Cicciolina, Tu, My Life

The year starts today. Grandly and with dried tomatoes hanging loose off the wooden beam. With all the garlic cloves that can be smelled, amongst us, the modern few, tasting the hands, the applause: where is the chef?

It all hangs. The year past. The new one starts. I want it all. All that, and more. A resolved man, am I? A rested man, will I ever be? Wine that has been scented, served, and oxygenated. Perfect. There are South American Asian faces. Everywhere. And their bodies, are short. The produce is here. Tempranillo grapes, dripping, lip bound. And dripping, inside, across organs, and bloodstream.

Peru has got me right this time. Soles. Solesitos. Calientame un poquito.

Bring the service. Bring the year. And place it, on the mat. I turn 30. And here are many olives already on this bread. I want a toothpick. To prick my eye. And see, for once, the face value in front. One glance per year. Just one. One per contraction. One per blink.

So. Now. We calm ourselves down. We turn a year more. And off we go. Now. What for the next eyar? A graduation from a stage in life. Deep change. Perhaps algo grabbing myself by the balls. Harshly, until breathe escapes. And it hurts. Into pieces.

There is heart.
There is body.
There is mind.
There is spirit.
There is intellect.
There is profession.
There is play.
There is no love.

This has to change. The omission and the void. The gaps. Full it. Furiously. At it. On it. Have got to retain the focus. And to sustain it. Body can start. The rest can follow.