Gotta download this from my brain before I forget. It's always that damn traveling. Tonight I was going to the seaside with friends. There were my parents and aunt too. It was nice because we had a sort of driver, named André (but my aunt called him Pinuccio), a cute blond guy, who drove us down to the beach from our vacation house, which was on a hill. He drove so fast, or felt like it, that it felt like flying and I was scared. The beach is a lovely place, but when I get there I discover that 1) I have my monthly (which is true) and no spare pads, 2) I haven't shaved my legs (which too is true, sorry for the visual, male fans) 3) I'm in my underwear (which was true, because I was in bed sleeping...) 4) the lovely canal that runs parallel to the beach is full of enormous and weird fish, red carps, stingrays etc, so just imagine what could be in the sea, and NO WAY I'll put a toe in there. I feel so uncomfortable that I ask my mom to call back André and have him drive me back home, knowing I'm disappointing her. My aunt decides she'll take me home herself, but my mom haa already called him. So when we're almost up at the house we see André driving down the other way to fetch me, and can't stop him. So I become sorry about André too. We live in a sort of village, lots of rooms on the same floor, and I huddle up in mine and take out my frustration by killing Han Solo. I was writing a novel, inspired by DQMW but somehow a Han Solo-like character was in it, and I decided he was going to die. I even pretended I was him, lying crumpled in a corner of the corridor, for the perplexity of the other guests. My mother comes back from the beach and I announce "Han's" demise. She asks how, as though it were real. "Crashed into the sea with his plane," I reply mournfully. "Ah, but then he could always..." my aunt pipes up. "NO," I say. "He's DEAD." I was also working on something else, an art project on the town we're in, full of monuments. I had made a lovely drawing of a castle, but it was a fictitious work, looking nothing like the real castle. If it has to be a professional job, I should use assonometry (?) etc. A guy comes in and says it's good, but I should use pens and rulers, and I'm shocked at the thought of all the work that awaits me. Mysteriously I discover that my room here in Milan is decorated by Walt Disney posters. Peter Pan is above my bed and I just want to take him down. (I don't need Freud for this one.) Then the residence becomes a camping. We're lodging in tents, and there's a nice cat hanging around. And also the Lanzi, a re-enactment group where some of my friends are. (It's true.) The press arrives, and my Lanzo friend Gio shows them a video of himself playfully chasing a boar among the tents. "We really do that," he laughs, and I'm suddenly worried. It's ok if a cat sneaks into my tent and licks my face, but a BOAR?!?! I had another dream of this kind a few days ago. I remember nothing, except that I was supposed to be in Vicenza with Shadar, and this was good. It was not good that in the end I discovered it wasn't VICENZA, it was COSENZA, and I had to take a plane to go back home. Slag. At least the one of Christopher Plummer and me at Buckingham Palace was nice. |