Listening to: Chainsmokers: This Feeling.  Post Malone and Swae Lee:  Sunflower

Reading: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

I reside with a constipated mind.

Italy is artistic overload. It is too much. It overwhelms.  I found myself sitting in beautiful places, in not so beautiful places, in crowds, by myself. Sitting there with open journal, open mind, and an open heart, and I couldn’t put a fucking word down.

The epicenter of the entire planet of artistry. I lived it and breathed it. It was like surrounding yourself with absolute genius. I felt like the newest, tiny bright star surrounded by a universe of stars and I recognized my smallness.  And I couldn’t spit out a goddamned word.

Now finally to be out of that place, sitting here in the Hobbit House, I can let down. Music blaring in my ears loosening my fingers. Ray Bradbury, my benevolent guardian angel whispering, “Don’t think, Amy, just write.”

And he is so right.  Italy made me think, made me hesitate because I was surrounded by artistic greatness. I was this little tiny David surrounded by towering Goliaths.

It was only when I got away, safely ensconced in my familiar, that I could come to grips with the whole experience.  I am even rocking my office chair while I write. That is something I never did before but it is keeping me in some sort of infantile rhythm, along with the music of course.

Today I washed my hair, took the longest bath. I shaved off all the barnacles, as my Dad would say whenever he shaved, and yeah I now have to shave my chin, along with my legs and armpits.

My body is done.  It is worn out.  I have walked, slugged luggage all around Italy.  Climbed on and off trains. Jesus, the luggage even started to give up on us too.  Handles broke, zippers refused to close, my backpack on the very last day broke its zippers. Every physical representation of doneness.

However, today as I sat in the bath, my mind started racing like you wouldn’t believe.  The writing was back, but not at first.  Honestly, I came downstairs and nothing was coming out.  But music provided the laxative, yes it really is a goddamned laxative, and all of these words came out. Isn’t that such a weird metaphor for what is really happening?

And I kid you not, the moment the Chainsmoker song started, my eyes filled up with tears.  Simply because the entire time in Italy I didn’t listen to any music! The act of lying down with music blaring, something I need, something I have been doing since I got my very first Walkman as a little girl, I didn’t do.  But I am now, and that makes all the difference.

My goodness.  Oh and by the way, editing this post has been a trip, all the Freudian slips I used in freewriting are cracking me up!

The picture below, CHRIST,  just doing laundry was an artistic experience.  Hell, even using the BATHROOM is an artistic experience!