An Italian Feeds A Pigeon

She went by the name Giovanna.   It had been discussed weeks before her birth to call her Gloria or Greta but it was insisted upon, by both soon-to-be parents, they take their time.  Scolastica, weak and fearful she wouldn’t deliver safely, prayed every night before her bowl of gnocchi.   Her husband, Bruno, a gourmet gnocchi maker, also worried about his wife’s health but kept his feelings hardened, never bringing them around Scolastica.   He’d pamper his wife, bathe her while singing, “Abballati Abballati”.   This would surely put a smile on her face.  Bubbles would splash everywhere.

In the delivery room, Bruno hummed “Abballati Abballati” yet all Scolastica could scream was, “stai zitto” [shut up].   Had she thrown hot irons at him, Bruno still would have persisted with the upbeat tune.   Once Giovanna was out, wailing with joy, Bruno looked over at his wife who had passed out, white as a sheet.  Scolastica stayed strong for three days, afterwards giving up on the struggle, she released hold of her body.

Bruno, the widower father he was, got sucked into a depression.  This he passed onto Giovanna, who grew up guilty, feeling as if she released a toxin into her mother’s womb.   Not a single therapeutic technique could shake this feeling.  Once she turned eighteen, Giovanna took her misery to the streets.  Moved into a cardboard box.   Pushed two shopping carts glued together, the interior filled with buttons and bread.   She used the bread to feed a pigeon she befriended.   Over time, Giovanna grew convinced this pigeon was her mother.  She stroked the pigeon, mumbling, “mamma”.   The pigeon cooed in her hands, slowly dying.

Disgusted with life’s sorrows, Giovanna gobbled a handful of buttons, swallowing one at a time.   She hummed a slowed-down version of “Abballati Abballati”. Inside her belly, the buttons dissovled into miniature pigeons. They eventually burst through her stomach, taking with them into flight Giovanna’s misery.

A Roaring Welcome

Dear Readers:

The week before Thanksgiving, I sunk into the worst depression ever.   The descent rattled both my physical and mental health.   I did everything possible to stop myself from falling deep into this pit.   Called family and friends.   All they could really say was, “I love you.  We hope things get better.”   As warming as that might be to hear, I still hit rock bottom.

Once there, a voice spoke to me.   It said, “If you’re a writer, then just write!   Screw what Syd Field and Robert McKee preach.  Get something, anything on paper.  Doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.  Just fucking write.”   The next day I started work on a screenplay.   I had no clue where this was going.   I wrote three pages a day.  This, in conjunction with St. John’s Wort, proved to elevate my mood.   By the third day, I titled the piece, Descent (named after my descent into the worst emotional state I can remember.   More on the title in two paragraphs).

On the twenty-fifth page, questions started taking over.   Why is the boy character, Will, so hated by everyone except the protagonist, Damian?   What is the relationship between Damian and Will?    Upon reaching the bottom of the thirty-second page, I stopped.  Didn’t know what kind of story I was telling.

While my mind ruminated for further story ideas, I stumbled across an article entitled “The 15 Biggest Cult Films of the Past Five Years”.   The third biggest cult film, Descent.   “Shit”, thinks I.    Time to rethink things.   No better venue to rethink things than a blog.   This blog shall be called Descent into My Creative Mind:  A Rather Absurd Journey.

This is how it shall be laid out.  Excerpts of the script shall be posted whereupon the next day or days later analyze the piece along with discussing where the scene(s) could go.  Occasionally, I’ll insert random fictional absurdity that has nothing to do with script.   Some days, I’ll embark upon philosophical ramblings.

I ask you, the reader/follower, for honesty.  You have something to say, say it.  Don’t hold back.   Thank you and enjoy this blog.
–Eric Sazer