- yes there’s been a death in my country
and its the tragedy abuzz- “Woman beats man to death-
poor, poor, soldier! A man like himself to die the way he did…”

I haven’t read the news; only emails sent to me by informing family and friends;
therefore i haven’t very much to comment on this death.

This post today however, is about my past writings for the daily newspaper
back in my country… Today I came across this article Defining handsome; god! it would put a whore-house Newsletter out of bizness.
I have no recollection of my ’skill’ to write this kind of stuff

To the wives and girlfriends of these men- sorry

thursday night: I got an attack on the walk back home
right after Babak dropped lawrence, chris and myself off… ( I was worried about getting hit by a car, I was worried about
scaring Chris and Lawrence; I was hyperventilating and I thought my heart would burst out of my chest
I was speaking fast and directing my own first aid.
What I really should have done is relax, suffer the attack and let the boys deal with it.
Chris read me The Red Pony. I shook like a leaf. my eyes were tearing. He read on until I fell off to sleep.

Friday I could swear I was gonna die. on a winter afternoon. alone. and right after I had answered to Chris’s phone
call telling him, am alright. I was alright during the phone call. Valerie too had sent me a text asking if I needed her to come over
I was sure I was alright. Then, as if in a practical joke. The attack came back. a massive one. I was crying. yelling. mourning. disappointed in myself.
Again. sixteen again. Vulnerable and helpless again. Why. Why again.

Friday night I promised to fight it. I cooked. Rice and vegetables. The idea was to impress with my cooking. the end result is that
the rice was too dry, the vegetables over cooked, over peppered, less salted… but at least; I wasn’t lying down flat on my back shivering, shaking, crying, hyperventilating, welcoming my childhood to swarm my little brain—-( At one point i thought I was home in Kakoba. At my grandparents home, and was calling out; Mummy, Mummy, It’s come back again: my head hurts, my chest hurts and I forgotten how to breath)

Saturday morning: it was a good morning. It had been a good night. At midday a woman rang my door bell: she wanted to check
my gas metre. I didnt even know i had a gas metre. I had practically run out of bed to open the door for her: she was speaking fast, moving her hands, checking my trash box, opening my kitchen drawers, speaking in Italian…. I woke my house mate. she’s spanish. at least they two could communicate. it happened. the gas metre was found. she left.
my housemate was crying. She had been for hours she told me.

I made her a big breakfast, I found us the FRIENDS DVD and played the first season; I ate most of the breakfast, she cried all through the funny skits in friends; I asked her to cook something, chop something…. anything that would divert her crying energy as well as feed me… she made us a spanish omelette. Heart breaks aren’t that bad; I told her. she cried some more… they are bad, she answered. they are horrible…
yes they are.

Saturday afternoon. We caught the train to Udine. Udine is become that place for us now: A great break from Fabrica.
We spent the weekend with Ramon; bar hopping; drinking, eating, snacking, eating, laughing, arguing, shooting at bottles, driving bumper cars, getting drunk; worrying less about being ill… popping aspirins every once in three hours. We got back to Ramon’s house in the morning.. so to speak

Sunday afternoon. Rain. cold. rain. cold.
Talk about Zico coming to the village; a coffee and chats with Renzo; a ride to venice to watch Chelsea vs Man. U
where we ate, drank, ate, drank.. and a few aspirins.

And now…

Now I conclude this diary exercise.

I HOPE I GET SOMETHING OUT OF IT
cheers

Thrusday night in Treviso — that was an amazing night

Friday morning in Brussels—- finally, I experience an Autumn forest: thanks Cedric, thanks Alizee!

Friday night in Holland——I am having a great weekend… really beautiful: with my sister, the twins and Sandra

ps: monday night… back in Treviso ( Italy still is the most beautiful country I know- inspite of her politics)

_____________
tuesday evening: I woke up at 5 this morning thinking I was at home in Kampala.
For 62 seconds – what seemed like forever- I worried about the mirror and dressing table
that’d suddenly appeared three feet away from my bed.
I got out of bed, walked to my door and only then did I realise that I was in my flat in Italy;
and. I was looping on, speaking strangely, in spanish. something that intended to be; “no, sorry I don’t speak dutch”.
….
It’s likely that am completely losing it. It’s likely that I had my First ’sleep walking’… ever.
_________

Wednesday Morning: with a hangover- wrote the first draft for my short story/ it came out as a fiction. i guess it should then
be fiction

Wednesday afternoon: In a room with four men deciding the title for the film. / I called in Valerie at one point/ it can get hilariously sad in there

Wednesday night: GIRLY NIGHT AT MY HOUSE. boys invited but only as a Point of Conversation

Thursday Evening: (in the music room mixing the sound- for the film) Work comes to sudden halt; a cigarette break. it’s a jam session.
Babak on the drums. Hanna on the electric guitar and Chris on the piano…
Lawrence is just walked out…

Last night was Poetry Night: themed Disturbingly Gothe, Paulo set the mood with candles and projections of amazingly disturbing images, we played the opening scene of The Antichrist to get in the ‘zone’.

We read from Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Philip Larkin, P.B. Shelley, Horace Smith, Pablo Neruda, Edward Lear, and a brilliant many more.
We read a monologue from a theatre play, a verse from a book, something beautiful in portuguese, something beautiful in Farsi, italian, spanish ….

This was, like many poetry nights I have had here, especially sweet and cosy and nurturing.

This was my very last one. My contract here at Fabrica ends
in about a week and I will be home soon.

I hope the tradition continues.