I want to write about Rome, in fact I’ve started on the entry already, but I had to stop since I need to change my iCloud (I still share it with V and he’s told me he sees all my pics) and I have no idea how. Nor did I feel like going to town only to fix that, either. Haha! The thing is that when I have lots to do, I get to run a lot of errands, too, but when I have a “day off”, I can’t be bothered to go to town only to run errands. I kind of hate taking public transportation and going to crowded places if I don’t have to. Especially if Sam is with me, he’s my alibi. 😉
So here I am, writing about other stuff instead, hopefully I’ll be back with pictures and adventures tomorrow. These days I’m reading a lot, I’m devouring several books a week with a thirst I haven’t felt in years. I’d read all the time, if only I could. I feel like postponing dinner and sleep and work when I’m in the middle of a good book. I read and read, in search of words, in search of myself. And whenever I read, I feel like writing, too. Especially when the words seem to come so easily, like they’ve been there all the time, waiting only for the opportunity to find something worth writing about.
Yesterday I met a friend at Ugla and after chatting for a couple of hours, we finished our lemonade and were a bit unsure whether to buy a coffee or a glass of wine until we found ourselves standing in front of the bar and a note said “ask me about our Tuesday wine” and so I said “What about your Tuesday wine?” and it turns out they sold a bottle of wine at the price of 2 glasses and so I said why not and so we bought one.
The bartender forgot to mention there’d be poetry reading, too. And into our first glass, F came, too and we were “forced” to listen to poetry, most of it great, but some of it crappy, too. Listening to the poets reading was like peeping inside their chest, through layers of clothes and flesh, unwrapping them of everything. For me beauty lies in daring to show your own nakedness.
And I felt amazing, although I hadn’t eaten in a while and the wine was starting to “go to my head”. I remembered how much poetry had saved me in time of distress, how it always saves me, how it’s the only thing that helps when I’m really down, how sentences don’t make sense anymore and the only thing that does is words scattered here and there, human essence broken down to the bone.
But I’m happy and light at heart and words elude me, I see them floating further and further away. If that’s what it takes, I’d rather listen to other poets pouring out their soul.