We need to talk about Caffeine

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Each year coffee is harvested during the dry season when the coffee cherries are bright red, glossy, and firm.

Coffee is a woman; a slander, sultry brunette. Stimulating and addictive. Savage but tender.

Oh sweet coffee,

Without you,

I’d be a lonely cigarette.

Coffee is a ritual; the equivalent of a Shamanic fire ceremony. A private moment, with the purer higher self.

Oh sweet coffee,

Without you,

I’d be lethargic and sedated.

Coffee is an excuse; to sit alone in a central café with book in hand, pretending to be interesting.

Oh sweet coffee,

Without you,

I’d be a raging bitch.

Coffee is a rendez-vous; with a friend soon to be lover, soon to be boyfriend, soon to be a voodoo doll.

Oh sweet coffee,

Without you,

I’d rather sleep.

Coffee is cinema; because agent Dale Cooper likes his coffee black, as midnight in a moonless night.

Oh sweet coffee,

Without you,

I’d have as many regrets as the coffee spoons I until now had.

“I’d rather take coffee than compliments just now.” – Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

From Russia with love

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Summer: most people are fainting under white and blue umbrellas on the beach, worshipping the sun and all the frivolity that comes with it.

Paris: Dali’s melting clock. An open-air oven, more than Sylvia Plath could ever dream of.

I’m fed-up of wearing ugly Birkenstocks and drink naturally mulled wine. The darkness of cinema, seem to be my only comfort, a spark of civilisation.

So, I just completely spontaneously booked a one week solo trip to Saint-Petersburg, Russia.

It might sound random to you, but an actress needs to draw inspiration from somewhere, sometimes.

(The picture above represents myself as zombie Anna Karenina back among the living to find her long lost love Count Alexis Kirillovich Vrosky)

I’ll stay away from train stations, maybe.

Robbery in Paris 17eme

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“He said that life boils down to standing in line to get shit dropped on your head. Everyone’s got a place in the queue, you can’t get out of it, and just when you start to congratulate yourself on surviving your dose of shit, you discover that the line is actually circular.” – Scott Lynch, The Republic of Thieves

It was last Saturday, when I discovered that someone broke into my apartment.

It was one of these days when you don’t feel like seeing anyone, but still, you can’t be left alone and coffee is never enough.

I ended up engaging in my favourite activity, going to the movies. I met a friend even though I didn’t have much to say. Soon enough we entered the cinema and watched “Swept Away” aka “Travolti da un insolito destino nell’azzurro mare d’agosto” (the original 1974 version by director Lina Wertmüller), curiously enough the main character is a spoiled rich woman who ends up in a deserted island with her attendant, only to find out the material world to which she was so attached meant nothing after all.

Still feeling dull inside, all I could think about on my way home, was to put on my cherry printed socks on, even if it was warm outside, and persevere in my film addiction. Celine Dion used to sing “all by myself, don’t wanna live”. For some reason I always thought she was saying “all by myself, I wanna be”, maybe because the latter was more appealing to me.

As I opened the door, I found absolutely everything I own scattered on the floor. As soon as I realised that it wasn’t an hallucination, I burst into tears, violent tears of angst (I was in the same time, like a complete psychopath, trying to save that magnificent rage in my emotional data bank, in order to reproduce it on the stage).

The next door neighbours rushed in to check up on me; the tumultuous love-making couple of the building. They are so sonorous that they even distorted my dreams, as most of them are now set in a 17th century brothel. They introduced themselves as brother and sister, as if I wasn’t disturbed enough, and of course, that revelation made me cry even more.

The next day, traumatised by the current events, I jumped on a night train back to my dad’s home in Milan. Sometimes, all a girl needs is a few whiskeys on the rocks and a familiar place where to safely pass out.

As bizarre as it may seem, all the heartbreaks and disappointments I have experienced lately, are suddenly a long distance memory. Logically, keeping in mind the subdominant law, the latest incident has automatically erased the others.

I remember a “Laurel and Hardy” episode in which Hardy, was moaning about his limping left leg and how much he was suffering because of it. Laurel looks around for a moment, scratches his head and says: “I have the solution for your limping left leg”. He suddenly kicks his friend’s right leg. “Voilà!”. Hardy screams out in pain, steam comes out of his ears… The sky is still clear, the kids keep playing in the street. Hardy moans about his right leg.

C’est la vie.

Sleeping Boozy

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It is highly advisable to never show up for a photoshoot hangover and sleepless. I didn’t even do it on purpose, it just happened. A camera shot like a gun fire, eaten alive by the blinding lights. As a result, I’m sleeping in most pictures.

I don’t know why I find myself in these sort of situations. Sometimes I wonder if instead of being because of a lack of maturity, it is just a way to fight the dullness of life. A way to have a funny story to tell in front of a cup of coffee, maybe. A dislike on doing things by the book, a way to make things memorable.

I drink too much, I smoke too much, I girl around too much, I everything too much.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” Albert Camus

(Photo credit: Jean F Chassaing)