When I was a child I often took a sheet, blank sheet waiting for something. What do you want to write, Q.? The sheet waited for a phrase, the first one, the phrase that gives a beginning.
I'm talking you about the sensation that you feel when a surface is praying you for the first step of its creation. The surface stares at you, impatient. It cannot be real if you didn't give it a sense. What do you want to tell, Q.?
What do you want to do?

A blank sheet makes you divine. "Right" and "wrong" are nothing but empty words until you won't give them a meaning through other words. You, the writer, are there in order to write what's "right" and what's "wrong". Words are nothing if you don't use them as if they were bricks, and the building will be your idea, your main concept, the thing for which you took a blank sheet instead of drinking a beer.

... But sometimes you took a blank sheet before you realized that you have something to write. You want to articulate an idea even if you have not an idea. Maybe 'cause words are charming; there are phrases that you read and read again 'cause they sound pleasant, not for their meaning. The birth of the music. And the God Syndrome: ideas are more elegant on the sheet than in you brain. They've a sense. They are other than a confused mix that whirlpools in your head.

But...

... The blank sheet is here, in front of you. It's the screen of you laptop. It says: "Hi, I'm your LJ!"
You're in the habit of saying what you want to say. You know your mother tongue and have not problems with the right form of a phrase, you knew all the words that you need, you don't bear your poor control of this language.
Say "hello" to the English language.
Sooner I'll study it at the university.
(And German; never studied German.)

I'm happy, do you know?

I'm not writing on my Italian LJ.
I don't really know why, but I know: when I opened this LJ, I needed to have a space in which writing with a language that didn't smells like something familiar. Can you understand me? I hope yes.
This evening I said:
"It's something strange and new... I feel like anyone can understand me. I don't know a person to whom say what I am knowing that I'll be understood."
But it's not something new... But this time I appear like a calm and without-problems person. I'm not a recluse who runs off - and the whole world will die. I am here, but I'm like a frame: if you come near me, you see that I'm the reflex of myself. I talk and smile, and walk and say "hello" - I make actions, but I have not reactions. You can smile, laugh, cry or joke: Myself won't change.
Isn't it grotesque?
People go ahead, streets are full of human beings; I feel them, I feel the idea of their emotions, intentions, wishes, believes. Sometimes I feel this idea so hard that I'm waterlogged, the container is going to burst - but if you look at me while I'm with people you see that I'm calm and placid, kind and pleasing.
I hate this kind of sensation.
I hate the black hole complex - a cool hole in which lava's boiling.
I hate the moments in which I love humanity if it's away from me, because the old doubt bobs up: so I don't love humanity, isn't it? Or rather... I love humanity but there's something in me that I must solve; is it the right answer? Is it the first one or the second one?

I'm in the habit of exploiting my brain for every things that touches my life. Bad habit, I know. I began writing when I was a stupid brat who wanted to save her thoughts. No-sense thoughts, without connection; thought of a stupid brat with a voracious ego. You can talk with yourself for an age; o wonderful dialogue, you cannot think that the other one is stupid. Bad habit, what a bad habit. Writing on a LJ instead of thinking silently doesn't change the fact: I'm not confronting myself with someone who's not myself. I can act like I'm doing it, but it's a fake; people give thanks to me, they give thanks for the words that I write, that I said; for the things that I do; for the person that I am. They give thanks to a wall, decorated and baroque - and take a look at these wonderful low reliefs, o interesting decorations!

Today a test asked me what's the most important thing. Being true to yourself, I answered. I have to do. But what will happen if I'll find out a freak?

Am I still able to write in English?
I fear the periods in which I feel my English sounds acceptable even if I don't write a thing. I suppose it's the typical fear of who doesn't really know her/his skills.
At the 3th of September I'll test my skills&knowledges: the university that I've chosen needs a test. There are math and physics, art and architecture history, etc etc... and English. To be honest, the latest subject for which I'm preoccupied is English - and this fact can be a little memento mori given that I'm surely not the Shakespeare of the 21th century.
But...
... It doesn't matter.
I'm studying all the damned subjects that I hate (math and physics), and I keep studying them. Everything will be all right (<--- how to encourage myself).

In the meanwhile I'm working part-time in a made-in-Italy clothing shop, the Sonny Bono - please, don't ask me why the hell an Italian clothing shop has the name of a Californian politician, I suppose it's because he was son of Italian immigrants (he was Cher's husband O_o).
By the way, it's a good job. Not hard, neither complicated. Good salary and nice associates. An air conditioner - damn, here it's sultry. In Italy we say: "I'm melting down". Like a popsicle, do you know?

Where the wild roses grow...
A friend of mine, the cicisbeic (neologism) cauchemar_73, posted the video of this song (here for you). Never seen the video, I neither knew the female voice is Kylie Minogue's.
I've already gave my thanks to Cauchemar, but this song is still sounding in my ears.

One years ago, more or less, my mind linked Nick Cave to Cody Horton. Obviously you cannot know who is Cody Horton, 'cause he's not famous; he's not real: he's a character. Oh my bitter Cody Horton... Cody Horton is a police-man. The undersigned doesn't love the class, but we have to open our mind. Investigate the possibilities it gives us. Et cetera...

Cody Horton is a bitter and sweet character if the sweetness is given by an artificial sweetener. He has, like it has to be, a dark and buried under sand past, in which rumors tell about a blond lady and about The Lady - Miss I-choose-for-you - say 'hello' to Miss Death. Nothing new.

I care about Cody Horton, my memento mori; Cody Horton is my what if, the hypothesis in which all the things that could go wrong, went wrong.
Cody Horton is the result at which I see when I ask to myself what's going wrong in this world.
He cannot lose 'cause he'll never win.
He cannot lose 'cause he has nothing to lose.
He's a placid, quiet, untouchable piece of humanity that know only himself and the sacred survival instinct.

... I know, I know, "frequency" isn't a word made for me, for sure.
4.44 A.M.
Good morning, world!
... The coffee maker looks at me. It's a true fellow; it spits out the holy drink slowly; little zen coffee maker for a little zen coffee addicted.

This time I have a good new, and it pertains to my next year in this world: Q. will be at the university. Communication design will be my course of studies. I'll study design (OMG! Really?!), computer graphic and publishing, history of visual communication, marketing, etc etc... It's the course of studies that creates the art directors - but it's a wide area, you will be ready for several jobs - if you're skilled, able, and armed with a sharp self-esteem, I suppose.
(Damn. Why the hell do I end up without cigarettes every times I'm writing here?)
... But I was writing about self-esteem. At the university I'll study English, and I think it could be a good thing. I throw over my good intentions to studying English every day. The grammar books lie down on my desk. Too many stuff to do, I suppose. My incapacity to organizing the 24 hours I have every day, I suppose.
(No way I stay here without cigarettes.)
...
(God blesses my mother, who at 5.15 A.M. comes back home with cigarettes.)
... But I was writing about organization - the skill I don't have.
In this time I'm drawing (say "hello!" to the new pen tablet; tomorrow I'll have it; it's this), entertaining myself with graphics, studying CSS (as usual) for a two or three column layouts.
Look at this cover:



It's a part of my new graphic era (wow!). No, I'm not satisfied, but it's a good first step. The translation of "Come Copione Comanda" is "as play script commands", I suppose. (Q.'s leitmotiv: I suppose.)

Anything else?
I watched the TV series Hornblower; watching it lying down in my bed is pleasant; sea, arms and the slowly climb of a young man. Anything else? No, it's all right.

Quiet afternoon in the middle of a day in which I don't really have something to do. Nothing given by a plan.
As usual.

Waiting for the answer of my customer, CSS are waiting for me. I'm not still accustomed to interact with the new notebook (call it LeBaron; it will be lenient).
I'm not still accustomed to interact with my new way to live.

(Damn. I feel my life as if it's always in the meanwhile of something - and no, it's not a spiritual thought.)

Okok, I must admit the time I have not. All my good intentions went fuck and I deserted this LJ. The recruit I am has shouted I am wimp, useless person who should write here and here improve her English.
I know, I answered, but really, have trust, I have not time.

I'm writing articles for the newspaper (no money, but I will enter in the register as journalist - it's not shit), I'm working at my friend's website - that means I'm studying CSS and first steps of Javascript (I fear Java, it's too much complicated), and working for the hotel and the restaurant, and...
Tomorrow a good guy (...) will come here, ready to teach me how the hell Maya works. The day in which I will be able to design a 3D model, the illustrator who's waiting for me will take me as his co-worker.
Maybe tomorrow I finally buy a notebook - and I don't know what's the name I want for it.

I need someone who says something right and encouraging. I wish this someone will be something like God, or rather me.

Daily life.

A policeman is now retired 'cause he broke his finger: he couldn't clasp a handgun.
He broke his finger hitting a Moroccan male who tried to steal in the policeman's pub.

.

Out of Europe, 1555

On the first page it says: In the fresco I’m one of the figures in the background.
The meticulous handwriting, no smudges, tiny. Names, places, dates, reflections. The notebook of the final fevered days.
The yellowed and decrepit letters, the dust of decades.
The coin of the kingdom of the mad dangles on my chest to remind me of the eternal oscillation of human fortunes.

I can cut/paste the entire book, 'cause:

The partial or total reproduction of this book, in electronic form or
otherwise, is consented to for non-commercial purposes, provided that the original copyright notice and this notice are included and the publisher and source are clearly acknowledged.

The book is Luther Blissett's. You can download it here (it's Q).
Luther Blissett is a multi-user name. It's a concept.

I loved that romance, and reading it I found out who is Jan Bockelson, Anabaptist, at the head of Münster-the-New-Jerusalem, conquered by Anabaptists during the 1535, more or less. Münster and the polygamy. Münster when the money has been abolished. Münster and the legend about the Children-Judges. Münster and his Prophet-King Jan Bockelson.

I'm reading Kristus by Robert Schneider, biography of Jan Bockelson. I don't know why I'm so interested in the life of this raving man, maybe 'cause I'm searching for excuses that justify my way to raving, or maybe 'cause mass frantic movements fascinate me.

Study keeps well.
Job keeps well.
This evening I'm going to a theatrical show. I must write an article about it - interview the cast, smile and ask. Feeling your life's rich, feeling you're glancing here and there - feeling you're grabbing at several opportunities.

I bought a new notebook. (Moleskine addicted)
I wrote:

A.D. 1630

on the cover, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last I can write. At last I can write something in which I believe.

... I know, you would tell me that I'm mad, mad and happy 'cause this day is entirely dedicated to work.
But if you love your job, you'll spent the whole day working and being happy thanks to this.
It's better than wasting 4 hours-at-day working at a dress shop - paid job, relaxing job, simple job, but not your job.
However, maybe this week-end one of the two projects I'm working will come to an end - then, the next week I'll search for a damned part-time.
But it doesn't matter.
All can go well.
And I love the sensation: you have created something.

... After a morning in which I worked at the website I'm working, cursing the HTML, and at the website I'm working with my "boss"; in which I bickered with my "boss"; in which I finished the text for the advertising of these (damn) restaurants; in which I realized, thanks to a certified mail, how my parents like the legal ways as ways to communicate with the each other; in which I phoned my lawyer for the legal procedure for the insurance; after this morning, I think I'm going to open a mortgage and purchase a flat in Neverland.
(No. I will be bored.)

A friend of mine told about "week-end at thermal baths". I think it could be a very good idea.
(Give. Me. Breath.)

Yesterday morning.
Milan, public university.
I went there to listen to a lesson about the history of press.
Before, at railway station, I saw a friend of mine. The last time I had seen him was three years ago, but it didn't prohibit us to speak as if we get out with the other all the days of the last year.
We went to book shops - I had to purchase some books - then I took him at university.
We talked, and talked, and then talked. Talking, I tried to do the thing I often try to do: look for taboos, and then taste how much they're firm.

Taboo: an inhibition or ban resulting from social custom or emotional aversion.

I can't take taboos.
I can't really accept that something may blind the human mind.
I can't accept that thanks to the taboo the society may strengthen its grounds.

I saw him shut himself away.
I saw him looking at me as if I were the enemy.
(God knows what I think about this concept.)
I saw him shut himself away and battened down the hatches, and how bitter was this.
Sooner or later I'll find the signify that taboos have to me.
Sooner or later, I hope, I'll find out the taboos hidden in me, and accepting the concept of "taboo", I'll accept this facet of me.

8.29 A.M. and morning break.

( The break. )

Working at the A.D. 1630...

---

I have seen the whole world, and several worlds.
Men of learning say that learning is the first step of Paradise’s stairs.
Believe me: they lie.
Not because I may tell you what is the first, and second, and even third step. If there was a Paradise’s steps, made of ivory and blessed by Angelic chorus, I think that it is not ours.
Someone named Jesus has decreed Hell for all the damned, men and women. Look away from Heaven and take a glance at this lagoon. You cannot take the first step, but an Idea is waiting for your hands.

Venice, A.D. 1630

---

My beloveds.
I want to tell you about my youth, went away when that damned Mad has given me the Damnation.
In His name someone said that we have to get better. A world full of Saints, a Saint for name.
By now there are more Devil’s names than God’s.
I knew them, all of them, when that damned Mad spit out his Damnation.
He chose the Hell for me, and Hell has given me its blessing; sweet, welcoming, helpful blessing.
Here I am, here I would share this blessing with you.

Paris, A.D. 1630

---

I hope it amuses.
(I hope I didn't make 200 or 300 mistakes.)
Now, my beloved Q., work at the website. We have an entire website to create. It's your job, isn't it?

... OK.
Umpteenth logo version has been made.
Articles have been written.
The other articles have been corrected.
The marketing job has been done (don't ask me about this issue; I don't know what's marketing; whatever the marketing job could be, I did it).
Friday I'll meet with Girl of the Flowers, young woman who has an artistic shop of flowers. And who needs a website.
The fact: Q. was studying the CSS language. Q. was studying it and XHTML. She already knew HTML (more or less), but she had to get better. Why? Do you ask me why? Get better the best. And, above all, study that damn language, and maybe they'll give you money for your unbelievable ability as graphic artist. (Maybe.)
The fact: Q. thought: "OK, stop and blow. Now you have a lot of stuff to do. You can study CSS and XHTML in the next weeks. It's not a problem. Is someone running after you? No. Keep cool."
Then the Girl of Flowers said:
«Oh, I really need a website. I'll pay you.»
And Q. started the run again.

In the meanwhile, I'm listening to the album I'm the Supervisor by Infected Mushroom.
Please, take a glance on the wallpapers. The graphic design is... amazing. It reminds me the art of Giger (the same who created the look of the Alien in Alien). And, above all, you can appreciate the music and the graphics even if you don't swallow mushroom or other chemical stuff. :P

Final thing: I would offer thanks to everyone is helping me with English - so to you-all.
I like give thanks.

(Come here, CSS...)

The screen is looking at me.
It whispers:
«4.24 A.M. You should be in your bed. Your brain hands in its resignation. Here. You. Are. Useless.»
Likeable screen.
Few minutes ago it showed me two books I have to buy. L'Etat royal and L'Ancien Régime. (Sorry, I don’t know the English translation.) Short history (864 pages) of the French Reformation and Counter-Reformation.
Two hours ago I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling was looking at me.
It whispered:
«Why are you here? You’re not sleepy. Get up and be useful.»
Fuck.

That fact is that I was thinking about A.D. 1630 (see also: Anno Domine 1630). I wrote about this year in the first post of this LJ. The fact is that I dramatically (come here, technogoddesss, I’m waiting for you :P) need to write, and if I could be monogamous, well, I am in this way in writing’s matters.
One years ago I’ve chosen baroque as the subject/theme/period, and since that damn day I’m not able to write about any-fuck-thing.
(Ok, that isn't true. I wrote like a... a...

... Hypergraphic. A friend of mine - isn't he likeable? Yes, like my screen - putted this link in the mail. He also putted this link, about a night club in Prague, and he wrote: «… We went in a night club, in the end. I recommend it.» Sooner or later I’ll go to Prague. *nods*)
I wrote a lot of (indecent) writings, but I didn’t really believe in them. The most of them were like quickies.

… It’s 5.20 A.M.. You shouldn’t except logical words by my keyboard.
Good morning!

(Yesterday I wrote the text that comes after. Now my connection seems to work. Pray for me, in the meanwhile I reply to your comments. *nods*)

---

(OMG! Just written the date I’ve seen that today is S. Valentine Day.)

… The bitch also named connection doesn’t work.
Are you thinking that I know why?
Absolutely not.
I think I’m going to wait, hoping that someone would pray for me. (God Syndrome? No, really not. You misunderstand.)

V for Vendetta has been transmitted on the computer.
I already watched that movie – seen and loved, it went on the top of my favourite movies list – but a friend of mine, here we’re going to refer to her as “Joglar”, has never watched it.
I would quote that movie, but I have the Italian version. I think translating it’s not a good idea – and without the-bitch-named-connection I cannot open wikiquote.
You’ve to be happy with the words I’m going write about. Sorry.

I love that movie ‘cause it tells about the power of ideas. And ideals. And how an idea becomes an ideal.
It tells about the life after life in which after is not “tomorrow”, “in three days”, “in three years” or “when this life ends”, but: “please, look at yourself; please, I think there’s something apart from your fear; go past your fear, and watch”.
… But those are suppositions. Watch V for Vendetta.
(I recommend vendetta_today.)

---

On the desk: The Counter-Reformation. The world of catholic renovation.
17th century, as usual.
The century that I’m studying.
Thanks to Joglar for this book. I think I’m going to study.
Good night!

---

… At 3.28 P.M. connection is still a bitch.
Nevertheless, I used this excuse to study.
Forget the catholic matters, and read:
… the soldiers were called mercenaries, ‘but if you will consider how their wages are paid, I suppose, you will rather think them Voluntaries, at least very generous, for doing the greatest part of their service for nothing’.
Popes and Jesuits have been replaced with the Thirty Years War. I suppose you will understand how that War could be more interesting than the catholic Counter-Reformation.
But you’re wrong if you’re thinking that I suppose War better than Religion ‘cause the second one is boring. Nothing is boring. (And I’m curious, always.)
The fact is: I have a question, here, can you see it? It’s a brand on my forehead, and because of this brand I often cross my eyes to see it – and that causes me an intolerable headache. I study the history, and stories about a War, and it’s as if I put a mirror in front of me, so I could see that damn brand without crossing my eyes.
The question is: why those desperate men went to that desperate war?
A lot of them were mercenaries. It means that they weren’t oblige to grasp a sword and risk dying because of shortage, or rather epidemic, or rather infection, or rather ‘cause a horse crushed them on the paving.
These men took their life and went to the hell.
The question is: why?
(I know that the question is always “why?”.)

Working for the graphic settlement.
Glance at the new layout.
Why am I so damn minimalist?

I slept for 5 hours thanks to the headache that is still crashing my intellectual faculties.
(Roar.)