Apr 9, 2014

11 - Blue is the warmest color by Julie Maroh

Clementine is an average 15 years old girl: family, school, friends, a boyfriend.
But something changes when a girl seen one day on the street, with blue hair and eyes of the same color, invades her dreams night after night. During an evening out with her openly gay best friend, Clementine enters in a lesbian bar and bumps into Emma, the older art student with blue hair who had populated her fantasies for months.

The attraction is immediate and electric.
But Blue is the warmest color is not only a love story. Is a story of shame, denial, anger, insecurity. In a world full of prejudices, live their relationship will test Clementine's parents and friends and, mostly, her own ideas about her identity.

Apr 6, 2014

Rewind

Sunday
The week ends as it began. Slow day. Mood swings.
I open the window and turn up the volume. So that someone can hear the songs of my playlist and think I have a good taste in music. But perhaps the traffic noise is too loud.

Saturday
At the door, welcomed us the same guy who had invited us. Which, as he said us immediately, doesn't live there but acts anyway as the landlord. There were still few people and we finally met the four who actually live there. Obviously, we didn't need much to confuse names and faces. The alcohol present was not the best, according to my housemates at least, but that hasn't stop Mela from drinking a little. 
And the evening past. My hair still smell of smoke.
Ila was tired, so she went to bed earlier, while Mela and I staid for another hour and then, once back to our floor, we spent another one talking on her bed. She kept saying that we should organize something in our apartment and invite them. The only thing I could think of, however, was how much I can be inept in social interactions, specially on a night like that. What makes me uncomfortable is that I become suddenly and extremely conscious of my body, of every breath, every inch, every single moment. How much space I occupy, the position of the shoulders, my sullen mouth, the excessive smiles for jokes that aren't that funny, the breast highlighted (as if it was needed) by the shirt put on the short jeans.

Friday
Open the window in the morning and find a sky as dark as the room in which I spent the last hour fantasize about a guy I've never met at a party I've never been. It's not raining right now, but any moment could be the right one. This is what happens when, for the first time in years, I allow myself to sit in the sun for a few hours. I don't know how this night will be. The idea makes me nervous.
Since yesterday afternoon none of us say anything. But Mela came home with a bottle of rum (-Why rum?- I asked. A shrug -I don't know-). So I guess we'll go. I'm  not good in this kind of things. Find myself in a living room full of people I don't know, I mean.
Ila pulls out a dress from one of the mountains of cloths, books and who know what else that multiply on and on in her room, and then she changes it with another one, even if she had said -Not the green one, it's too short, they can see everything.- Mela is in jeans and t-shirt, as usual, straight hair and a bit of lip gloss that will soon remain on the edge of a plastic cup. I wear the high waisted denim short, gray tights, the new black shoes and a soft black and white shirt from H&M. Red dark lipstick. -It's too much,- Mela says. But if I have to sit in a corner in discomfort I rather do it with my lipstick on.
A doubt assails me. -Are we sure that they wanted to invite us? Is it not that they just wanted to inform us of the party?- The true is that I heard almost nothing of what the tall guy said. Ila reassures me. So we spend an hour in Mela's room, chatting, waiting to ear enough confusion downstairs. Around 10.45 we go. And as I close the door behind me, I would go back inside.

Thursday
Mela and I just go back from a class and Ila too. Five minutes and someone knocks on our door. It doesn't happen often, you have to be already inside the building to get to us. Next to the door there is a button with a small bell drawn on it. If you press it, anything sound, but the light bulbs of the stairs light up. So, the only way is knocking. But I don't ear the blows, nor Mela, despite our rooms are near the entrance. The noise of the street out of our windows is too loud and I'm already undressing. I have the shorts on the ground and the shirt half unbuttoned, Hopeless Wanderer slightly too high, when I hear Ila asks -Who is it?-
-Hi! Tomorrow night we will have a party downstairs and...-
-Girls! Come here!- Ila calls us.
For a moment I think to stay in my room, but then, with the time to make myself presentable and tying my hair, I go, joining Ila and Mela who has preceded me. A tall boy, with a big smile that makes me uncomfortable, occupies almost the entire doorway. -We told her,- he is saying, referring, I suppose, to the old lady who live on the ground floor. -She said that until 4 we can do whatever we want.- "Yeah, right..." I think. There is another guy, sitting on the railing that will be an inch and a half thick and overlooks the vacuum of the stairs. As I speak, some useless comment I forget the second it leave my mouth, a third appeared from the right, looks me straight in the face and tells -Hi!- before disappearing again, so fast I cannot make out the features of his face. The tall one continues to speak, but I got distracted and don't heard a word. -Ok,- replies Ila. -When we begin to ear the noise we come.- We salute. The moment our neighbors go down the stairs and Ila closed the door we look each other and burst into silent laughters. 
-I know why they invited us,- Ila says. -The other day I passed in front of them and I heard comments about my ass. 
-If we go, we have to bring a bottle of something,- is Mela's only comment. 

Wednesday
Back on the balcony, back to the sun. But this time on the easy chair brought out from Mela. And a fresh breeze that wasn't here yesterday. If is true that I'm developing a sort of meteoropathy, I might as well store the light, now that there is some. I imagine rays filter through my skin, through layers and layers of stain and sadness and repressed and forgotten feelings, accumulated over years and years of passive aggressive life and hate. Eyes closed, music, warmth on my bare arms and legs and face. There is only me in the world right now. Now. In the world. Just me. Exist. The music is almost too loud in my ears, the sun almost too hot. 
But the ball bounced on the wall by one of the guys who live on the floor below brings me back to reality. 
On the upper part of my thighs the hair are blond, so light. So different from the ones that grow up on the rest of my body. So delicate.

Tuesday
On the balcony, notebook on my lap, music, legs in the sun. It's not the best among the suns, but mine are not the best among the legs, so it's ok. I don't remember the last time I staid voluntarily in the sun. Aside from Milan that time with F. But it was January and it was cold so it doesn't count.
My mood keeps jumping from on edge to the other. I'm thinking that I'm becoming meteoropathic.
If I press a leg against the other the heat on the skin becomes almost unbearable. And I'm happy with myself. Because the first thought I had was not the fear that no one will ever feel the same warmth on the same skin, but that I can feel it. I can feel. 

Monday
Slow day. This morning I was in high spirit, as a couple of days now. But then I lie on the bed a couple of minutes and I woke up pissed off. I'm tired. I can't stand this anymore. Go to sleep and don't know what mood I'll be next morning.

Mar 31, 2014

27 - Ten Women by Marcela Serrano

Nine women come together to share their stories at the invitation of their therapist on a sunny Sunday morning. Each with a different background, each with a fear, an insecurity, a past, a present, to live with.

Francisca who can not get away from the hate for a mother without love; the old and lonely Manè who dreamed of a career as great actress; Juana, with a sick mother and a depressed daughter on her shoulders; Simona, raised as a Catholic, converted to Communism; Layla, daughter of Palestinian emigrants; Luisa, widower of a desaparesido; Lupe, lesbian teenager; the successful journalist Andrea who takes refuge in the desert; Ana Rosa, in charge of her younger brother and of an empty life; and finally Natasha, the psychologist, and her own story.

Each chapter a tale. But don't make the mistake of considering them as separate monologues. It is a macrocosm, the female world, seen through micro and different lenses, each part of a whole which makes them complementary to each other.

Because the women are the hope of the world. This is the author's, the chilean writer Marcela Serrano, conviction. But their contribution will change the cultural ideals, in crises, only if they will develop a new way of thinking.

Mar 30, 2014

To blabber.

I'm almost at the end of the third year . I'm in Forlì since more two and a half. It seems to be since always and it seems to be since a moment. I'm almost at the end and they all tell me to "bite the bullet". I bite it for a long time, long enough to wake up with a headache. But now I forgot how to do it .

I feel good when I resist the temptation to write her. Bad when I can't.

Even though I'm studying for a midterm test and I should focus on that instead of wasting time (reading and watching TV series, just to give you a couple of examples), I took a look at the site of the master degree I'd like to do. And I wanted to cry. Perhaps it is because I'm close to my flow, and I always cry when it's almost time for it, or maybe because I don't think I will be accepted.
My mother says I have to think positive. I don't want to think positive. I wan't to be realistic. What's so wrong in being realistic?

Oh shit, I became one of those people who can talk only about school. Oh well, today it's like this.

Mar 17, 2014

Today is not worth it

Food isn’t enough anymore.
I eat it eat it eat it
and it disappears.
Somewhere between my mouth 
and my belly or so.
I ate it ate it hate it.

Sleeping is not enough.
Open the eyes in another
same lame late morning
and the bed is warm 
and outside is cold
and today is not worth it.

A shower is not enough.
All the water of the town
of the region of the country
of the world and of the universe
- if there is some, there -
can not wash away me.

The box I oblige myself in
for 10 minutes and all my life
is not enough, not anymore.
Passionate stubborn cold 
melancholic smart realistic
idealist lazy curious
are words and I’m not.


*writing during a particularly boring hour at university 

Mar 14, 2014

What is the air like at night?

"What is the air like at night?" she asks.
"I don't know" I think. 

I call night the hours I prefer, the ones that never last enough, enough for the letters and the stories and the poetries I would like to write, for all the words I would like to tell you and the silence we can not share, for the songs I would like to uncover and the books and the films and the people. For all the hugs I rejected and the ones who didn't understand me. The night is not long enough for everything I desire and for everything I can't afford to desire. And in this, I let myself be lulled. 

I don't know what is the air like tonight. So I opened the window of my bedroom. It's cold, but nothing that a purple blanked can not defeat. At least for a while. The air is green, tonight. I'm not sure what it means. Green, it's not a color I see often. But believe me, it tastes like green, is has the scent of green. A dark green. A Persian green. Can you see that too?

And it's a Mumford&Sons lyrics, as "make your siren's call and sing all you want, I will not hear what you have to say. Because I need freedom now and I need to know how to live my life as it's meant to be." The laughter of the drunk guy down the street and the blanket I cuddle into. The noise of the TV of the man of the opposite building and all the books I've ever gave as presents.

I dreamt again that you came to visit me and we were traveling through Italy by train. And I had a little fox tattooed on the inside of the right elbow.

Mar 9, 2014

It's just another sunny Sunday

I'm at a point in which I'm sick of everything, everything seems wrong, and I've no inspiration at all.
I've not been very well this week. My left ear hurt, so did the whole left side of my head. This gave me a perfect excuse to do nothing. A part for watch films and TV shows and read books, of course. This is the only thing I can do. Immerse myself in somebody else work.

There is always someone saying, maybe of a fictional character or of the person subject of the discussion, that she doesn't have rights to be sad. What did she has experience in her life so terrible to be depressed? But this is the point, isn't it?, I'd like to say every time. There's no need for a reason. If there was a reason, there wouldn't be that hard. 

I'm laying on the bed that the 99% of the time stays under mine and that now fill my room and impedes me to open the window. There is the sun out there, and the blue, and cars and motorcycles full of people directed to the beach. But if I stayed forever on this bed I wouldn't know. I wouldn't know if rains or if it feels like spring time. I wouldn't listen all those people telling that it's unnatural, that if it's so beauty now and warm it will pay back us soon or later. As if the sky was this sadist bully who enjoys mocking us. Why does it hate us so much?, I thought as a child.  


The bed is out because my friend A slept here, after a dinner with B and F and a night in a club. The club was too full, really dangerous, and being shorter than the average I got many punches and nudges on my head, and we were pretty mad at the end. But we had good time at first and we danced. I didn't even remember the last time I danced.