Starting over

Using my school years writing desk, pen and a moleskine notebook...the ideal way to quit all excuses and start writing my dream.
And a few lines for those who care:

On that particular Wednesday the narrative of her life ended. Little did she know that the wrongly set for 05h00 alarm would give her one extra hour of pain.

The bberry is giving me a hard time, or perhaps this is an excuse to keep you guessing and increase your anticipation!

This is what I'm talking about...

Time for revelations

I'm reading from Nora Ephron's book I Feel Bad About My Neck: Anything you think is wrong with your body at the age of thirty-five you will be nostalgic for at the age of forty-five [imagine fifty!]

I’m back. Back with cosmetics et sequentes. Back with my amateur advices regarding cosmetics, back with registering our shared insecurities, back with discussing beauty regimes, back to controlling the demoralizing effects of time.

It is this period of the year, a few days before exposing our pale -still in winter mode- bodies. Bikini time and exfoliation, painful waxing, massages and extra hours in the gym along with total starvation become our daily routine in a desperate effort to be thirty-five again. We stand in front of mirrors, pulling our skin back or up, starring at a youthful version of our bodies. During this difficult time I would like to remind us all that there is little we can do to cover our imperfections when standing naked in an overhead light…

But let’s snap out of this and be serious. If we are fifty and have cared for ourselves a bit, loved ourselves, then we are much better than our thirty-five year old versions. Do you remember all other insecurities we had, and we have by now managed to control? Do we really care how our skin looks? Don’t we know the value of being loved for who we are and what we could give to the one we love? So, get rid of any cover-ups you’ve bought, go to the beach in your bikinis and give those thirty-fives one more reason to feel insecure: remember how insecure we were when our boyfriends were starring at those gorgeous, confident older women with those great, flirty smiles? Yes, let’s flirt this summer.

In a few days I will be in one of those beaches and I will be sending you all a great smile. Do the same… I will be looking for you.

To my Johnny

To the most striking man

26 years without the handsomest, sweetest man. I’m still waiting for you in LA.

The love of his life was a beautiful, generous, polite woman; his passion was football, whiskey-on-the-rocks, smoking; his favorite pastime was cinema with his friends –Rita Hayworth, Westerns and Film Noir-; his chosen profession was the law and he was the only lawyer I liked. He is my guardian angel.

Here is your favorite song. I am turning up the volume so you can hear it and I am singing along :)

Closing act

Message in a book

For the past three months Gilda lived sharing a room with two mirrors: one of reinvented reality, the other of memories of future dreams. Before enclosing herself in this room, she lived for a whole 20something months in a prolonged detachment from expectations; her’s and others’. She proclaimed her newly-found happiness of numbness, and built on it. She even influenced those around her to concur. And all things were as they should: organized, controlled, comfortable, conventional. Or seemed like this. In reality, a new scenario was written and it took a chance event, a fluke of the moment to reroute a life: “Let’s meet up then.” Even when she wrote that innocent message she knew that the turning point was only a dozen paces away. But a turning point requires an instigator, a face. The face of this turn is the incarnated imprint of her favorite literary hero: Dean Moriarty as he blazes his own path on the vehicle of all those loves he felt. And she met him, and she smiled and then she was upset. “Has he stolen all things I am? He even has the same favorite destination: Argentina. No! Argentina is mine, this is my ever-reaching dream,” she told her best friend the following morning. “He was in my head; he read thoughts and desires, even unformed dreams…and completed them”...

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P.S. To be continued and delivered privately