Well. I have found that books are not very photogenic. This morning, I tried to photograph 4 of my current reads atop a silky red robe. I found the results disappointing. They were flat, 2-D and uninspired. So this post goes without illustration. I am more of a verbal person anyway. A talker. A writer. A reader. I even love to read license plates. I think I only got about half of the experience of Florence, and that through a haze of hash and chianti. Art dripped off the street corners, the street signs, it was even in the garbage of the alleyways. It practically bit me in the face, but my focus was on the cocentric circles of Dante's rings of hell, Calivino's surreal world of inverted stories and the mythological mis-matches of Boccaccio's lovers.
May 1, 1996
My thoughts are almost completely consumed by my story which is taking away from the importance of this crazy reality. Two days ago we spent 3 1/2 hours at the police station filing a report for our denuncia. Then we got led through restricted Kafka sections of the train station to find a package of insect repellant from my mother. And then Francesco, the cop, the schitzophrenic neighbor from upstairs and Barbara the landlady all came over at the same time and yelled at each other in our foyer. Halfway through, we discreetly closed the door and hid. I have five weeks left which is a knife in my heart and my wings of flight. Gwen saw the Psychic Boyfriend walking by her phonebooth eating Dove icecream. Everyone we see in the street we think to be the one who broke down our door. There are countless suspects. I realized that 2 different Diegos have come by to retrieve 2 different tapes on 2 different occasions. I can't stop smoking and the weather won't stop raining. I can't stop writing and trying to figure this damn story out. I am so completely myself that I can't see, think, feel or hear anyone else. I realize that I am a fucking woman and a writer and that I'll be both all my life.
76 Via Guelfa