La Bimba did the cutest thing tonight on her way to her date with Mr. Sandman. The way she goes to sleep at night is curled up next to me on the bed, sucking on her ciuccio and holding her froggie up close to her face, evidently sniffing it. She rolls to one side and rests then rolls back and rests, back and forth, back and forth, until she falls sound asleep. Then I transfer her to her crib. Tonight, she rolled to one side and continued onto her belly, pushed onto all fours, the splatted on her tummy and rested. Then she pushed back up, pushed to sitting, then leaned her head on my thigh and rested. She was trying so hard to stay awake to practice crawling and sitting, but she kept slumping, so tired was she. Adorable!
It rained today. I ate fried anchovies.
Do you think we should open a bed-and-breakfast in Naples or move to Portugal and open an authentic Neapolitan trattoria?
I keep forgetting I owe an article about Italian dancers who have had careers abroad but have returned to Italy to live to a magazine at the end of this month. I'm so distracted.
Wow. I just sat here for about five minutes staring at the screen and not typing. I am so bored with my bad self. Okay. Bye.
No, wait. To be an artist -- visual, performing, literary, whatevs -- you have to be unafraid to be hated and unafraid to be laughed at. Come to think of it, just being a card-carrying human being means risking being hated and laughed at. And loved, scariest of all, but only when you really think about it. Otherwise, being loved seems like a no-brainer desirable. I want everyone to like me and I fear being laughed at. Shit. How am I ever going to write that book?
Annie Dillard via C. S. Lewis: "The sum of human suffering we needen't worry about There is plenty of suffering, but no one ever suffers the sum of it."