with building owners. Karina is causing me grief, and I cannot trust myself during inspections tomorrow not to go at it with the staff and want not to be here but bottle blond has her own problems and I can dismiss her from service twice too and laugh starkly. I might as well be bisexual with the shit I am putting up with for a 35 year old white girl who reminds me of home, home that no longer exists for me.

I am not in the best of shape. My father's sister is dying. Stomach cancer. No surprise, but Marie has been my only support since my mother died, and padre is exhausted trying to keep wicked stepmother Louise alive, and if I follow my heart, and scuttle downtown to the Italian consulate, let's assume I tantrum my crippled poverty across the Atlantic. My regret will consume me five minutes after docking, because the still virile Stanley Tucci was right. Italy has nothing but history, and yet I want to go, and upon getting there, storm into RAI and punch Luigi Perelli to ensure his prostate remembers my fist, the crafty old socialist. He is a liar, and so is The Washington Post.

I would not know what to say to Melinda, at least not in digital idiolect, except to say thank you for a picture of her smiling peace with life. I'll never experience it. Would she like a roommate?

Seafood Risotto

I ate as soon as I woke today, putting an end to that particular drama, if only because I heated up a risotto with a nice helping of fish, seafood, and it made two meals, recalling the early sequence in Big Nightwhere Tucci's lone customers are baffled by the seafood risotto that Shalhoub's character would see as a metaphysical victory for the culinary arts. I ain't quite sure what it is about my hard-fuck love for this film, perhaps nostalgia for basically fictional constructs, but it involves inimitable qualities: I equally would have needed a culinary education on the miraculous properties of risotto as a rice, just as the couple and I would have also indulged in an unschooled query over the lack of shrimp, or mussels in the shell.



Love is a many splendid thing. Be patient with me until next week, and understand that my penetrations take time, even if I may not have the luxury to complete them, entirely.

Big Night is not a perfect metaphor, and corollary relatives like Tampopo have a slightly better infused aesthetic sense, but nothing makes me long to be fully Roman more than this quiet masterpiece, which is just a shade off, by that much, with a made for television look.

Please, be kind, and come fetch me back to Tuscany. Spastic only longs for a small glimmer of happiness. Ciao!