Strange but true. I've noticed it lately. I'm crediting the increase in cheap throwaway clothes made by those two ugly sisters Nylon and Polyester for the fact that women are making more of a stink than we used to. There may also be the element of natural deodorants that we have to factor into the equation. However, I'd like to say - it's not all bad. I mean, there's the whole thing about those phamous phermones - the chemical signal that triggers a response in another member of the same species. This means that theoretically, the more we sweat, the more phermones we release and the sexier we are to a potential mate. The axilla, which is a sexy word for armpit, is to thank/blame for our attractiveness. 

It happened accidentally – “There are no accidents” – thank you, I know and yet it went something like this: I moved into my apartment, a lovely illegal 1970’s rooftop add-on, in Rome about one year ago. I was well aware that there was a roof cat bopping around 6 floors up who’d never put his feet on actual ground – kind of romantic no? His name, I discovered, was Porchetto, which means “little pig”. If you add on an “s” and call him Sporchetto it would mean “little dirty thing”, which would also be appropriate. I don’t know how he does it but he always finds something awful to roll in. Plus he’s getting on in years and his hips aren’t what they were (if they were ever good) so his personal hygiene habits are limited by his restricted movement. I appropriated a grooming brush. Sigh. Why me? I’ll tell you why – because he is simply the coolest cat to ever have graced the rooftops. I know everyone thinks their cat/dog/boyfriend/mother/pizza dough are the best – but I have a special reason for my claim. Most cats will be friendly when they feel like it and particularly when they are hungry. You give them something to eat and then they give you the cold shoulder. Porchetto is more interested in affection than he is in food. I can tell, because he’s kind of skanky, that he’s not used to love and cuddles. Sad but true. He’s been alone for a long time – and now he’s found someone who loves him he has this really surprised look on his face - he’s too amazed for food to be all that important right now! When I put his food out he eats a bit and then comes to me for cuddles, then back to food, then more cuddles etc etc… and I find it the most endearing thing. I told my friend Alice that I’d given in and officially adopted Porchetto because I love him to pieces and because by my estimation he’s about 15 years old, has dodgy hips and a funny dreadlock hair style going on, so he probably won’t be with us much longer. She threw her head back and laughed, “That’s what you think – he’ll outlive us all!” Apparently I fell for the oldest trick in the catbook – he acted a bit pathetic, I took pity and now I am a cat owner. But here’s the thing about ownership – whatever I own, also owns me – be it a cat, a cell phone, an apartment, or another person’s heart… these things can bring beauty but also control us at times. I’m looking forward to finding the balance… in the end I think we can save each other, little pig and I... I bet that's the first time in the history of the world that anyone has ever written that sentence...

Dear Possible Friends,

So sometimes everything just gets really simple - and it's disarming. And it's pure. And just comfort. So the next time it's a Sunday, please do yourself a favour and put on "Steal Away", the 1995 album by Charlie Haden and Hank Jones. It's music that's so good you forget to think. And for a lover or for an album, that's the best compliment I can think of.

Which begs the question : who is really crazy?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmY4ksVxeIE

Watch this and feel better.

Sometimes I sing to the shadows of leaves that dance on the ground. There is comfort in the chorus. A home-coming. Song form is supposed to help the singer. To bring you back to somewhere you have been before - somewhere you created - it brings you back to yourself.
Bruce Chatwin was a genius. He wrote a book called "Songlines" which talks about how the aboriginals used to sing the shape of the land. They would inherit a song which marked out their land. In essence, they sung the land into existence. Chatwin goes on to make a correlation with Aboriginal tradition and the Big Bang theory. He also notes that Puccini always has the heroine commence singing from off stage therefore she is sound before she is physical matter. She sings herself into existence. This is why i think old Chatwinpants was some kind of genius. I don't really hear songs and think, "I wish I'd written that" but I do wish I'd thought of that. I'm glad we have it though.
And this is why singing is so important to me.
I sing myself into existence at night on stage. I create myself through sound. I compose my self.
Composers are generally quite kind to the voice. There's comfort in the chorus. When I'm learning a song, the part I like best at first is always the part that's easiest to learn. In the final analysis I usually find that the part that was frustrating, terrifying, wrought with difficulties - the part that almost made me give up entirely - that part, is my most cherished friend and my favourite to perform. Does this make any sense?
I suppose that perfection of the soul through music might be a worthy endeavor. Who cares if no audience ever comes? There are purifying fires enough before they get there. Their absense is just another lesson in humility.
I write this in the hope that it may be helpful to someone or anyone. And because I have a dear friend who I know would like to sing sometimes. Breath and life - singing is a celebration of these things. An affirmation, a consolation, a victorious fleeting flashlight into a dark room, is your song to silence.

Okay - it's sounds like a fairytale for grown-ups but it's really just a musing.
There's a bakery I frequent here in Rome and I'm conflicted about it. The pastries are as good as the service is rude. Exceptionally. And the price, in self-esteem as well as cash - let's just say it's insult to injury time. Sweet-toothed masochists head here for a good eating.
It's owned by a couple who are in their early sixties.
SHE: has got really long fingernails which I take as a sign that she's not into manual labour - I'm doubtful that she's a classical guitar player either, which is the other option. Always in Armani, she also wears sunglasses - even when she's inside and it's raining outside.
HE: leers and drools at anything in a skirt. Luckily he is behind the counter, which is wide, fairly high and made of good solid stone.
I went there once and Ladyboss asked me if I needed help. When I said "yes", she snapped her fingers for one of her groveling assistants to help me. I guess she's not into serving people herself. Her behaviour is always a way of saying "go fuck yourself". She's the rudest, grumpiest woman I've met - and believe me, I've met a few.
The thing is, I don't want to have awful thoughts about telling her where she can put her cream puffs. I want to be compassionate.
So how's this: let's assume she's been running this over-priced bakery with her lecherous husband for 35 years or so. It's like a Dante's purgatory for her because she loves pastries but has a weight problem so she constantly says "no" to anything sweet, denying herself a moment of happiness and perpetuating her grumpiness. When she's grumpy she can't stand her husband's amorous (cough cough) advances. He in turn cannot bear her grumpy moods and now seldomly makes a pass at her, fearing rejection (why can't she just have a strawberry tart and make love to him? he wonders). Instead he takes to ogling ladies (all happier and younger than her) in the bakery. This upsets her doubly because 1. he's stopped making passes at her (even though she didn't like them when he did) and 2. he's gawking at other women publicly which she find humiliating.
She goes concave on herself and refuses to serve any of them.
How did I do?
It's about now that I begin to wonder, what the difference is between compassion and storytelling? I made up that whole yarn so i could find it in my heart to forgive her. I guess if telling stories is a way to get compassionate, then that's okay.

Out of brokeness comes space. I broke a wine glass tonight and my first feeling was not guilt or sadness or rage - if I'm really honest, it was relief. One less thing to have to wash up. One less thing to have to put in it's proper place. One less thing to have to care for.
I'm not talking metaphorically, although if I were, I suppose breaking someone's heart could be a relief too. At that point, their feelings are no longer your responsibility, right? They are no longer in your care, no matter how far they run after you with the broken bits shouting and blaming and protesting and demanding the adhesiveness that they mistakenly think will come from you.
After the breaking of the wine glass I went to hear Abdullah Ibrahim in concert. What can I say - listening to him was kind of like... forgiveness. I had that same feeling of relief when I walked out of the concert. The burdens of ownership had been lifted - but, without anything being broken. So if forgiveness feels spacious and breaking things creates space - it's a big old world, ain't it folks.
When are your lungs more empty - when you breathe in? Or when you breathe out?