Again I write of Sicily. My husband (Sicilian, born and bred) has said, paraphrasing, Fellini had it easy because all he had to do was step out into the street with his camera and the movie made itself. Ha! I have never watched a Fellini film for no other reason but genre. As I have mentioned before, I am a fan of the Giallo. Beautifully shot, sometimes garish, slasher/mysteries where nothing ever stays in the past, nostalgia is deadly, and revenge, bloody. At any rate, when I write about my memories as they fade, everything seems magical, slightly absurd. Where I lived in Sicily was rooted in history, the only thing modern, was dress. Clothes/hair people attached to trends.
There was ash and Birds of paradise. Love and hate walking the same line. Everything, flourish and starkness. And coming in as an outsider with an absurd attention to detail, the way I processed everything seems quite off-kilter. I find myself trying to edit it into sense but then what I end up with is worse. It struck me that I have not looked at my manifesto in days, weeks, months. And now I see that I have to add more to it: Embrace my surreal heart.