About Abruzzo and me

About Abruzzo:  Not so long ago Abruzzo was one of the poorest regions in Italy but now the inhabitants have a good income owing to all the ugly manufacturing plants that have sprung up along the coast and around big towns.

They live work-heavy double lives as factory workers and smallholders. Their croft is their second home, and their main one is in the village or town.
Tradition runs deep in this rural community. And I have yet to be initiated into the mysteries of local logic.


About me: In my early twenties I considered writing but did not produce a page for over 30 years, despite regularly acquiring beautiful blank notebooks.
Motivation sunk like a stone in the slough of despond that we know as depression. 
Much has been said about that unenviable state.
The universal struggle for self-worth is fought feebly and without conviction. 

A child will cry her woes to sullen oblivion.
And then, in spite of herself, she will grab the unfinished Book of Life and, turning the page, rediscover hope and joy.
As an adult in the grips of depression, you remain stuck in that trance of miserable inertia when the tears have subsided into sobs; the pages of your story are turned by the winds of whim and you feel like a puppet enacting your own life. A masquerade: because that life seems all wrong.

And it was purely whim, in that cycle of desperation, defiance and defeat, that took a born-and-bred Londoner to Paris and then here to Italy.
But this latest adventure is working out.
The vortex of depression within, which swallowed the words, is now dissipating and the words are being released, higgledy-piggledy, in the form of this blog.
I hope my one reader can bear with me.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Halfway Over the Hill #4 (Fire & Water)

Image
 Fire and Water  ( Reading time -  4 book pages of text ~ 1800 words ) ( N.B. Names have been slightly altered in this narrative. + I will now refer to my neighbour, the Wild One  from previous posts, as Dahlia , this is the Google Voice suggestion for his actual name ) 1st July 2021  Since I planted my saplings mid-May (zucchini and lettuce now ready to harvest) it's only rained once. A few days ago, a whiff of smoke transperced the thick heat. Towards the east, over the line of trees, a haze of smoke veiled the sky. I thought nothing of it, people often have bonfires. Many people had noticed the oddity of a roadside fire and even texted their friends. It was only after twenty minutes, when it had started raging through the woods, did someone think to call the fire brigade. It took three days to put out and it destroyed 70 hectares of pines and olive trees. People gathered to watch, marvelled, and texted their friends. The land is still smouldering today. Yesterday even
Read more

Halfway Over the Hill #5 (Filler-How to clean)

Image
I have stalled on the 'Earth & Air' sequel for lack of information so here is just a filler. How to clean: The best way to clean is to avoid doing it as much as possible i.e. you must develop a strategy that will bring about a situation of low cleaning necessity, primarily achieved by radically lowering your standards. I have a different take on Quentin Crisp's famous saying: Dirt only gets dirty after five years* Now of course that is a bit of an exaggeration. I expect you to clean at least once a year. But we can go one better and aim for a monthly clean. You could get a cleaning person but as most cleaners will only clean an already clean house, that is not really an option for me. Don't be alarmed, I have (almost) never achieved Life of Grime (tv doc) levels of insalubrity. I have my daily shower every other day and I actually take pleasure in hearing the churn of the washing machine on its 15-minute cycle, and hanging out clean laundry on the line is ev
Read more

Halfway Over the Hill #7 (First Nights)

Image
 Back in September 2017  Standing on tiptoe in the narrow bathroom of my hired lodging in the hilltown of Ilboli, I watched a spectacular show playing out in the night sky through the thin strip of window set high in the wall. Lightening leapt off the shingle roofs, the frenetic sirocco known locally as the FaOoohn whipped round the chimney stacks and whistled inside. The distant hills flashed in and out of existence; and between rumbles and the drumming sluice of heavy rain, deafening thunderclaps rung through the startled house. The naked light bulbs over the wash basin quivered and dimmed repeatedly. Out of the corner of my eye, I was intensely aware of the shadows. I backed out of the bathroom and started at my own image in the mirror. This was my last day here, I'd been on edge all week. The cottage which had been undergoing essential renovation was ready to be moved into. I was going to brave it for a couple of weeks before returning to Paris. My first day there shoul
Read more