Today

I just wrote this to someone.


"Wishing I was moving to London or Northern Italy or Paris or somewhere amazing and brilliant where I could write all day and sip espresso and then drink wine at night while throwing line after line describing sunlight slanting across a girl's perfect thigh... or something like that."

Boy does that sound familiar!

Its the old me, Johnny Attero, trying to come out from this person who worries about bank accounts and jobs with better incomes and moving for practical reasons and thinking more about english football than plot lines and never, ever cheats. I'm more practical and... oh, I don't feel like whining about myself. I am who I am, I was who I was, and I'm still edgy and angry and creative as a hurricane and there is nothing wrong with that. I can want what I want and that is okay. I want Europe, of course, and I want to write, of course, and I have about three years of backdated writing compressing against my heart. I may disappear and be found a year later in a small, gritty apartment in Rome dying of malnutrition and surrounded by manuscripts.

Ah, romantic and foolish. Why do those always go hand in hand?

I would also like to create music and write songs, to drink gin and ping notes on a keyboard while melodies spill out around them. All this creative liquid stored in me for the last twenty odd months is begging to spill out - but it also drives me a bit mad. Makes bad decisions, this liquid, sloshes me about and threatens to fill up my head with visions and dreams where plans and purpose were.

Stay focused. Write out the dreams.