I just woke up. It’s 16:23 and I’m listening to my latest download. A cupcake from Dosh called “Substractions”. The room is a mess, there is empty vine bottles, cigarette butts all over and well, yes in fact I did have a little party with myself last night. Me and a bottle of San Genovese. Whatever I am it’s not important. There are people that work, and there are people that live not working.
Stupid Italy, I love it but it’s so raw!
Let’s not make jokes about how we got here. I struggle with the world and myself for a long time. I was talking to lovely Camli from Israel on the kitchen while sipping coffee from Costa Rica, that’s right, in Italy. She comes illuminated and says: “there is no perfect place. There is not perfect country”
Italy is surreal. You can see a picture of Italy and your body never gets to understand how every single detail of the city of Rome, for example, is made out with so much love. It’s like my friend says, “Old school’s got something”.
It’s like a shell that hides “Venere”. A work of art made for hundreds of years for many grains of sand. People were making love with this city.
We can find it, or we cannot. No wonder why many artist and writers have come here to look for stories, finding their own at the end, dying.
Italy is not a land of possibilities. It’s not a place to do. Italy is a place to explore and to feel it all. How do you train yourself to feel it all? You know what I’m talking about, don’t ya?Still I would like to go to Chicago, and get lost in stupid Tokyo. But that’s another story.