Writing has been salvific for me, truly.
I speak of it in the past because The Sirens of the Night, my lovely Sirens, have been my trusted companions, precious friends, and healers in the hardest moments. Those endless nights, filled with fish, biting cold, dirt, and raw, true humanity, have tested me.
I was there, a woman among transsexuals, crowded warehouses of two-dimensional men, streets frequented by prostitutes, places dense with complex, vibrant lives, and I clung to my pen to not drown in rejection.
Life has changed, thankfully, but the scars remain, melancholic memories of the power of words, which should never be underestimated. Reading, writing, singing, coloring, dancing: it’s all that is needed to heal the pain of living.
Now those nights are far away, but I continue with passion, and when melancholy falls, I turn the music up loud and write. I heal. Diana Chiarin
Saturday 9:30 AM breakfast. Coffee, tea, all the good things needed to start the day off right: biscuits made with organic flours baked in a wood-fired oven, yogurt and local cheeses, fruit jams from the garden, and whatever the awakening and the season inspire (for example, chiffon).
O12.30 light lunch, greetings, and toasts. In between, chatter, questions, beautiful ideas. As much as you want.
