Handcuffed!

Quentin Tarantino -- such a lovely, brilliant, outstanding director. Quarantined -- how similar sounding, and ruthlessly different. Difficult -- the dichotomies of life. Difficult because with all the time in the world, I am now trapped. Diagnosed with a certain disease, the doctor seemed blissful at having diagnosed it. I have a travel coming up in one week flat. I have scripts waiting to be attended to, with complete attention, as much as two movies in my flash-drive. I have a lot of have's, not even paying the slightest respect to the thesis. But.

Being handcuffed is not exactly as unhappy as I had deemed it to be. It is a happy handcuffed. I am already travelling. Spiralling downwards, flying wingwards, dreaming softly, moving barely -- and yet, in all of literature, the one slot of sentence (excuse my saying that to an epic), which finds the most special place in my heart (tragicomedically), be: “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven” taken of course from John Milton's Paradise Lost. How terribly, terribly true. 

I have undertaken on one 'have' and have beside me a Plath text, a testimonial of an underlying ambition awaiting action. This room suddenly seems changed. The door is willingly being locked out from outside. And I am loving it. Where do you think I am? Talking to the walls? No. I mean, no, not only that.

I am in Bologna, and in Paris, in Warsaw and in New York. I am signing autographs in a figure which is, well, hot. Even in handcuffs, I am hot! And how can you or anyone stop me from being so? There are stories I am willing to share by the hour, of such incidents where trees are blue against a red sky and a violet bird sits, singing a lullaby.

No, I am certainly not quarantined. I am, on the con, in a Quentin Tarantino movie. 

Killing the bills. With pills :D