n i g h t i n g a l e s h i r a z / blog
Monti Maddonnina

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Recontextualizing Your Woohoo

From an article at Advertising Age this month, on the perennial Jeff Dachis (not my first love, not my first crush, not even my first boss -- this, ladies and gentlemen, is My First CEO):

"Heís the perfect entrepreneur in that he had the wealth of experience but also some very valuable scar tissue," Mr. Pacitti said. "To me the most successful people have done well, but theyíve also faced challenges. The ones you want to back are the ones that learned the right lessons along the way."

Some days.  I still miss the wonderful world of 107 Grand.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[mercoledž 25 maggio 2011 ore 21:01:08] []

Travel Writing, Tangled Webs, and Tantrums

Under the category of thoughts that could be Facebook status updates (and would be, if I didnít think it were passive-aggressive, because THIS, of COURSE, is not passive-aggressive -- not at ALL -- oh, NOOO...):

Dear Reader.  If you are a liar.  If you think itís okay to "fib," to have "selective memory."  Then please, please, please letís not do anything together?  Letís not be friends, letís not chat once in a while.  Letís not do a glass of wine in Monti, or a coffee at the Blue Bar.  Letís not even exchange the occasional email.  And letís not -- for the love of God -- have me entrust you with something I care about.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[martedž 17 maggio 2011 ore 22:00:08] []

Five-Hundred Words an Hour

you could write poetry.  you could write.

give yourself an hour a day.  (itís five-thirty-four.)

***

the girl walked into the sandstorm.  the mall.  the bowl of soup.  the mountain of unreconciled trash.

***

my mother visits.  she asks for carciofi alla giudia.  and mussels.  and pasta, please can we have pasta tonight.

at Stefanoís winebar on Via Ostilia, you can hear Cutting Crew: i just died in your arms tonight.

***

outside, things move slowly on the Celio.  slope-nosed men in jean jackets (collars up).  itís May these days.  and every afternoon these days, feels like it was made for a picnic.  i can make lists, i can re-work the budget, i can catch up on email.  or i can write.

i can also make rules (unfortunately): i write for an hour a day.  i write nothing unless itís on this PC.  and if i break that rule, then the next hour of writing is devoted to transcription.  punto e basta.  or something like that.

what do you envision?  three days a week of work.  two days a week of teaching.  and an hour of writing every day.  the words sound so presumptuous.  every day.

people ask where i work, i tell them that i used to work at FAO, but that i recently resigned.  i am prouder, of saying this, than i was of saying "i work at FAO" (when i did).  itís funny what makes us tick.  my brother, my mother -- they would never understand this the way that i do.

but at least this time, and maybe.  my mother seems to get a little bit more.  she seems to get that i know, i have decided on the things that are important to me, and that -- while she might have chosen differently, done differently in my stead, she can see that i know *myself* and i am right about recognizing *my* values, and what i want.  that what i want might be wrong to her, wrong or skewed or silly.  but it is what i want, and i seem to know it really, really well.  and i am good at getting what i want.

maybe.

***

a maremanno passes: a dinosaur-sized powder puff on a slow Roman walk.  they are so big these dogs, you cannot ever remember to look into their faces and say hello.

***

for some reason, i remember Beth Ann Fennellyís vision, of that train compartment somewhere between Sicily and somewhere else.  knees interlocked liked what? like something wonderful in a picture in my head that i cannot pull up the words for, but wonderful.

***

itís shakerato season, and i have not had one yet.  itís okay.

***

you know whatís really sad?  whatís really sad, is how excited i am, about having a working computer again.  i cannot get over how beautiful the black type looks against the white WordPad page.  i love this font.  i love the way the cursor flashes patiently, like a perfectly straight, ever-opening automatic door.  thank you, Mamma Carlotta!

***

(itís five fifty-eight.)


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[lunedž 09 maggio 2011 ore 18:00:00] []

Exercises in Handwritten Heartiness

How many words.  How many raindrops.  How many dust motes, how many bowls of butterfly pasta, how much muthaf*cking sunlight.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[lunedž 02 maggio 2011 ore 21:45:08] []