MY PROFESSIONAL LIFE WITH CHILDREN

As a young girl I imagined a different future and being an artist (I don’t get high or smoke or drink, I’m an atypical artist I know) I thought that my skills, both artistic and intellectual (I always had excellent grades in school) would have me taken far, in every sense. I have always dreamed of a life off the cursed island, Sicily, because as soon as I grew up a little and became old enough to understand certain social dynamics, I felt suffocated in my aspirations. My parents wanted me to finish school, find a rich husband and get married and churn out grandchildren for them. Instead I didn’t do any of this. I have not followed any rules of social life that tradition imposed. Immediately after high school I went abroad to pursue my artistic dream but I was forced to return because my mother was sick and I took on my responsibilities as a daughter and still do it today and in return I do not receive than criticisms and always negative judgments. In part you are right, I have not been able to get even the minimum of what I aspired to in my artistic life but on the other hand I have a situation that everyone envies me. Of course, after having understood how things are going, after having discovered that “either you follow the rules of the market or you stay out of every field”, the choice to continue on the difficult and fruitless path of art is truly crazy. But I can’t turn my back on myself and my fantasy, and especially in recent times if I hadn’t had all these dreams with me yet, I think I wouldn’t have been able to go on. Sometimes instead I say to myself, trying to convince myself, that it would have been better not to have these dreams at all and not to have all these creative abilities, since up to now they have not brought me anything concrete because I do not compromise for any reason and I do not I want to sleep with anyone to get credit. This crisis due to covid pays for itself first of all precisely those sectors of genres that are considered unnecessary, and art is one of them. Certainly having a nice painting hanging on the wall does not fill people’s stomachs so even I would not feel like convincing someone to buy a painting rather than buying groceries. First of all, I myself have had to give up those beautiful things that make life more pleasant (dinners out, accessories, hairdressing, cinema, theater, concerts, cosplay fairs, …) and so why shouldn’t others give it up too ?! The covid spared no one. So what’s the point of creating so many beautiful things if they have to remain closed in a box or drawer? Being an art therapist seems nonsense. Working with autistic children seems inconsistent. Yet it requires a lot of patience and a lot of control. But I never talk about my passion for saving children.

MISUNDERSTOOD

When I speak and say something, I am never understood. When I speak and say something I am not listened to because I do not speak on video. I write and speak. I don’t record videos. Those who make videos perhaps have a better chance of being heard and understood, even appreciated by everyone. The videos are more followed. I am never taken into consideration because I don’t start talking in front of a cam, I don’t show my tits, I don’t whisper, I don’t blink, I don’t talk about fashion and make-up. I feel very frustrated about this because in this society only videos matter. People want to see someone, fantasize, imagine. I don’t show videos. I speak. But I’m not understood.

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.

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