Shining happy people

After almost three years spent in the sunny – or so everybody says – California, I have finally reached a new awareness: I am gifted with the talent of writing! After all, in 2 years I have published as many as 9 posts in two different, but equally unsuccessful, blogs, wrote 4 short stories no one published and monthly kept up to date my Facebook page… what about that? So the time has come for the next step: I will make writing my job! Or possible job. Or something somehow related to my job….

Enthusiastically naive, I start applying, and applying again, and again, until, one fine day, unexpectedly, I get an offer: a marketing agency is interested in contracting me as their web content writer for one of their clients. A small project but long term: the perfect start into the field. I am absolutely ecstatic: finally something good coming! They want a sample of my creative writing skills: I need to write a profile for a girl to post on a dating website. I must admit it does not really sound exciting, but hey, I can pay my dues, and then move on. So I spend almost an hour to produce 100 words.

Once I have sent my sample, I start waiting. What if they don’t like my writing? Or don’t appreciate my humor? What if there’s any tipo? Or if I got the overall tone wrong? After three long excruciating days of doubts, I finally get an answer. They like it! They Do! They are offering me the contract! The email with the details is so long, and I am so super excited that I just give it a quick look. I know the conditions already, and the pay. I can work from home. This all sounds so perfect. I cannot believe how lucky I was! Until a sentence in the last paragraph catches my eye: there might be explicit material. Huh? I might want to talk about it with my husband first. So I forward him the email. A few seconds pass, when he answers, Have you read this email?? Well, honestly, I haven’t… I have just skipped through it… I’d better read it then. It is in the very first lines that the agency lets me know I will be working for an adult-content website. Ooohhhh! But, but… No, no, no! Uff….

Still trying to fix my vanity, I sit down in front of the computer and start typing, Dear Margaret, I thank you very much for you offer but ... Looks like my shining future as a writer still needs to wait. One thing is sure, though: from now on I will be reading my work emails from the first word to the last.

Home Alone. No. Not like in the movie.

He just freaking left me home! He asked, do you want to go to the ocean and meet my friends there? I said, no, you know I hate the ocean, it's windy and cold, and I am still sick. He asked, do you want to stay home then? I said, no, I don't; but the ocean, I don't like it, you know it. He said, yeah, I know. He said again, OK then, see you later. And just freaking left.

What about calling your friends and suggesting meeting somewhere else?

He took the car, he could not have gone otherwise. But, fact is, we only have one. Which leaves me without one, and home, and alone. What am I supposed to do? Just what am I supposed to do? Cannot drive to see anyone, cannot go shopping, cannot go anywhere. Reading? I have read all week long... Cleaning? No, thanks, that's enough for my Mondays. Cooking? The fridge is empty. TV? Overdosed already. I might walk to the park, except.... it's raining... and we don't have am umbrella, because who needs an umbrella in California? Sometimes I wish I had some hobbies, like painting, or playing any instruments. It would keep me busy. But I don't. I just am, dull; a pretty face; a decent socialite; a good fashion sense; but not much more. This is why, I think, he just freaking left me home.

Which takes me back to all those other men who left me home. Or better, left me behind.

Matt, my safe harbor. He was in love with me for so long. But I wanted to explore the world, because I knew he would wait for me, and always be there. And he was for a long while. The long while it took me to realize I actually did not want to explore anything or waste any more minutes. The long while it took me to realize that he was the only world I wanted, and exploring on my own wasn't fun. Except that, when I looked for him to tell him, he had moved on, and left me behind.

Or Paul, the boxer. He had just broke up when he made his move. Again, I was head over heels. And he seemed happy, until he told me he was dating his ex again. While dating me! Which led to the inevitable next step: he dumped me. But I let him know he broke my heart. After a few months we talked, and he apologized. He said he had made his move on me out of anger. He told me I was a great girl, but he was still in love wit his ex all along . Ouch. He said, You won, anyway. I said, what do you mean? He said, you see, I used you, just to appease my anger. I said, what you are saying now is not making you look any better. He said, I know; I am sorry. I said, I was the one who ended up brokenhearted, so why do you think I won? He said, the thing is, I mistreated you so badly; I won you over then got rid of you as soon as my ex gave me another chance. I said, I remember. He said, I was selfish; I wanted to be selfish; I did not care about how you would feel. I said, I got over it. He said, this is the point; you forgave me, while I still hate my ex – she had dumped him again. Oh well, I guess that's make up for a broken heart...

And Ben, the teacher. He bought me roses once, and once took me out to a concert. He would call me pretty often. Ah, romance. But the day I told him I was not in love with him, he answered, I am not either! What did you think? I said, well, I don't know.... He said, you are some piece of work, you know? I said, I'm sorry, I did not mean to assume anything... He said, too late, I didn't like it; I think I don't like you. And left. Never heard of him again. What about that?

And Steven, my coworker. He was cute. A bit too put together, if you asked me, but hey, definitely cute. I think he liked me from the beginning, but it took him some time to ask me out. And when he did, I was trying to get over my last flop, so I turned him down as gently as I could. But as soon as I felt I could date again, I went back to him, and tried to remind him of his invitation. And he turned a deaf ear on me! Well, maybe this is half- half.

Anyway, the list goes on and on. Now that I think about that I have been left behind quite a few times... And I have always thought it was them to blame, those unreliable, hurtful, proud men. It never crossed my mind it might have been me, I might not have been good enough. Never! Naïve. Because, you know, this rainy afternoon when my husband left me home is getting me to think: is it them? Or is it me? It is that I have no depth? No three, or four, dimensions? No interests? No talents? I definitely should take up painting. But I think I might do bad, as I always miss the bigger picture. Maybe I should become a nature lover and try and enjoy hiking on these wonderful hills - except, I am really, really scared of mountain lions. And rattlesnakes. And bears. What about …. Hm... Well, I think I have done enough thinking for today. Too much already. Come to difficult conclusions. Hard truths. How will I get back to be happy about myself? About what I am and what I am not? Where will I find peace? Well. For today I think I'll just buy myself some peace on the Amazon....

Ma che, Italiani pure voi?

Quante volte mi sono sentita rivolgere questa domanda in questi ultimi due anni! Seguita poi inevitabilmente dalla successiva, "Qui in vacanza?" E noi, "No, viviamo qui." La conversazione che segue poi è più o meno sempre la stessa, "Come mai? E dove state? Ma volete tornare in Italia? Vi piace qui?" E così si diventa quasi immediatamente amici di qualsiasi italiano incontrato per caso. E pensare che fino a poco tempo fa avrei detto qualsiasi cosa di me, tranne di essere "sentitamente" italiana. Addirittura, in occasione dei Mondiali, o degli Europei, ora mi rendo conto, a torto, tifavo più volentieri altre squadre che la mia! Eppure.

Ieri, in macchina verso il quartiere italiano di San Francisco per vedere la partita, pensavo a come sia cambiata la percezione che ho di me; a partire dalle mie radici. Superato lo shock culturale dell'impatto con il nuovo, pian piano ho iniziato a paragonare, tutto quello che vedo, con tutto quello che so. Ed è stato per me inevitabile iniziare a giudicare. Giudicare, non condannare. Mio marito, gli amici, i conoscenti, tutti mi insinuano il dubbio che sia una operazione pericolosa, quella del giudicare. Ma non posso non ammettere che preferisco l'arancione al rosso, e il lavoro di insegnante a quello di interprete. Non posso non dare valore.

Il caffè dove abbiamo visto la partita era pieno di italiani. Il quartiere intero ne era pieno. Dalla strada si poteva capire l'andamento della partita ascoltando le grida. Wow. Un pezzo di casa! Qui nella terra degli uomini liberi e coraggiosi - the Land of the Free and the Home the Brave - come si definiscono gli americani, a volte mi chiedo come potrei definire la mia di terra, di casa, di cultura, di gente. Ci sto ancora lavorando. Ma sono italiana, sì, sono "sentitamente" italiana!

"We have a saying here, 'Everything will be alright in the end. If it is not alright, it is not the end!'"

Ho visto un bel film questa sera; sono uscita a cena presto, con le amiche, pizza al pesto e parmigiano, alle 5 e mezza, poi cinema. "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel for the Elderly and the Beautiful" è il titolo del film; è tratto da un romanzo, "These Foolish Things", che voglio leggere, ultimo ad aggiungersi ad una pila che non si abbassa mai... perchè sono lenta a leggere...

Racconta di un viaggio in una terra straniera, l'India, e il tentativo di viver in questa terra, alle spalle quel che si sa già, davanti a sè la possibilità costante di provare, e di fallire, forse. Copione che conosco.

Una delle protagoniste, la moglie, non riesce, a provare; non vede, il bello; non crede, a niente; un'altra invece, anche se dopo molto tempo, sì, riesce, cambia, vive. L'uomo innamorato dell'amore si innamora di una donna. E così via, le storie di persone diverse si incrociano e si mischiano, ed entrano nel cuore dello spettatore. Nel mio cuore, che ogni mattina deve scegliere se vedere, o non vedere; se credere, o non credere; se provare, o non provare. Con risultati alterni. Gioie e dolori, luci e ombre.

Le ultime parole di una delle protagonista dicono che il grado di successo si misura dalla capacità di affrontare il fallimento. Così sia. Nonostante tutto, dunque, ogni sera, quando la giornata finisce, e con lei i suoi tentativi, e fallimenti, forse, non posso che guardare indietro, guardare me, e riconoscere il successo.

Best Actress in a Supporting Role

I have always been fascinated with the Academy Awards Night – I remember I would stay up really late to watch it live, as I was eager to see all those stars walking down the red carpet in magnificent dresses and jewels, and shoes; and then I would side with my favorite actress the moment the winner for her category was told. And when I say: ‘always’, I mean, I still do it – especially now I live a few miles away from Hollywood, from the grand glamour. My favorite parts are definitely shoes, and hairdos. But I usually always make the effort of being aware of who the nominees are, and usually choose who I want to win.

Best Actor and Best Actress in a Leading Role and Best Picture are the categories I enjoy the most. Not really original. The others, I don’t mind. But there are two I have always almost loathed: Best Actor and Actress in a Supporting Role. How in the world, I would think, would anyone want to be awarded for being best number two? How could anyone want to be celebrated because they were not chosen to be the protagonist? I was very young, and my thinking was simple and straight. I thought, if I ever were to be an actress, I wouldn’t ever want not to be the protagonist. Just as in life - I used to think – I don’t want not to be the protagonist.

Time has passed, and things have happened. I left my home and world to be with my husband on the other side of the world. The words ‘Supporting Role’ have acquired a brand new meaning as I struggle to adjust to a life which I still find it does not belong to me. Is it that bad not the be the protagonist? I mean, in life, is it that bad to give up oneself and just function as a support in someone else’s life?

I don’t have an answer yet. So any is welcome.

Home

Light. A rose. One thousand words.

Rosso Autunno

Uno degli spettacoli più straordinari del pezzo di mondo in cui vivo, il nord della California, è senza dubbio la brillantezza dei suoi colori. In autunno le foglie degli alberi si vestono di colori vibranti, pieni, vivi. Il giallo, l’arancione,il rosso, in tutte le loro tonalità, ricoprono questa terra dove la vita di chi qui lavora invece non conosce stagioni. E così mentre guido lungo le strade affiancate da alberi che profumano di luce e malinconia, i miei occhi si perdono in questi colori. E la mia mente sempre torna ad un episodio accaduto ormai anni fa, quando ancora calcavo le aule dell’università, giovane e appassionata studiosa di letteratura inglese, cercando di capire, e conoscere, ma di fatto già delusa dal mondo accademico e i suoi attori. 

Ero in una piccola aula fuori sede in attesa di sostenere l’ultima parte dell’esame di Letteratura Inglese III, con alcune amiche che avevano sostenuto già diverse volte quell’esame senza successo, i miei libri praticamente intonsi e la mia dispensa fotocopiata davanti a me. Avrei dovuto discutere con la docente di un romanzo in versi, 11.000 versi circa, di Elizabeth Barret Browning che raccontava la vita di Aurora Leigh e le problematiche legate all’essere donna nell’Inghilterra del XIX secolo, e la raccolta di poesie di una poetessa australiana ai tempi appena deceduta, Judith Wright. Non ricordo precisamente quanto e come avessi studiato per l’esame. Mi ricordo però che appena sedutami davanti alla docente, questa mi aveva chiesto come mai avessi fotocopiato la dispensa e alla mia risposta – la libreria era già chiusa per le vacanze di Natale quando ero andata a cercarla - aveva commentato che non avevo speso abbastanza tempo a prepararmi per l’esame se avevo iniziato a studiare durante le vacanze di Natale, e non prima. Aveva probabilmente ragione. L’inizio non era certo stato dei migliori. L’interrogazione era continuata con difficoltà lungo tutta la discussione su Aurora Leigh, per poi diventare impossibile durante la parte su Judith Wright. Mi ricordo bene  la domanda che continuava a rivolgevmi: “Rosso come cosa, signorina? Rosso come cosa?”, riferendosi ad una delle immagine utilizzate dalla poetessa. Io, che non avevo assolutamente idea della risposta, decisi di rifugiarmi nel luogo comune: “Mhm…. Mhm…. Rosso come l’amore!”. Ripensandoci ora mi chiedo come abbia fatto a laurearmi con la lode. “Ma no, signorina! No! No! Rosso come cosa?”, continuava ad incalzarmi. “Mhm… Rosso come la passione!” risposi. Altro luogo comune. Pensavo sinceramente che l’avrei fatta franca. “Ma no, signorina! No, no, assolutamente no! Rosso come il sangue!” Rosso come il sangue. Come avrei mai potuto saperlo? Non avevo neppure aperto quella dispensa fotocopiata!

Oggi, qui, questo oceano di rosso che si illumina sotto il sole riempie i miei occhi e il mio cuore, e per un attimo sono in pace. Per un attimo sono quella che ero, giovane, sprovveduta ma sfrontata, il cassetto ancora pieno di sogni, il passo deciso e la mente sempre impegnata. L’autunno, i suoi colori, la sua luce, sono balsamo che cura l’anima. La mia anima.