What’s my Crime?

A series of unfortunate coincidences that made me think of amor fati and my own self-representation (a serious case of bad PR) has caused hell and havoc within the confines of my mind. That I was somehow grossly throwing out slanders into the world and hurting people in ways I didn’t even know. That somehow even though my physical presence wasn’t there, this person could still feel me lurking around trying to pick a lock (okay maybe this is true). That I was using sacred and meaningful words and attaching them to the river Po or a peach pastry so that if you took the association two steps further in the wrong direction, it’d be covered in shit and I’d be eating it. That simply knowing I’m out in the world eulogizing a remembrance not even my own but of someone else’s love story had to be stopped, silenced. That I was some Louise Joséphine Bourgeois spider trying to weave myself into a narrative I was left out of and seeking young blood.

Paranoia, as though everyone was in on it, friends and strangers alike. When your upstanding friend’s 2-year-old daughter and a Greek art blogger with sexual tendencies both start telling you hand is foot, something is up. This innocuous and rather naive blog with writings of E. M. Forster daydreams, came alive in the most macabre fashion. And these people seemed angry, ready to send me to prison.

I kept looking where I shouldn’t, it had become an habitual tick. It had been going on for years but things changed last year when more antagonists entered the picture and I soon realized I wasn’t the only one who knew some version of the story. The general consensus seemed to be “You’re Calypso thinking you’re Sicily.” I can see how insufferable my IG account would be to someone who believed this. I kept looking in the same place for a different answer, but the light in which I was seen never changed but the way I was seeing myself was changing. I was starting to feel the most negative and at times positive emotions in the most real ways.

The entrance to the prisons of the Palazzo Ducale are blocked with lines of shore excursion tourists from the steady stream of cruise boats parading into Venice. It’ll be a long time on the Bridge of Sighs before I ever get in. That is why I couldn’t see the catacombs of Gente di Palermo by Gordon Douglas.

 

 

 

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