Patricia Richardson 2009

Five daughters and a piece


I became a serial un'adottatrice. So, 46 \u200b\u200byears and still marked with the waist, I find myself having five children, all girls. The first is 83 years old, and I call Mom. The second almost three, and has a tail. At the third, who was thirteen, I made the first stroke in the womb of his mother. The fourth, who comes from afar and of honey and steel, has 22. The fifth has 30, and married in May. Then there is her, who is 37, and I've got half a trust.
all give me great Satisfaction, and I, that I wanted to be a first child elderly, with a little 'luck of risk too early to become a grandmother.

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power and act


Intercept the angel in this steel Skype rainy Sunday. I want a little surprise to my mother, I write, she likes pastries, guns and matured fruit. I'm on it, he says. And as we leave them both, each in its own corner of the city, I turn to the pharmacy and you live in pastry, I think my intention that bit turns into a riot of atoms, with the appearance of a tray of pastries.

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Barter and subsistence


Return to the touch and go between Camogli and San Rocco with a haul of orange and mandarin, sage, rosemary and some clump of violets. Precious and collected with my hands, knows rain, sun and sea uncertain. The divide, adding a touch of focaccia di Recco, and the return shall deliver a part in the Socia, who barter with freshly baked wheat bread, homemade jams and jellies bought for me at the Boqueria in Barcelona.
How beautiful and powerful the gift of food, which means I want you to live. And plunge his fingers in his face and leaves the bag of bread, thinking that this food will not only know the source, but also the address.

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Reading


's official: these are months that I can not finish a book that is one. I have three initiatives on the table and at least ten on the shelf of books to read. Books, flowers and dogs are my passion that I can remember, even after the chocolate has arrived. I loved the smell of the books before you even know how to read, I watched my parents and absorbed through the pages as custodians of an esoteric knowledge (something that happens to me today when I read in Cyrillic). Optimistic by nature, I wonder about this unexplained abstention early Alzheimer's, implosion or intellectual laziness?
Then I realize that they are so absorbed by my own, stories, and those around me, the stories the paper aside.
But I dream at night, when they finish those books that leave you orphaned, exhausted and changed. And I hope you come again in my life Useppe, and Ariane and Solal, and travelers to Bowles, and the lost souls of Mason, and Adso of Melk, and perfumes Suskind, clown and full of opinions, and Buddenbrooks, and Narcissus and Goldmund and Donna Prassede and all those that do not remember the name that kept me company during the day and awake at night.