Dreamt that I went back to my aunts Bebè and Anastasia’s house (spinster sisters) in the tiny village of Stenimachos, population 806 at the time. The house and those surrounding it had been taken over by some high tech army. All the familiar structures were there but had been stripped down to only the grey cement. The famed local winery where my aunts had worked for many years had moved, someone said. Gigantic chimneys of other huge factories were smoking in the horizon, making the sky almost black. I often think of that little village house; my parents would dump me there for part of the summer holidays but also for winter breaks. It would snow heavily and inside the little house the wood stove smelled so nice and we would watch Elizabeth Taylor films on a black and white tv – she was aunt Anastasia’s favorite – and eat yummy trahana soup. It was the early 80s and it was very cozy and felt so safe. I would play with the kids in the village, we would build bridges over tiny streams and we were hooked on this cheap, non-fizzy, super diluted Greek orangade in spherical, dimpled plastic bottles shaped like oranges, from the village convenience store. Two of the boys whose parents had just been in a horrible car accident and were away in a hospital, would sneak us into their house and we explored the rooms. I was fixated on their cuckoo clock that looked like the perfect tyrolean dollhouse. The boys were completely unsupervised, roaming wild in the village, yet were somehow fed and surviving just fine. Detailed stories of how badly mangled the parents had been, filled us with gleeful horror. The boys seemed unbothered by it, probably unaware of the reality of it. My aunts’ neighbor was a boorish farmer called «mister Nikos» who would sit on the porch in the afternoons, constantly ripping deafening farts. My embarrassed aunts would excuse his pleb ass, explaining that poor mister Nikos had tummy problems. His son would do farmer stuff around the property and once took a shower half naked in a wooden half-barrel tub; a strangely overwhelming sight.

I wish I could remember the brand of that watery orangeade. I think the name was in a raised molded font, no sticker.
If you know, tell.

Do you know of Roaming Wild Rosie?
I call her Wild Roaming Rosie, in Beryl Reid’s Sister George Scottish accent, somehow it hits just right that way.
She’s terrific.
Here is episode 135.

Σε προβολή του Ντελίβερι. Τι ντροπή, άθλιος. Τη γάμησα την ταινία. Περιμένω έξω από την αίθουσα, Q&A μετά, yikes. 

Love our chats.
2026 internet is vomitous.

*EDIT
In fact, no; I’m just cranky. 

it’s devastating that lovers each become dust and the wind blows it to different directions.
silence. it’s only a moment.

I read almost all of this diary, starting from 2003 (2001 in fact, I have privated two years of preposterous entries). It’s glaring throughout how unapologetically, innocently, unknowingly, annoyingly*, wildly autistic I was. Since the formal diagnosis ten years ago I hide it, I try to, I hide, I have disowned myself, lost myself, a lobotomy, a Frances, a pitty.. I prefer him, to me, though he wouldn’t survive today and in fact, didn’t. The past 8 years film producers have been fighting my film and raping my soul. The patience I have daily forced myself to muster all these years will either literally kill me or unexpectedly restore some of my obliterated self-respect. Whatever the outcome, my staggering, overwhelming contempt for humans is a shrilling billowing burning sun.

I had cut this out from somewhere around the time I left home at 17.

* for those around me.