While waiting to hear about my recent virtual encounter with a very surreal team of online editors, enjoy my review of the movie Red Flag. http://nextprojection.com/2013/02/27/review-red-flag-2012/
You can read my favourite 5 Anti-Heroic Tales of Self-Discovery and Growth on Canadian cinezine “Next Projection”
I was one of those annoying kids that are always in first line at every school performance. Basically I needed and wanted to be the super-star in any kind of dance, recital or gym demonstration because I liked to show off my talent (or lack thereof) and how I could this, that and the other without the slightest fear of being judged. I was confident and proud of it.
From being baby Jesus (please don’t be jealous because I was the big thing at 3 years old, despite being a little girl) in the live reenactment of the nativity in pre-school, to representing an essential component of a ribbon number in a gymnastics sketch a few years later, I always managed to get the best part as well as the hate of every single classmate.
In fourth grade my school organized an open air show consisting of the usual dancing and singing acts. Not only was I co-hosting the event, I was also in every single back choir of every song, in a bunch of dances and, of course, I had my solo singing act. That’s when things got complicated. The reality check began the first day of reharsal. At the time I was playing the piano like crazy and I actually thought I was going to go somewhere with it. On the first day of reharsal, the band of twenty-somethings that were accompanying our singing enlightments made me understand that I was as talented a singer as Beethoven probably was at the top of his excellence: I sang like a deaf person and there was no way anybody besides a deaf person could appreciate my performance.
In a general environment of stubborness, I procedeed to go solo on stage anyway, with a wonderful ’90s haircut that looked like this
And a great amount of stress that resulted in a nervous tic (yes, a nervous tic at 9 years old) that made me turn up my nose every 2 seconds, literally. What happened that night was recorded on a tape that is now somewhere at my parents’ house. The aforementioned tape meant the first real, horrible and traumatizing reality check of my childhood: my voice was a disaster and my nose was turning up in every sequence, maybe to sniff and capture the fragrance of the hairspray that I kept spreading around from the top of my naturally frizzy but straightened bob-cut.
That particular event, though, didn’t stop me from taking part in other wonderful activities like acting, dancing and performing with my piano whenever I could. Sure, I couldn’t sing, but there were another million things I could do to make myself look ridiculous in front of a big crowd and under the input of a handful of cynical teachers.
Then something happened: with junior high, the capability I had of showing off during any occasion I had…dissolved, less and less dancing moves were part of my daily routine and, above all, I couln’t stand the idea of anybody hearing me play the piano. By the time I reached high school, I wasn’t able to perform anymore. My hands twitched and my saliva disappeared every time someone asked me to play something.
The afternoon I found out one of my neighobors was secretely listening to me practicing, my day was ruined. I went on the balcony and the guy who lived across from us asked me to play Michael Nyman’s The Heart Asks Pleasure First, one more time. From that moment, I was never able to nail that piece, ever again, not even by my family or close friends, without making some stupid mistake that I normally didn’t do.
The reason why I actually stopped taking piano classes is not that I realized I was never going to be the next Chopin. It happened about 4 years ago, I was asked to perform some Chopin in my teacher’s living room for an afternoon tea with a bunch of strangers. Needless to say, I made a fool out of myself. Chopin turned into his grave and his name resounded on the lips of every single piano player in the world as I let my fingers slip over that F sharp and my saliva evaporated from my semi open mouth. Two weeks later I was supposed to execute that same piece again, this time in a famous musical building downtown, by an actual audience. Thank God my awkwardness helped me by making me fall on my hands in some bar three days before the humiliation. That was the last time I ever heard from my piano teacher. “I fell on my hands,” I claimed with satisfaction, “I won’t be able to play.” I added with a sigh of relief.
Sometimes you go out to eat and you just want to enjoy a nice dinner that will supposedely last more than 30 minutes, because you’re not at a fast-food, you’re actually at some place that claims to be a restaurant or a pub.
What usually happens when we go to have dinner out in this lovely town in the middle of rural Virginia is that waiters pressure us to leave the place even when the room is, in fact, half empty. The check always arrives (unrequired) as soon as I’m done eating my meal but I’m normally still sipping my drink. I find it irritating, especially after I’ve been interrupted at least twice while eating for no reason at all. I obviously don’t say anything to the unfortunate waiter because waiting is possibly the worst job in the world, so much so that any pop cultural reference that compares any other job (from paid sex to road-sweeping) to waiting tables always ends with the relieved exlamation of how “At least I’m not a waiter/waitress!” Having been there, I know the whole thing can be frustrating, tiring and mind consuming. Plus I don’t want the dude to spit in my food. Not to mention I’m very conscious of the differences between European and American customer service and, while the latter can be considered invasive and inappropriate by Europeans, the second can be found negligent and sloppy by Americans. To each their own.
What happened yesterday, though, was without doubt the most annoying, petulant, aggravating case of terror care that ever occurred in a restaurant.
I still had half my meal in front of me when the waitress asked us if we wanted dessert. How the heck am I supposed to know if I want dessert when I’m still finishing my french fries? Whenever we replied that no, we didn’t want any dessert, she said she was going to go on and bring us the check. Our drinks still completely full as well as half the plates.
As I was saying, we decided to go back to this place this morning, to have breakfast. “There’s no way we’re going to run into the same waitress,” we thought, “If she was working last night, she must not have the shift this morning.” We were wrong.
The situation got out of control. Not only did we get our check when the plates and the glasses were only half emptied, despite saying “Take your time,” she came back exactly 20 seconds later with a surprised face because the money was not on the bill yet.
So what should have I done? Should have I risked the spit in my food? Above all considering that 80% of the time I find some hair in it anyway? Please give me your required opinion like a check waiting to happen while you’re having brunch at the local organic restaurant on a Sunday morning.
My brother finally installed Windows Vista on my dad’s laptop. This morning my dad was desperately trying to get Skype started to have a face-to-face conversation with me, but the thing didn’t seem to cooperate.
“This new system is crazy, I can’t understand how to use it for the life of me,” my poor dad said at the top of his frustration.
“Oh yeah? What kind of system is it?” I ask with curiosity.
“GODZILLA BELLA VISTA, do you know it?”
There’s a party going on in my tummy, right as we speak. I digit letters on this keyboard and a baby, my baby, is growing bigger and bigger, floating around, waving, stretching and preparing to come to life, in a few months.
After weeks of lying around desiring a cloud under my bum and a vacuum to pull all the nausea out of my system, I’m finally in the middle of my “pregnancy honeymoon period”. My baby and I are getting to know each other, even though I don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl, the great expectations my crazy mind is filling this unborn human being with, are occupying most of my dreams and my anxieties.
The other night I dreamt I had a baby girl, she was full of hair on her head and she was perfectly able to speak even though she only was three weeks old. “You’re not my mommy, are you?” Was the first thing she told me, “I really don’t think you’re mommy, I think that man is,” pointing at a random dude that was walking down the street. According to my subconscious and my fears of inadequacy to be able to be a great mom, a “random dude walking down the street” would have fulfilled my baby’s need of love and attention better than I could.
Sometimes I find myself fantasizing about my baby discovering the vaccine for AIDS, or maybe he (or she) is going to win a Pullitzer Prize, or will perhaps be the next Andy Warhol and an amazing philanthropist full of artistic ideas and idealism. My little puddle of love is not even around, yet I’m trying to decide if it’d be better for him (or her) to attend University in Europe or in the United States in order to accomplish all these things (at once, in a lifetime).
…And then, there are the swings. Going from an incredible sense of peace to effervescent joy and the most dramatic melancholia, all in the spun of two minutes and all because I’m glad I found a strawberry-banana yogurt in the fridge but I then discovered the aforementioned yogurt expired a week ago. Only that piece of kinder chocolate bar that my husband ordered from New York is able to make me happy again.
Now I cannot quite describe how I feel at the idea that in three weeks, only three weeks, we’re going to finally find out if we’re going to buy pink or blue hats for our wonderful creature. It feels like a million colored butterflies are flying into a rainbow of fluffiness and marshmellows, just thinking about it. Sounds cheesy? Well, get out of here. It’s my cheese!
Truth is, I’ve never been this excited in my life.
A lot has been happening. So much that I don’t really know where to start, so I’m going to begin from the lamentations, because that’s what I do best. Everything is fluff, everything is depressing in a kind of narcissistic and terrible way. BUT, for once, I DON’T CARE, BECAUSE I AM HAPPY.We recently got “cable tv” and I spent two mornings of my life realizing that all you can watch can be defined as useless, boring and the possible proof of the end of any type of rationality among human beings (if there ever was some).
Doesn’t matter what time it is, you can be sure that, by turning on the tv, you’re going to assist to a terrifying scenario consisting in a bunch of white trash chicks (of any nationality, color and heritage) pulling each other’s hair and yelling some nonsense while wearing lipstick(steak) and stilettoes shoes. Everything is terrible and this is real. Even Discovery Channel is dead and my intelligent mind was dead too for those two days. Everything is terrible in the worst possible sense. AND I TRULY DO NOT CARE, BECAUSE I AM HAPPY.
The rest is propaganda. Which is terrible nonetheless and it does not affect me, why? Because I’m happy.
I was recently contacted by an old high school friend, whom I hadn’t talked to in years, I’m pretty sure he was drunk giving the time zone in Italy and the fact it must have been 4 a.m there when he decided to ask me what I thought about our high school Italian teacher. “I’m having quite a passionate discussion about her,” he said, “I’m interested in your opinion because I remember you as a smart one.” Once I gave him my opinion, maybe driven by his alcoholic level or by old memories of times long gone, he confessed a rumor that was spreading around whenever we were classmates.
“I really can’t think of who made that up, but…do you remember when I gave you those two little hamsters?” (Totally different story, he had given me a couple hamsters as a result of his own giving birth to little ones).
“Sure, I remember, why?”
“Well, someone spread this rumor that you kept them hanging in your room, inside a couple of condoms.”
My first reaction was pretty skeptical, he then procedeed to tell me that since I was a “goth chick, that was a very reasonable idea.”
I can’t believe I never found out about this while I was in school and the news is coming back after almost ten years. (Who cares, I truly am happy). Has this happened to anybody else?
This somewhat brought me back to an ancient question, that has been filling much more clever minds than mine before: Who was born first? The loner or the asshole?
Something amazing has kept me from writing for the last couple months, but only the smartest among my 3 readers will understand what makes me so happy.