Tuesday, April 09, 2013

You can't handle the truth

That's fine because everybody is lying to me. The friend of my client who wanted a massage never actually called me to make a plan. My coworker Nicholas told me he would finally tell me what is happening with my female coworkers at the fancy gym and why they rarely speak to me, but he didn't show up for our coffee date. This would be a romantic comedy except there are no romantic parts. Feeling utterly humiliated I left word at the front desk that I was going home. Except there were no buses and I had to wait for F to come pick me up. And, in that twenty five minutes of standing outside the front of the gym by the road, several clients and the owner of the whole gym and his elegant wife asked if they could give me a ride. I did not accept any offers and very sweetly offended everyone. Several clients also blew off classes with me this week and sent me texts with lame excuses when it was really too late to do anything about it. It may be a cultural thing, but it is driving me nuts.

When I went back to work this week the coworker named Pierpaolo who offered to take me to the doctor and then forgot about it asked me how my leg was feeling. I responded that it was fine -- if I don't move it. At all. He looked down at his perfectly mobile tendons and shrugged. Then Nicholas said that he didn't know that I was injured and why didn't I tell him. I looked at him and hoped that he understood from my glare that it was because he doesn't keep his coffee dates. He asked me for my phone number to make it up to me. Then bikini instructor lady came in and both men began to tickle her. She shrieked for me to come save her. I did not.

Sunday evening Elena invited me to come out with two friends named Simonetta and Marinella to go see the Antonio Ligabue exhibit at the LU.C.C.A. Lucca Center of Contemporary Art. I thought the pictures of animals and the self portraits had a cheerful sense of humor and I appreciated the minimalistic line work on his portraits. Then I peeked my head in on the little film that they were showing as a biographical account. I thought it said that he got kicked in the head by a horse at the circus and went insane and expressed his rage towards animals in his work while grunting and gesturing wildly to himself. Then I asked Marinella for clarification, and she confirmed my interpretation. As Italian is a far off second language for me, I have to consider the fact that I may have misinterpreted both the film and the friend in the exact same way. But it is very Lucchese to think that mental illness is generally caused by getting kicked in the head and that this is the fate of most artists because no sane person would sit around painting the inside of tiger's mouths all day anyway. So who knows!?!

One fellow art lover was so depressed after five minutes of this film that she lay down belly up on the large leather ottoman seating in the middle of the sala and threw her arms open with despair. Then she winked at me. I went home and check on Wikipedia and I find no mention of the horse kicking incident, but I did find that his mother and three siblings died from food poisoning and that an altercation with his adoptive mother sent him to a mental institution in Switzerland which he fled to come back to Italy where he led a very marginal existence until some painter discovered him. After that we all needed drinks so we went to an enoteca in via San Andrea where the sign said that they were closed on Sundays after 4 pm. The owner saw us reading the sign and told us that since he was there, the sign didn't count. That is super Italian so we went in and had loads of antipasti and a generous glass of wine for only 9 euro.

On the way home, I bumped into T out taking photos in the dark. And this did surprise me at all.


Oddly the more my class is becoming popular, the fewer people will speak to me. My new opening warm up song this week is I Feel So Lonely by Janet Jackson. The irony makes me giggle. To myself, of course, but still.

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