this entry is about: the coming of spring, the place where I was forged, the goat-woman again, I have a driver's license now, severing the head of the beast of perfectionism, the fruit fly's offering, collapse and Samson as a woman
I'm gonna be honest I think ovulation affects me
It's halfway through February, and I'd forgotten what happens halfway through February... I didn't see spring coming; I wasn't thinking about spring coming. I found a very nice road for running near my home, with almost no traffic, between villas and the kind of dogs that grew up in the country and have barely ever seen another human apart from their owners, so they bark like crazy when you pass by. Last week I was there and I saw a Prunus tree that was already flowering, and I told myself: so early?!?! the world is doomed... And it deadass took me some days to realize that we are halfway through February, and this is technically the right time. That tree on the road broke the news. Since then, I have been keeping an eye on the prugnoli near my home, who have always been the heralds of spring to me. Their buds are swelling now, and they're colored deep purple, but they're still closed for now. There is playfulness, there is complicity in this gioco di sguardi, where I turn towards them and they pretend that nothing's happening, only to bloom when I'm not looking. There is complicity, there is trust in this game, and I had forgotten that it even existed, can you believe it?, I forgot that I was gonna play it again. It's time to make plans for the garden, I guess. The daughters of cavolaia have almost completely destroyed my radishes, and they've moved on to my arugula: it's okay, I'm not greedy. It's halfway through February: elsewhere it is snowing, but here, the prugnoli are about to announce Spring's arrival: I can hear them breathing in before they shout it. A few days ago we were taking a test, the classroom windows were open, and I could smell the spring, I swear: I could smell the blue color of the sky, I could smell distant afternoons spent playing in the garden. I'd forgotten that spring has her own scent. I'd forgotten about it all. I live in a place where winter isn't the death of the world; fava seeds love to snuggle under the cold earth, and veronica, shy ranuncolo and ruchetta color the fields under the fog and the bleak sky. Here, the world doesn't die in winter, no: almost no snowfall chokes our soil, and the earth enjoys her affair with the rain; I live on thirsty land, who prefers the showers of November and the covering of clouds to the bare skies and the voyeuristic sun of May. The cold and the rainfall are not our end; the world doesn't die in winter. No, not in winter, here the world only dies in summer: burning from the unbounded passion of the Sun, withering for love, the ground cracking under the unbearable beauty of the season. This is my world, this is where I've always lived. This is where I was temprata. This is my temperament.
I finally got my shitty ass fucking DRIVER'S LICENSE!!!!!!!! Looking back, it's insane how badly I wanted the whole thing to be over - and now it's over, and I didn't even think much about it in the end. This week I did my first real drive as a CERTIFIED DRIVER, from the city to my home, in the night. These are the roads where I first started dreaming, I think, years ago when I was being driven through them; it's only natural that I should be the one driving now, it's a rite of passage. To see, right in front of me for the first time, the glow from the headlights reflected on the smooth concrete, a sight that has always made my imagination fly to lunar landscapes and sci-fi cities; it's a rite of passage, now, it's a honor to be the driver on these roads.
Now that I've gotten my license I'm actually thinking I shouldn't relax too much and become dependant on my car. I used to go biking to the grocery store and whatnot until one day I was seized by the sudden, intense fear of being run over; that fear settled in, and I haven't touched my bike since. Now that I'm technically used to being on the road again, maybe I should pick it back up. I shouldn't get my car every time I have to go to the grocery store that's 2 minutes away to get some fucking chickpeas and chia seeds. It's perfectly possible for me to bike to some of my most frequented places, but..... I gotta get used to biking on the road again, if I was ever used to it in the first place. I really don't wanna die yknow. The majority of drivers IS in fact completely shit-headed and nothing guarantees my safety on the road. At least in my own car I'm more protected. .........I have no idea if I will really get back into cycling, I'm probably too chickenshit to follow up with this resolution, I guess I'll see about it. But I'm certainly not giving up on public transport. Now that I have a license my use of public transport is a CHOICE ✨ and therefore really chic
I DID pass all of my trials this week!!!! And yes one of them was the driver's license exam lol. Lately, I feel like I've really been able to prove to myself how much I'm capable of. Speaking of resolutions that are maybe too good for me to actually stick to... I've always wanted to learn how to draw. Always always. It's really been like..... what, ten years of wanting to learn to draw?? but I've never even tried, because I've always been a huge perfectionist. It's something that at this point is deeply rooted in me and my experience of life: I've always been disgusted with even small, private, inconsequential failures. But I've started dealing with this thing - high time for me to do so - and I think that I would really be severing the head of this beast, if I tried to learn to draw and actually stuck with it despite the probable feelings of DISGUST and FAILURE that will arise. Learning to draw has always been The Dream, The Goal That's Definitely Out Of My Reach. What if I finally tried?... I've been doing many things, lately, that I was convinced were out of my reach, and I've been doing them beautifully. I'm sure drawing is just another one of them. I don't know if I will actually try it, mostly due to lack of time (I'm in my last year of highschool I shouldn't even be taking up this much stuff in the first place), but I have little doubt, now, that it's not actually out of my reach and that I can handle those feelings.
I'm thinking about the people who, like my grandfather, have spent their whole lives huddled between the mountain and the sea, and have no intention of changing this fact; the frayed old men and women who want to die here - and the cliffs stand blank above. If a fruit fly came up to me and said, "You are the dearest thing I've ever beheld with my eyes, you are the whole world to me: I offer you every last second of all the hours of my life", I'd probably have to stifle my laughter at first, but overall I would be honored.
"Any civilization that does not recognize the female is doomed to destruction": unironically yes, Wonder Woman, yes. (And yes I do actually think that the vast majority of the world's ills have misogyny as their root cause.) I often read theory regarding the perfect world - the theory, and I kinda get stuck in those tomes; so when I raise my head and see the world that we currently have and the world that we have built, I'm dazed, I'm confused. Years ago, I was into the whole "collapse" stuff: it made me desperate, back then, and my last bout of suicidality was almost entirely because of that. Now I honestly don't think much about it. When I do remember, however, I don't feel desperate anymore. Instead I feel sort of vindictive, sort of haughty, thinking that if the worst comes to pass at least I'll get to drag such a bulk of ignorance into the grave with me (again, fundamentally, stupidly optimistic); I recall the death of Samson. I should disregard these stories, I know, but I grew up with them and I can't help recalling them sometimes. Samson was a man, a particularly unpleasant man at that, but the way he died, I can tell you, is a woman's. I can see her in my mind's eye, in the temple, scorned by everyone, and they said, call for Samson, that she may make us sport. And they called for Samson out of the prison house; and she made them sport: and they set her between the pillars. And I don't see her cold, disgustingly stoic: I see her crying, just like crying was a heroic act in the Homeric poems, I see her face tragic and undone (tragico, disfatto) as she tosses her long hair back, and she doesn't think there's a god who assists her, no, so all she wants, all she says is: Let me die with the Philistines! Che io muoia insieme con i Filistei!, I remember that phrase. And she bowed herself with all her might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein. So the dead which she slew at her death were more, more, many, many more than they which she slew in her life.
Picking back up the goat-woman talk from last entry. I really do think she is the perfect symbol, holy shit. Do you see it too?? Consider the overall symbolism of the goat. Consider the scapegoat as opposed to this satyress. Consider the satyress as one who refused to keep being the scapegoat. Consider the fig branches with which the scapegoat was beaten, as opposed to the the sacred living fig. Consider that the goat-woman wasn't born from goat-people; she's the anomaly in this world, she's the black sheep.... uh, goat. Consider that running a razor through the goat-woman's hair is physically impossible. I love the goat-woman, I think she's the perfect symbol for me and women like me, can you see it?? But I'm probably no good at explaining; you should just read "Deviling" by Susan Griffin.
Last year or so, when you looked through my writings all you read was Mother, Mother, Mother, the great Mother through the fig mother, the ocean mother etc etc.; at the start I was very focused on the mother figure. Now it appears I've switched over to the daughter, the wide-eyed daughter, the last-standing daughter, the strong young goat-woman. Of course! It's self-respect! I am a daughter who's nothing like my mother!
this entry is about: our mothers (their revelations and their silences), parenting, evolution, trials, the goat-woman
Nah cause I still love the layout I did for the dreams page with my whole heart. If I took it and just shamelessly repurposed the page would it be too trashy?
Upcoming week FULL OF TRIALS....... important shit. if I pass at least one of them I'm gonna be really proud of myself.
I think the moon likes it when we are under her light, especially when we go outside just to gaze at her, hard. I think the sun delights in warming our skin and the waters in which we will bathe. Why shouldn't the big care about the small, I've always wondered? Like I delight in carrying the lives of bacteria in my gut, like I delight in being the home of the million face mites on my skin. Like I delight in the trillions of cells that make up my body, that move as I move. I think the ocean churns in sympathy for us; I think that even the trees share a reverent whisper when we pass by. In the waters of our wombs and in the damp flesh of their fruits, we carry the first memory, the memory of the first cell that awakened to life in the primordial sea.
My biology textbook from last year said something about reptiles that "with the amniotic egg [...] emancipated themselves from water". I think the choice of the word "emancipated" is funny. The fish who saw the first amphibian crawl onto land must've called her crazy, for wanting to forego the all-giving matrix of water and to walk on the harsh, dry earth. The amphibians who saw the first reptile leave their pond must've called her crazy, for wanting to completely renounce the water that had given them all their birth. And the first reptile must've felt so proud in saying, "with my body I will attain the same miracles that the whole wide sea has kept to only herself thus far". But why "emancipated from water", why does living in a habitat equal being a prisoner of it? It's perhaps the same thought process that makes some of us fret so much over leaving Earth, leaving flesh behind, when without them we would be deficient in ways we can't yet grasp. I don't think water imprisons; I don't think that reptiles emancipated themselves from water, but the discovery of earth must've been exhilarating anyways. I think that the first amphibian must've rejoiced in feeling something firm under her feet, in knowing that there are mothers other than water. There are mothers everywhere, the sea and the earth and the sun and everything on which we complex, fragile creatures depend; especially us humans, who stand on the shoulders of the first reptile and the first amphibian and the first fish and the first cell that awakened to life in the primordial sea, we who have so many and such illustrious foremothers.
"Space filled by the presence of mothers, and the place where everyone is a daughter." I've written before that joy : universe = wonder : observing creature, more or less. And I loved it when Jan Raymond told us to define ourselves and others as daughters first and foremost, to have the daughter figure as a fixed star inside of us, because daughterhood has a universality that motherhood lacks. I think that these are holy words. I am a daughter first and foremost. I am a daughter, and I wash my face with the water from this spring of wonder - the spring of relationship, of correspondence, of indebtedness, of gratitude - this water that leaves my eyes gleaming, and I hope that this gleam will never leave my eyes, I hope I never forget I am a daughter. I hope I never stop acknowledging that there are mothers everywhere, from the sun to gravity to the chamomile in this tincture that makes me unclench my muscles, now, and unbend my back. When nothing works, when I cramp and hunch down, I recall the first mammal who bore, who braved the pain and in solitude brought forth a new world; the first reptile who tore herself from water, the first amphibian who walked on hard, dry land, the first cell who endeavoured to wake to life in the night of the ages.
I count all my mothers, their deeds and their struggles that make me alive today. I am a daughter: that's my only certainty. When I get up and I haul the bucket of blood to my plants, I can only hope they are dreaming, in plant dreams, of their mother.
Often, when my mother and grandmother talk, I'm somewhat peeved because I can feel the extent to which their relationship eludes me and will forever elude me. As in, I'll never get the full picture, the real, living picture of their relationship, what they did to each other. I know vague, painful details: my mother being married at my age; screaming at her father, a suitor at her door; my grandmother calling her in tears after her divorce, for the purity of her soul in Jehovah's eyes. Just like I only know vague, painful details about my grandmother's life: the soldiers and her mother, how she was afraid, how she didn't recognize her father, the nights toiling in the hospital. And of my grandmother's mother, I only know that she was desperate, scared, and quick to violence: I can't even recall her name. I haven't gotten deeper than that, I don't know if I want to or if I'd even be able to.
I can never sit my mother down and ask her to tell me everything, everything from the day she gained consciousness to what she feels today as she calls her mother on the phone. Ask her what she hears through the speakers, if she really hears what she's saying or if she hears those conversations from years ago instead, those threats and those whines. Or perhaps posing these questions is not totally outside the real of possibility; I could ask her, but even if I asked her, she would not tell me everything. She would not tell me more than half of it. And if she did tell me everything, if she did tell me more than half of it, I wouldn't be able to comprehend it. I wouldn't grasp that material merely with intellect, merely with thought, because I wasn't actually there through the shunning, and the screaming, and the poverty, and every other horror I can't imagine. Trying to grasp it merely with intellect would be ridiculous, when she's actually lived it. I know, I know there are many things that remain in the seat of memory, that swirl around, dark and ominous, and that never coagulate into words. I know, because I could never speak the whole story of how it was between me and my mother and my grandmother when I was little, for example. There is nothing to say about the bedsheets, the classroom door in preschool, the tangled hair. I could never tell my daughter about it, not if she sat me down and asked to know everything. And if my daughter had a daughter, she wouldn't be able to tell her how it was between me and her, too: one of the major things that dissuades me from the idea of having children is that you inevitably hurt them. Inevitably: they're literally so vulnerable, so vulnerable, that the slightest thing can scar them forever - physically and emotionally. There will be things between me and my daughter that will forever stay confined within the walls of our minds, there will be things that we never speak out loud. I would love to believe that I'd never do anything wrong while parenting, but that's too good to be true: it takes, again, just the slightest thing, that slips past you without a thought and stabs her in the brain to stay there forever, festering, festering. And I know we live in a world where we have to wrong each other. And I know we live in a world where the mother has to wrong her daughter, and where they both have to hold dreadful silence about it.
There's a friend of mine whose family is very well-off. Her grandmother has a villa, her mother likes to buy and repair vintage gramophones as a hobby. Women of all classes face sex-based oppression, but it takes on different forms sometimes, and women don't warn each other about the different kinds of danger that they can face throughout their lives - like some women nowadays being so detached from our history that they see the "tradwife" role as desirable, for example. So whenever she gives me a ride home, and her mother advises her to get an older man "because they're more mature", I get a real itch to tell her she doesn't know what she's talking about. Likewise when this friend gushes about marrying young - she grew up on old romantic fiction, and that's poison for straight girls, I think. The distance between our worlds astounds me. Sometimes I find myself looking at them with a bitter sort of amusement - a nasty, rotten feeling, really, with some victimization burrowing in there too; but then I remember that, again, not a single one of us can escape pain and oppression. All that went on between her and her mother I will never know. All that went on between her mother and her grandmother I will never know. These things will never be spoken at all.
All that went on between my mother and my grandmother will never be known. All that went on between my grandmother and my great-grandmother will never be know. All that went on between me and my grandmother will never be known. All that went on between me and my mother will never be known. If I have a daughter - if I manage to raise her with a sense of hearing keen enough to notice it, and with enough brains to know that it's wrong - she will be haunted by this same silence, filling unbridgeable spaces between us; and if I raise her with keen eyes, she will see it stretching far behind us, this line of secretive ghosts and the silence that encases each of us. The secrets of my mother's pain I will never pry from her tongue. And it startles someone like me, who's used to singing on high, you know? The contrast is jarring to me. All around us are mothers, and the non-human ones speak in bright voices of gladness, chattering in riverbeds and circling each other in the night sky; but the mothers closer to us, who could speak the same words as us with the same tongue of flesh, all weep and veil themselves in mournful silence.
Though I sometimes fantasize about bridging the gaps between us in the bubble of my own small, personal life, as well as I can. Bridging the gaps between my understanding and theirs through experience, through binding myself to their same yokes and pulling. I imagine being left to work a land of the same acreage as the one my great-grandmother had, with the same tools she had. I imagine giving birth without medical help, going through a period without painkillers, in a fucking cave or something. I imagine tasting the same poisons they tasted, carrying the same weights they carried to become closer to them, to become as strong as them, to win over the evils that sapped their life-force; and after such a life, I'd steer into death like a conqueror. Things I'll never do, clearly: why such self-flagellation? Their pain is shut behind the closed curtains of their lives; it was theirs only, and now it can't be soothed in any way, certainly not with this bizarre sympathetic magic. The gaps are unbridgeable, the silence can't be broken. I imagine doing such things sometimes out of this desire to bridge the gaps; probably also out of a subconscious desire to prove my stupidly naif, optimistic worldview, where there's nothing so dreadful that it can't be overcome. All that these trials would do is give me an unending list of things so dreadful that they can't be overcome, but I digress. (me when i have to wash the dishes by hand) I've written before that I'd be afraid of having a daughter, in case she happened to be like I was when I was a child. But I was thinking - with this perspective, wouldn't this be my own trial, my own way to resolve the pain behind the still-open curtains of my life? I'm absolutely NOT saying I would have a daughter as a tool to get closure about my own shitty childhood, this is just something theoretical that's interesting to think about. If that situation arose - and it's obviously better if it didn't arise in the first place, and if it arised I'd surely have done something wrong - if the ghost that's been haunting me my whole life incarnated itself like this, wouldn't it be, Ma, something to tackle head-on, as my own trial? I'd do what those around me weren't strong enough to do; I'd achieve the impossible, guiding her right, guiding her back into the realm of the living; and Ma, I'd die content if the last thing I saw was my daughter healthy and happy. And after such a life, I'd steer into death like a conqueror.
Wrote some days ago: "Been feeling strong and horny like a satyr-woman lately." I've been feeling really intrigued by the "archetype" (?), or image, of the goat-woman lately. Not sure if it can be called an archetype, it's not that widespread. The satyress - which by the way doesn't exist, because satyrs were traditionally male only; and I'm greatly interested in stealing from men this image of vitality, of lust in all its meanings, of joie de vivre, of vigor. Other women have reclaimed for themselves the werewolf, or the she-bear: good for them, but sadly I'm not that physically imposing. The goat-woman is less threatening, herbivorous, not such a fighter; but her gait is unnerving still, her bent legs are unnerving, her fur is unnerving, her cloven hooves are unnerving. The goat-woman is not so aggressive, but still she cackles loud, she sings on high, she's unnervingly passionate all around. And the goat-woman can get so, so sublimely wistful when she's blowing in her flute. I think the goat-woman is the symbol of a full life. I don't usually focus my view on one specific aspect of the whole; I don't know exactly why the image of the goat-woman speaks to me so much. It must be because of her animality, her unbridled life-force, at times baneful and at times creative, which has always been mine too. When I wrote some entries ago that I've always had horns on my head, I meant it. Sometimes I feel like I've come back into possession of some characteristics that have always been mine, that had been choked out of me by whatever-the-fuck. Still writing, still pouring my soul out by writing badly. Extroverted, outgoing, too loud, prefers cracking a horrible joke to silence. Likes to be showy. Prideful, hot-tempered. Lusty. Finds meaning in dust particles floating around, in a stray beam of sunlight falling inside an empty room. "Am I becoming someone new or returning to myself?"
this entry is about: the new webpage, caterpillars and spiders, running, scrotes
Absolutely refused to update the site until I published the new reading log/general books page! Forgive me if it looks ugly. I was struck with sudden divine inspiration after watching this video, and I was gonna try to design a layout with the same vibes, no matter how shitty it would end up looking.
Today was an unusually sunny day, so much so that, as soon as I came home from school, I immediately got my dog and walked back out. It's been so long it seems to me, since we've had such a beautifully bright sun shining on our faces; a nice breeze, not a punitive cold wind, blew on my neck. I couldn't stop looking at the blue sky, and the moon hanging there was big, almost full. I wondered how long it has been since I experienced the divine in anything other than my bizarre, cervellotici writings.
This garden season hasn't been good, mostly due to my neglect, as I've already admitted. I've let the radishes grow far too much: I was wondering how the hell I would even use them, but today I crouched in front of them and saw a bunch of caterpillars, daughters of cavolaia (the white cabbage butterfly), munching on the leaves. I'm very familiar with them: I've given up on growing turnips because they would get eaten by 100000 pests, mostly these caterpillars. The daughters of cavolaia have a good life, because as long as there is just one dutiful daughter of woman who sows her cabbages and turnips, they can spend entire days crossing from leaf to leaf across an immesurable bounty. They don't sweat over anything, not even when the gardener's face is inches from them, staring. But everything in the world is right and good, because the daughters of cavolaia were created with a desire to raze our gardens, and the daughters of woman were created with enough goodness in their hearts to let them do it.
On the other hand... I really didn't mean it - today I was putting cardboard mulch under my fava plants, because they've gotten tall enough. I picked up a piece of carboard and I noticed a sort of silken sac on it. I had no idea what it was, and I didn't think I was going to destroy it, but when I tore apart the cardboard I accidentally teared the sac open, too, and there was a pale spider inside it. I immediately laid the piece of cardboard upside down on the ground, because I was ashamed and I didn't want her to see my face. I don't know much about insects, I don't know what kind of spider it was. Was she a hunter spider, and did I destroy her house for a day? Or did she keep her eggs in there? If I killed the daughters of spider, even accidentally, what can absolve me? I hope that I've done, am doing, and will do, enough good to offset the damage I've wrought upon that small world.
I used to not do cardio at all, because I thought it would make me lose weight and I want to gain it. But then I started considering the fact that one of my actual biggest fears is my heart malfunctioning, so. A while ago I started using the old ass stationary bike we have at home. All good, but of course a stationary bike is a little bit boring. Recently I got the idea of replacing it with running, but I was hesitant because I live in a very hilly area. I have a couple friends who run, but only in the warmer seasons, so I decided to say fuck it and go for it alone. This week I finally tried it out. The first day I went running was DISMAL. ARCTIC WINDS were blowing and I didn't have a hat on, so my ears actually unironically hurt like hell the whole time. My fit was ridiculous and I felt like a huge bumbling dumbass, especially since I stopped every two seconds to catch my breath. The very first thing I faced was the ungodly steep hill right outside my house. I'm gonna be completely honest, my running stamina is not good at all. (I tell myself: but that's why I'm working on it, right?) Also running in general makes you look embarassing, and I have yet to integrate the notion that "nobody cares". I'm gonna try to keep up with it... if it's really unbearable I'm just gonna go back to my stationary bike. What made me want to try running, though, was the fact that I'd be outdoors and I'd be able to see which wildflowers were growing. I'm content with just getting my heart rate up and seeing borage bloom on the edge of the fields.
Remember that guy who'd been trying to win me over for months? The thing finally ended, I hope, and if it didn't end this way I don't know how it will. Basically the whole thing, from September until about a week ago, was just a crescendo of him embarassing himself in worse and worse ways (and also getting creepier and creepier). In particular, before winter break, he had decided to lean onto the romantic approach, telling me my eyes were beautiful under the sun and that he wanted to take me out dining etc etc. He waited for me to pounce on his chode and when this didn't happen, he decided to completely change course and violently thrust his alleged sexual prowess in my face, embodying the alpha male wolf inside him. So in a single day he sent me a flurry of texts saying how he'd eat my pussy for 45 minutes (apparently he keeps a timer on him during sex) and joking about how he'd grab my tits in the improbable occasion that I'd show them to him. To this twenty-messages-long display of pure penile hubris I responded with just three words, "Madonna che schifo", which he treated as a joke and simply carried on. This made me even more disgusted and I proceeded to ghost him for the entirety of winter break. He kept talking to the wall for days, until he noticed that something was wrong and apologized. I told him point-blank to find another girl. And at THAT point I thought it was over, but he kept being creepy and following me around to tap me on the shoulders and wave hi at me with a ridiculous sadboy betrayed-anime-protagonist kind of smile, I literally can't make this shit up. I kept ignoring him and ghosting him, until one day at recess I walked out of my class to find him standing out there, with a cross-eyed friend of his that I had never seen before, saying "I FEEL IGNORED". (You ARE being ignored baby, and there's a reason!) It's always been clear that this guy is... unorthodox, but that final interaction was something so unspeakably weird that I don't think I can do it justice by describing it in the English language. The whole time, I kept meeting the gaze of the VERY cross-eyed guy behind him that stared at me continuously, or rather, stared at my right and left shoulder; he never spoke a single word. I think he was there for emotional support?... Anyways that interaction ended with me laughing in the main guy's face and leaving. Haven't heard from him since. I think it's really over with this, and if it's not, I'm gonna have to drop an atom bomb on his house because I don't know how else I can get the point across. What pisses me off, though, is that his friends know about me; but I embrace my new renown as the frigid bitch who refused a good fuck.
This makes me think back to all the people I dropped that now probably hate my guts, because they were cruel, because they were whiny, because they were insipid and self-aggrandizing, or because they were downright evil. There are some in which I hope to have made wounds, there are some who I hope are bleeding out in my absence, but, regarding most of them, I really don't wish for such animosity between us. It almost makes me feel sorry, but I'm sure that there's nothing to be done about it, and that life is also about leaving behind you a trail of those people.
this entry is about: the battle between longing and mindfulness, memories (the trail - the deer - the moon - the hills - the building - the books - the birds - sweet sixteen), donkeys, fishing, a scar, irrational hopes and fears, horns, crossword puzzles, destroying memories for the sake of a goddamn centro sociale
Can you fucking believe this? I'd been planning to go to the mountain all week long. This morning, Sunday morning, I got up early, I filled my backpack, I got dressed, I put my hiking shoes on for the first time in so long and I marveled at how comfortable they were. I was all ready to go, I went to take a piss for the last time before leaving the house, looking out the bathroom window, and in that precise moment, not a second sooner, it started raining. I waited fully dressed for half an hour but it only started pouring more. You can't make this shit up.
But oh and woe for my bonny hind
Beneath the Holland tree!
Towards the end of last summer, I went to see the lunar eclipse with a local environmental org. It was a wonderful night, we walked through the empty city streets and up the hills... We went back in the dark through country roads, where the hills laid down their great flanks. We walked past a big country house - most of the other people in that organization are old, and they tend to know each other; they whispered among themselves about the couple that lived there, and about the donkey that they had, Luna. They joked that her name was spot-on for the occasion. We stopped in front of her enclosure. And I thought to myself, oh, I love donkeys, they're so sweet, I haven't seen one in like six years, too bad this one is sleeping right now. I know nothing about the sleeping habits of donkeys, or if they respond to their names, but after some time standing there whispering among ourselves Luna, Luna, Luna, she walked out of the darkness with those big eyes gleaming bright white against our flashlights and she came to us. We cheered for her, she was the queen of the night! And she stood in front of us with those big, understanding eyes. None of us touched her that night, but she was so beautiful and calm. I really do love donkeys. I wish I could see them everyday. But these days I rarely get to walk roads where the hills lay down their great flanks.
I miss having the earth, the roots, the rocks beneath the soles of my hiking boots. I miss my city; the trail that opens off the side of the main road, I remember, she tears the civilized facade of the city open to let the wildness through; and she tears my thoughts open now, she rips through the drone of the homework and the competition and all other drivel, to let wild longing through. How long has it been since the last time I was surrounded only by trees? This is a desire that even the best of friends can't fulfill; I need to alone in the woods, on top of the cliffs. I need to go down the steep trail, reaching for tree trunks to support me, and I need to go back up under the scorching midday sun like I used to do: it was so hard that I would drop to the ground from exhaustion and get leaves and dirt all over my bare skin, but that was honestly fun, and I need to sweat over something beautiful, you know? I need to sweat over something beautiful, not these hunks of metal that I move up and down and up and down endlessly, and not this bike-looking thing, stubbornly rooted in this house, whose wheels spin and spin endlessly, going nowhere. And by the love of our great flowing ocean-woman I miss the fish in the sea, their wide eyes. I used to fish for fun: it was a rite of passage, to have my father teach me, as all the people who grew up in this place must've had. And I pestered my grandfather, will you teach me, will you teach me how to gut a fish? I fished for one summer, and I stopped after one time where I threw the fishing rod back and the tip of the hook got stuck in the skin above my fucking right tit, squirming worm and all. I guess that's karma. To the sea that holds them, to the mountain that watches over them - if I ever come again seeking to rip your children from your breast, it won't be for play, it won't. And by the love of our red, warm, coarse mother-tongue I miss the strength with which the sun burned when I was finally on top of the long stairway from the city to the sea. And I need to live in the present, I know, I can't count the days down to the time I'll be back on the seashore with bare breasts, but it's so hard not to!!..... Oh and woe for the sweet donkey I met under the red moon; now I can barely find time to go visit the frogs in the creek next to the grocery store. I know there is also meaning in what I currently do, I'm trying to be mindful of the here and now, but the start of the trail off the side of the road tears through my mind, and longing overpowers me.
So strong is the longing that I haven't been caring for my garden as much as I should've. It's sacrilege, probably. I'm sorry to my helichrysums: do you understand why I haven't been spending time crouched at your side, smelling your leaves? It's not because I don't love you anymore: I'm chasing the memory of you growing proudly out of the rocks, on the steep slopes of the mountain. And if I was there, oh, how I'd risk my balance to reach out with my arm and rub the tip of your branches.
I have a scar on my knee that marks me as the mountain's; I may carry these limbs wherever but they are always hers. I have a scar on my knee that saltwater got into; always slightly raised as if it was full of something, and I used to stare at it, wondering if perhaps it was a pouch of crab eggs, wondering when they were going to burst out of my skin. The reminder is painful when I look at it while sitting at home far from those places. But what can I do about it? And I know that my life is here and now and nothing more, I know that if I'm not present here I wouldn't be present there, but what can I do about this longing?
"Well, memories will burn you / Memories grow older as people can / They just get colder / Like sweet sixteen". Yes I miss the sea, the mountain, even the fields of young green wheat I used to trample upon, years ago when I started exploring these hills. I just wrote about wildness and longing - the news just came out that they're going to buy the abandoned building near my grandmother's house, the one that I loved so much, and turn it into a fucking centro sociale! But it's oh and woe for my bonny hind beneath the Holland tree! Nothing sacred is left, is there? I loved that place. I used to call it Coral Castle, because I was obsessed with Sweet Sixteen by Billy Idol at the time. The first time I listened to it, I thought that it was about a father whose daughter had run away (yes... and I was confused by the mentions of an "engagement ring"), therefore that it was about the deepest kind of pain a human being could experience: I heard it in the weird kind of moans that he lets out after a particularly defeated-sounding part, trying to express and to soothe, again, a kind of pain that can't be put into words. It used to be my favourite song. I even wrote on the walls of that building: "And I'd do anything for my sweet sixteen". Now those walls are getting brought down. I wonder if anyone's even gonna go to that centro sociale. Are they gonna repaint it, change the hue that I've always loved? That building has always been abandoned, since as far back as I remember, and even before my birth according to Google Maps; and in the wonder-filled, wide-eyed view I had of the world when I'd just started dipping into life, it would stay that way forever. I could write a lot about back then. But. I still have my writings from back then. I don't think I need to add anything, even though some of them are so cringe that I can't get myself to read more than one sentence. What was brewing inside me was... certainly something, and a lot of it is now foreign to me, a lot of it is alien to me in the same way that the ocean is alien to us even though we were formed there. Trudging up the hill towards the big abandoned house, and two deer started skipping past me. But oh and woe for my bonny hind... I remember being that wonder-filled, angst-filled, bewildered, resigned, peaceful, visionary, and even before that, nauseatingly lovesick, when I first started high school. Recently, my sister was ecstatic to find a physical copy of the italian translation of Gesta Danorum. It was laying on the table, and I passed by - I had other things to do, but I could not resist the call of familiarity: my fingers turned the pages with love, with sweetness, with bitterness, until I found those words:
Chi premerebbe le dita
su una spina, o darebbe caldi baci
al fango? Chi unirebbe a membra irsute,
ingiustamente, un corpo levigato?
Se la natura recalcitra
non si può cogliere il pieno diletto di Venere.
Non ha a che fare coi mostri, l'amore consueto alle donne.
Perhaps the biggest thing about that "sweet sixteen" period was that I was, again, wakening to life and I felt that there was a secret meaning, a secret speech, going on in the places that I loved. (Not like, in the literal schizo sense obviously, but I guess that normal people reading these entries DO see me as schizo and it's inevitable to be perceived like this if I keep on publishing my weird ass thoughts lol). It's hard to explain. But. I have my old writings from back then, and I spoke to a puzzled future historian-self, and I don't need to add anything more: "tutto è pieno e anche io sono piena di questa strana sensazione che non saprei spiegare ma sembra magia, non saprei, per capire ascoltati gli White Lies. Spero che la bici arrivi presto. Tra poco mieteranno tutto il grano e allora potrò di nuovo salire sulla collina e visitare la casa abbandonata che vidi ad aprile." She already said it all: the wheat was ripe and about to be cut, the abandoned house on top of the hill was waiting for me, the music was powerful and with my whole self I was hanging on to the voice of the world: if you tell me to jump then I'll die. The voice of the world was unclear, wordless, but unmistakable, and my wonder welled inside my chest whenever I heard it. It mostly came through my tender, unconditional love of whatever was in my hometown. The crooked utility poles like giants stumbling across the field. The writings on the wall next to the school. A grocery store receipt left on the ground. When I was walking back home at night, and strange sound rose from the water treatment plant, I clutched my heart and listened reverently. It was the music of the spheres to me - and I had the feeling that there was something hidden in there. A meaning, a message. It could be death, it could be life, I was listening carefully. A mystery in my hometown: the mystery of life, the mystery of my life and death. It was all very vague but all-pervasive. The biggest delegates of the mystery were the strange white birds who sometimes came to peck on the fields. I still don't know their names. They bobbed strangely while walking, they looked like little herons. They were rare and I only saw them from afar, I only saw a small snow-white body wobbling along on a distant field.
I see a rare-looking bird out the car window,
Flying like a sign, like (s)he's saying "I know"...
And perhaps it was because of their own mystery that I made them, in my mind, the delegates of the new mysterious world that was baring itself in front of me. Everytime I saw them - reverence. It was often just for a few seconds from a car window, but I stared avidly as if I was really going to learn something. Again, not schizo, I felt that all-pervasive feeling of mystery and meaning but I knew that it was just a feeling; but the white bird's presence was such an... indescribable event that it made me almost believe it all for real. I was listening in wait.
Now I'm in another era; I've given a new meaning to my life, and the white bird is just one among thousands of sisters; but anytime I see her, I remember, and I give her a special greeting in my heart. A few days ago I invited S over. We got lunch and, when we walked outside, for some reason the sun felt exhilarating on me. The bus had leather seats and seatbelts and it was all for us, we were alone. When we got off, in the field next to my house there were... those white birds, bobbing along, pecking around, flying above our heads; I'd never looked at them that closely. We stood and watched before coming in: they're so beautiful, she said, and I just nodded. Yes, now the birds are just some of my many sisters, but there are old correspondences I still honor, and their appearance will always be a miracle to me. She wanted to play on my PS5: I gave her the controller and put on Ghost of Yotei. "Is that me? Am I Japanese?"
She'd been waiting to get invited over. She'd asked me, with some offense in her voice, if she was the only one of my friends that hadn't gotten to see my house. Really, I've only recently gained the... courage to start inviting people over. You know how I always talk about the house, and my fear of the house? When I say that I fear this house, it's not just metaphorical. It trascends everything else (fear of the child, of childhood and whatnot) and becomes a fear of the house as in, like, the building. I'm irrationally terrified that anyone who sees the inside of this house, these rooms, etc. will also automatically know what went on inside it. I feel like what happened in this house is embedded, implicit in its walls, its furniture, everything, and when you see those things you see it all. It's hard to explain because it's entirely irrational and I know it, but the fear is just there, and it stays: I'm sure some people will understand these fears that come from, like, not-great events in the distant past. I only recently started inviting friends over, and I still don't let them into my room to see the bedsheets, the desk. Some days ago an electrician came and had to go inside my room, and it was so hard to look him in the eyes once he came out; but I did, and I didn't falter, and even though I know this is all entirely irrational, I still felt like I could say about myself: I think that on my head are horns, sturdy horns.
I've always had horns on my head, but only recently have I learned how to defend myself with them. (I've always been a rough, bestial, enspirited woman, but only recently have I learned how to defend myself through it.) The horns still signal the scapegoat, but now I can't be persecuted without consequences; I take pride in my horns because they mean I can be mighty. I have a scar on my knee that marks me as the mountain's; these legs must be strong enough to skip over stones, this heart must carry me without faltering and my breath must be steady. I train with my lover in mind; my lover is stone and doesn't speak. Now I sweat with dignity, and with dignity I lay down to rest. I don't seek the signs of illness in myself anymore. I've even learned how to withstand cold showers! Besides, the cold has never done me anything wrong; for my entire life my enemy has been fire, desire, shame branded onto the nerves.
I've learned something, though, from a ripoff of the Settimana Enigmistica. I keep like 5 different puzzle magazines in my backpack, because with this year's new legislation if you're caught on your phone at school Valditara personally comes to spank you, so anytime I'm bored I pull one of them out. My mother buys them for me when she comes across one; I mostly do crosswords, but recently she bought a magazine that only has the kind of puzzle where you have to find certain words hidden in a jumble of letters. I used to dislike them, but now I find them pretty fun, I've figured out the right technique. You do have a set of words you have to find, but you shouldn't look too hard for them, you should soften your focus and just let your eyes glide all over the page. You should stop looking for the words, in fact forget you're looking for them, put aside any strategy. Just look at what you have in front of you with no pretenses, no purpose, and play with every possible combination: you won't be disappointed with what you find. You have to remember that it's a game. When you're overwhelmed by frustration, unfocus your gaze and let it glide over the full picture.
this entry is about: snow, daughterhood again and old myths, youth again (blood, hips, knees) and the vision in a sunrise, nightmares, time, impatience, trust, italian folk and the omnipotence of the mother
Back to what I spoke of last entry, about self-respecting women and their mothers - we honor the mother so much, we acknowledge her hand in our creation so much, that we are perplexed to see her scorning some parts of us that she herself has created from her blood and bone. My mother, it's clear (always has been clear), thinks some part of me undignified. When I speak of wanting to lift more, she is disgusted, it's clear, and she says: what do you even wanna lift for? What do you need to be strong for? But mother, I want to be strong so that I can be your Kleobis and your Biton, so that I can have the honor of carrying you in your old age. Would you scorn this? You could have a daughter who plants trees, leaves a mark on the world.
Maybe a big part of the problem is my sensibility: there are disagreements between me and my mother, that may be objectively slight; my mother may perceive some cracks in between us in her mind, and in my own I magnify them into giant abysses, because I still fret for her approval. Whether they are cracks or abysses in her mind, I don't know; our relationship lies on the unsaid.
I've been reading Momolina Marconi- I've been TRYING to read Momolina Marconi, because her writing style is very... very... uh.... academic..... But I'm still trying to power through it. I liked reading about ανασυρμα. I knew about Baubo, but not about the women of Lycia against the waves, the woman of the Congo against the lion, the women of Lapland against the bear!... I love it. Baubo, I knew her, and I know no Goddess more powerful than her, Baubo, Βαυβω, I know of no other who will help us now - the one who conquered Demeter's unbreachable sadness, the one who ripped a smile out of the tear-streaked face of the mourning mother...
Back to what I spoke of last entry, about our allotted time - I'm young: blood rushes easily, I can feel it thumping in my hips sometimes. Perhaps one day I'll miss my libido. I don't know know what youth is; I don't know how long youth lasts; I don't know what I can do with mine or what I'll actually be able to do with mine; but perhaps one day I'll miss youth. I think - I fervently hope - life won't end with the end of youth, but perhaps I'll still miss it. I think of all that could happen in my old age, from a health standpoint... I'll probably miss my knees. My youth overall has been a mixed bag, I've only awakened to life relatively recently, but, even though I still lament having lost precious years of my life to... circumstances, I'm glad to be myself right now. I say it gingerly, timidly, almost too good to be true: I'm glad to be myself right now. There are many other girls like me whose youths are lost in things like chasing after men's approval or chasing after the image of a "perfect", unhealthy body, and many of them never exit this chase. I often think of what we could be. I often think of what young women could be, if we weren't preyed upon, drugged, deluded, trapped in these chases and in these houses of mirrors. I think that being a young woman would be beautiful - could be beautiful, and I hope that I'm living at least a part of that potential beauty right now. Are we not meant to be proud, hard-headed, spear-headed? Are we not, in this time when blood rushes easily? It leaps in our wrists, it thumps in our hips, it overflows and spills into the world; there is much work to be done, and much pleasure to be had. I understood one time what the holy Maiden was (which has always been hard for me to grasp - I don't even share that belief about trinity anymore, it doesn't quite speak to me) when I was on my canoe, and I saw that the horizon lying low on the sea was incredibly, blindingly, ecstatically white, like if that summer morning's sun had evaporated and blended seamlessly with the rest of the sky. And the mountain was bathed in that light.
From the darkness of the room the child comes, just out of my half-lidded gaze. As I start to drift into sleep, she comes at the foot of my bed. I've been having some nightmares, on and off lately, the kind of nightmares that crush you into something small and terrified; the kind of nightmares that you can only imagine being hurled at you from the void/the divine, but it hurts too much, so I imagine that the child stands at the foot of my bed: she waits for me to fall asleep so that she can enter my body and become me again in my dreams. I've become wary, I know that she's there now, but I don't get up: what am I gonna do, not sleep? I know I can't keep her away, and I'm not ashamed anymore of what she might do or say while I dream: I've decided to simply not concern myself with shame, when she comes to visit. I see you, I tell her. I know what you want to do: why again? What do you hope to achieve with that? You know I fear her and I hate her - oh by now you know I do - but she grins now, out of the corner of my eye, a simple childlike grin like a million others. Nothing, she says. It just feels good. She says this, simply, clearly, and she grins that innocent grin: you know I hate her, I've always hated her, but now my heart warms up and in the darkness of the room I think I'm starting to believe her, I'm starting to believe her with my whole chest (and it's a relief I didn't think I deserved).
I feared that January would be dark and bleak, and she brought snow. Not directly to my doorstep, but in towns near me, it has snowed. It's been about ten years since I've seen even just a little bit of snow. It just doesn't happen around here, near the coast; and indeed it didn't in my hometown, but if I look inland, the fields are white and they finally start to match the peaks of the highest mountains, who must've been waiting years for the lands at their feet to join them. It's been so long: I barely remember ever seeing something like this. The fields are white... It's beautiful, though I wonder how people survive in climates where this happens every year. I've never felt this COLD before.
I miss being in nature. It's absurd to think about and to admit, I wanted to go to the mountain at least once during winter break, but it ended up being way more about slacking off than anything else to be honest, and now my mornings are no longer free. And neither are my afternoons. And the world is never free from this cold. Before winter break I'd taken up the habit of sitting outside, first thing in the morning, under the still-dark sky and the still-glowing moon, and just pay attention. But after these snowfalls, these rainstorms, these gelate, it's gotten so cold that every evening I tell myself I'm definitely gonna do it tomorrow, and every morning I face the window and my whole body & mind say... no. I guess I'm gonna wait until it gets just a little bit warmer. I don't think it'll snow again.
As a sort of resolution for this school year I've decided to not be too hard on myself if I can't manage to do everything on my to-do list, everyday, perfectly, in the exact way I want to. I've decided so because if I'm not more patient with the amount of things I have to do or want to do + the amount of time I have, I'm gonna go kinda insane I think. If one afternoon I have to skip a study session because I have to do cardio, it's okay. If one evening I want to write and I skip a meditation session, it's okay. There are many things I have/want to do and it's okay if I don't get the time to do them all in a single day every single day. I often chase delusions like "fuck!!! I didn't manage to do everything today but I'll definitely make tomorrow The Perfect Day where I will read 10000 pages + strength straining + cardio + 2 hour study session + 30 min meditation session + long walk + write + code" The Perfect Day doesn't exist. There's only so much time in a day. And it isn't a problem, because my life probably won't end with this day. And I've come to a time in my life where I feel that I'm reliable. I trust myself and I want to cultivate this trust. I trust myself to do my best and to choose the best possible things in both the small and great paths of life.
At the bus stop, kids were picking up straight ice from the roofs of parked cars and they were throwing the chunks at each other. 🎵 It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas 🎵
Today it wasn't cold, though. It was a Sunday morning, the light coming in from the window was beautiful, the road was still wet from the night's rainfall, and the sunlight felt so good on my skin - but I had things to do. I was taken away to my tasks, to my chores; along the road I saw the pines and the brooms and the brown-and-blonde brush beneath them, and I clutched my heart. I was taken to my city, but I couldn't be with her: I had my mind on the hiking trail that opens up just beside the road, and the woods and the glimmer of sea you can glimpse from there, but I couldn't be with her. I am from here, though, and the people here speak my same dialect, they eat the same fish and drink the same wine, they hike the same trails and swim in the same sea: they'll understand if I grab one of them randomly on the street and say, me devi portà a [REDACTED] o muoio. ("Allu mari mi portati"...)
There are a few songs that have, like, an almost religious significance to me. Very few songs in fact, and most of them are italian folk for some reason. Allu Mari, of course, because... Mary Daly already said it. And then, Il Testamento Dell'Avvelenato, which is the italian adaptation of Lord Randal basically, but in some versions his mother has conspired against him too. Like this version that I love the most out of them all. Some other versions sound somber in a way that's excessive - that tone matches with the story which is being told, sure, but the problem is that it matches too well and it all ends up being predictable, almost boring. But this version is not like that: it's not defeated, limp and moping, and you can tell from the very beginning, with that loud, solemn bagpipe that seems to spread over the surrounding air and float over the hills and command you to listen and respect. The whole song is so majestic and whimsical, playful, danceable at the same time. The ending: the crescendo until the final, supreme exclamation of "Mi devo confessare, mama la mia mama", and then the sudden drop into the most beautiful part of all, probably: M'aveeeeete avveleeeenaaaaaaaatoooo, maaaaaaaama la mia maaaaaaama; m'avete avveeelenaaaaaato eeeee 'l mio core sta maaaaaale... All but the bagpipe stop in front of the most sorrowful crying out of the dying man, the revelation of the most painful sort of betrayal that exists; and in comparison to the curses and hellfire that the man sends out in other versions, this cry mostly sounds pathetic, tearful, disbelieving, still bending down, even after betrayal and murder, to the omnipotence of the mother figure. Who gave him life and now gives him death. Not a single surge towards revenge, and no figurative speech, not a metaphor or a hint of irony (Lord Randal, "I leave her hell and fire"), one could even read no recrimination; the whole sentence is so simple and literal, just a description of how things are: m'avete avvelenato e 'l mio core sta male. Such innocence in the face of tragedy brings tears to my eyes almost every time. And after this world-shattering, life-destroying, heart-destroying cry, the music picks up again, in the same solemn but danceable tone, to show that the world goes on, uncaring, powerful despite the dying man's faintness, beautiful despite his hideous death, thriving despite his heartbreak.
this entry is about: meaningless coincidences, pasta al forno and the time of our youths & lives, January, piety, motherhood, daughterhood, closure or lack thereof
On the morning of the 1st, a sequence of dreams that I was having ended with the janitor, the blessed old woman whom I often talk to about gardening, sitting down next to me in bed, putting a hand on my back and speaking softly to me. She began by saying: get up now, to begin the new year in the spirit of responsibility. Then she said other things that I don't remember, other advice, other "here's what you're gonna do"'s, and I jolted awake at the end of it. I really did get up, I saw that it was only 9 AM, and I'd gotten little sleep, so I went back to bed. Sorry, old woman. But I DID technically get up for a little while... I wish I could remember what she said.
Last year, I'd gotten my period on New Year's Eve, and I lifted my head in wonder. The timing has obviously shifted a bit since then, and I did not expect, this afternoon, to start bleeding. I said oh, it's too early - one week early, it must be spotting, a lot of spotting but spotting nonetheless. But it kept going, so I guess I've got my period now, on the 1st of January. What a coincidence - trying to not show my giddiness here - I wonder why. Maybe it's because I needed to write: it's been a long time. Maybe it's because of all the excesses of New Year's Eve. We had dinner at a friend's country house, by the fireplace (and then for the countdown to midnight we went to the city square, but we ended up going back to her house because they were playing motherfucking Gianni Morandi.) It's been a long time since I ate this much: crostini con paté di olive pasta al forno rustici arrosticini freschi di griglia pollo and spumante, and wine, and Baileys, which left me sober as a fucking nun for some reason, but I still had a lot of fun.
I follow this woman on social media who's very concerned with the passage of time and with the shortness of life. It's gonna pass you by, she says, and shakes her head endlessly. Reading about her worry is sobering. She's so right: why doesn't it haunt us every step of our life? The year has turned and I'm alive, and I'm young, but I won't be alive forever and I won't even be young for such a long time. I'm very good at handling food, TOO good at handling food, I can never gain weight: even though I always complain about this, on New Year's I was very happy that I could gorge myself on Baileys and pasta al forno without seeing the consequences on the scale. But let's be real, it won't be this way forever. People usually lose their fast metabolism as they age. One day, if I eat pasta al forno and Baileys on New Year's Eve, I will have to suffer the consequences and pay my penance on the treadmill. My days of drinking Baileys and eating pasta al forno carelessly are numbered. Not only that, but my days of drinking Baileys and eating pasta al forno AT ALL are numbered, because when I'm dead I will never taste Baileys or pasta al forno again for eternity. It's stupid but it's true, do you ever think about how you will never experience things ever again, when you're dead?? I have a certain, limited, allotted time to taste delicious things, and once it's over, throughout the span of all eternity as countless galaxies merge and dissolve I will never get the chance to do it ever again. I have orgasms and it's great. I have an allotted time to have orgasms and once that time is over, once I'm dead, I will never experience them ever again, not even after all the stars in this universe have fizzled out. I'm on my period: I light incense and candles for this day. One day I'll enter menopause (I wonder how I'll deal with hot flashes...) and once it sets in I'll have to say goodbye to periods, forever, and eventually say goodbye to all of myself, forever. One of the things I miss the most about summer is being naked or half-naked all the time. Now, in the shower, after a shower, I like to take time to look at myself. This body that I love, it won't last for a long time; old age will ravage it, probably, and even after that, it will disappear into the earth. I have an allotted time to be with it, and an even shorter time to be with it as it currently is. The face that stares back at me when I look in the mirror, I know it well, but before long it will change: I have an allotted time to see it at all, and an even shorter allotted time to see it as it currently is. Once the time allotted to me is over, I will never again feel pleasure, joy, pride, even pain or grief, in all of eternity. It's all so stupid, yes, it's so obvious, but don't we hide it from ourselves a lot of the time, too? And it's one thing to say: I'll die, and it's another thing to expand on it and say: I'll never have an orgasm again, I'll never look at myself again, I'll never drink Baileys or eat pasta al forno again... Isn't it important to be aware? I'm very grateful for the time I have to drink Baileys and eat pasta al forno. I'm still full from all that pasta al forno, it was so fucking gooooooooood holy shit. Creamy.........
Winter break is being super good, and I'm trying not to think about it but I'm kinda afraid of when it'll be over. I've never really trusted January; I've always found Giano Bifronte to be really creepy. I can't stop referencing an old italian Burger King commercial that aired years ago after winter break, it went: "Feste finite. Freddo. Triste." ("Holidays over. Cold. Sad.") and that's LITERALLY HOW IT IS, holidays are over, there's nothing to look up to, it's cold and you can't do anything... I hope it won't be so bad. The saying, "L'Epifania che tutte le feste porta via"... doesn't it sound so sad??
Where will piety lead me? Piety towards the closer mother, not the greater one. I grew up reading about and studying pietas, and eventually it stuck with me; not Aeneas' or any man's pietas, but the concept of it, "piety" as in the sense of duty and devotion towards bigger things, towards divinity and towards the parents. I love the word "piety", I use it a lot now, and when I use it I mean its old meaning, I mean pietas. Where will piety towards my mother lead me? The closer mother, not the greater one. The greater one is a metaphor, yes, I'll admit, she's a construct: she exists in order for that piety to exist, and that piety serves as the framework for a proper life. But the closer one is right here, right in front of my eyes, and I came from her: she doesn't exist for piety, but her existence demands piety nonetheless. And I'm not saying I disacknowledge this, no, nor that she doesn't deserve piety: I do, and she does, she certainly does. My mother loves me, she confides in me, she asks me for advice, she takes pride in my achievements, she smiles upon me, she cares for me. And I love my mother. In fact, maybe the problem is that I love my mother too much. I have a deep respect for my mother, isn't that clear by now?... The greater one and the closer one: one reflected in the other. I have a deep devotion and, again, piety for the mother, for my own mother, and maybe the problem is that I expect such great, all-encompassing piety from her as well. It's normal for it not to be there, it's normal for my mother to not think as I think and feel as I feel; it's just disappointing sometimes. It's normal. Every self-respecting woman, every feminist or feminist-leaning woman feels disappointed with her mother sometimes, with her old-mindedness: I think we all have felt this, I think we all know. We love our mothers and we are perplexed as to why she doesn't see the spark in herself that we see in her, and as to why she doesn't see the spark in ourselves that we see in her.
And I'm always looking up to my mother, trying to satisfy her in every possible way: but with the way that I am, and with the way that she is, and in all the ways in which we are so different from each other, it'd be possible only if I renounced my self. Of course she doesn't demand this of me, of course I don't want this either - of course this want of mine is irrational, of course this fear of mine is irrational: I think it's common among those who grew up as I did. I fear that my mother's fed up with all my eccentricities, me and my unshaven legs, me and my weightlifting, me and my colorful eyeshadow, me and my tacky nail polish, me and my reusable cotton rounds, me and my washable menstrual underwear, me and my refusal of her Jehovah, me and my reluctance to yield to wooing, me and my hikes, me and my nighttime trips in the wilderness. And... maybe she IS a little bit fed up but it shouldn't infringe on a mother's unconditional love, right? The problem is that I don't believe in unconditional love. I don't believe in unconditional love from anyone. It isn't a bad thing - it's an unrealistic desire to have, it's too high of a demand. And I wonder if and when my mother stopped loving me, started loving me again, somewhere during the course of my life. She can't have loved me when I was really young. That's the other problem: the fact that I remember, and my mother remembers too, probably, even though I wish she didn't; the fact that my mother was there and remembers being there, and that perhaps she doesn't have any regrets regarding how she handled things. That's the other problem: that's the biggest problem. I can't imagine my mother loving me when I was a child: even apart from the basic fact that I was impossible to love, if she loved me she would have guided me, she would have helped me, like a mother's supposed to.
The fact is that my mother wasn't ready. My mother, my poor mother, it isn't all her fault. Soon I will be 19, the same age she first got married. Me and my sister are not from that marriage, she had us when she was older, but still: I don't think she ever had the chance to learn how to deal with being a mother. Not in her mother's house, not in her low-level schools, not in her Kingdom Hall, not in her early marriage. I don't think she ever had the chance to learn how to deal with me, specifically: the child that I was. I cannot speak of it all. The entirety of it will forever lie in silence, to the rest of the world as well as between me and her. They should have warned me that I was about to be born to her, they should have warned her that she was about to birth me: she couldn't possibly have been ready to handle something like me. And the fact is that she hardly did. My poor mother, she wasn't ready, but I was a child: I wasn't ready either, I didn't know what to do either. The fact is that I wasn't ready, and she wasn't ready, and I couldn't possibly have done anything about it, and she didn't do anything either. I've already wrote that I was born as a mass of everything that was alien to my mother. She wasn't ready. She didn't know what to do. I must've frightened her for years, with my mere existence, with what I did and what happened to me unknowingly: my mother dropped me like a bunch of hot coals, my mother avoided my gaze, because she was terrified of me. Mother, I'm sorry to have been such a leech on you, I'm sorry I must demand this much of you for my survival, but I think I am allowed to say this: a mother's indifference is hatred; a mother's neglect is death. And I am afraid, exactly as I was back then, of being under her gaze. Back then, I was afraid. I didn't know anything, except that I was afraid of being under her gaze. Mater, iudice te, vereor. That I was afraid in general, that if I had just a little bit more awareness I would have clung to her and cried for help, for guidance; and she would've turned her eyes from me. How could this be my daughter? I bet she thought: how could this be my daughter? How could this thing have been created from my flesh and blood?
And, again, the problem is that she remembers and that she probably doesn't think she did anything wrong. My mother loves me, now. My mother confides in me. Years ago, when my sister started going to therapy, nearly every night she took me by her side, and she lamented: why do you think she ended up this way? Do you think I've done anything wrong while raising her? Do you think I've been a bad mother? Do you think it's my fault? I don't know if these were rhetorical questions: I don't know if she ever really had these doubts. (She should have them, she really should have them.) I had some recrimination to do, sure. But I love my mother. If honesty was going to hurt her, then I'd bite my tongue. And everytime she asked this, I answered: no, mom, you never did anything wrong, you're the best mother we could've asked for. I said it again, and again, and again, every time she asked. I'd say: it's not your fault, NOTHING is your fault; and by doing that, I put the blame on us. I put the blame on us, as children, for anything that was ever wrong with us. Looking back, I regret debasing myself like this. But if she asked again... I love my mother. If honesty is going to hurt her, then I'll bite my tongue. Me and my mother don't argue - that's another problem, probably: we have never settle things, we always gloss over them, and that's how you DON'T get closure on anything. But, I can deal with not talking about it, my mother can't deal with talking about it - so it's okay, I'll bear this weight for her.
I've said before, when I wrote our Genesis, that I could not write the rest of our holy book even if I wanted to: it's still true, I cannot speak of it all, it goes too deep and it's too painful. But I've woven - blindly, unthinkingly, frantically: I think it shows - this tapestry and it's not such a bad way to find some relief, some closure, if every other avenue is closed. It goes to show that the child has grown up, at least somewhat.
Oh, you know me - I can't help but feel like this is a good omen. I hope that this year my blood runs copious, flaming, red...
