this year I made propositions and didn't stick by them and I am not going to do the same mistake --this year I envied a bunch of persons but less than the last one-- I envied those who were living abroad and robbing me of their experiences-- those who were making it in the city and those lost somewhere outside of it-- I envied every writer for the beautiful phrases and for anything I didn't think of--
I grew many plants and killed many plants and longed for a garden, for a dog and a tree-- one windy day I texted someone and had a lover for months but I didn't fall in love-- I didn't answered tens of calls-- never those I really was waiting for-- I masturbated everyday anyway, in and out of my dreams-- one cold night I was attacked in a restaurant by a little man and later mobbed out of a lousy job by the same little man and so discovered God had given me enemies-- but harassed by the thought I just considered them people to shun-- even if my fingernails were livid for the excited emotion, the commotion, the woman said-- someone said it was like at the Leoncavallo, it was sad-- The little man is still out there in the city and the idea bothers me--
Friends disappointed me because i was too far out to be reached--
I worked on my English writing with desperation and never ceased one second to think that it was absurd-- to write this language without speaking it everyday alive, every page was covered of that invisible shame unfortunately--
I almost had a child and lost it --no I never lost it, she did, I never had it-- after three months of stupid fighting about abortion, about having a job or money-- or disappointing her parents by running away to start a new life away-- money, position, middle-class fear, it was all hidden there-- I wanted the fucking baby? Sure, and I cried in the surgery at the maternity hospital and didn't know I was about to-- but I didn't go on vacation because we were dismayed by the baby we finally had wanted, before the baby died all by itself and was flushed down the toilet --we went three times to the hospital and three times came back--
I was guilty--
I didn't make a buck and I went on spending the money stashed-- I visited my mother three times, handled the dogs and listened to her fading mind-- I never went to visit my cousin in London, JD in New York, DC in Paris, my sister in Rome, V. in Moscow-- I looked at Libi with suspicion because she wasn't like me, ready for the flight-- then I loved her again and betrayed her again and got back at her again-- she sewed my clothes and I played the guitar for her-- I put away the guitar and blogged so hard I got a story published on an anthology printed somewhere in America-- I received the book by mail and my story was so bad I had to put the book away-- nobody knows of it except Libi-- I went on writing hard and always aghast by my inability to live intensely like I had hoped to-- irretrievably every new year-- with every summery falling star I wished the wrong desires, not feasible--
I endorsed all the paranoias available on the net and discarded them but stuck by them, I worried for the illnesses I was going to get for being alive-- I hated my father for what I was--
I didn't fucked much-- but I played with Libi enough to be proud of us-- without booze or drugs-- us the inhibited ones--
I traveled alone into cities by resonant names and never felt really free except at night in the hotel rooms, the stranger beds, the yellow dim lights and the television sets-- without any fear to die in my sleep--