Fiorella in Three

Fiorella, a let's-face-reality kinda gal, does not understand people who aren't, the ones who prefer fiction, who cling to anger and revel in lies. How can anyone still support Trump? Don't they see by now that the emperor has no clothes? And even worse, that he doesn't know he has no clothes, that he's living in his own self-delusional world?
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Fiorella is still reveling in the birthday greetings she received yesterday. Birthdays are important to Fio, and she celebrates not only family birthdays, but the birthdays of her friends as well. It's her way of saying she's glad they're stilll walking this earth with her.
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Fiorella is a dog servant. When Sonia wants out, Fio opens the door. When Sonia lets herself in, Fio closes the door. She dishes out Sonia's kibbles, refills her water bowl as needed, and periodically washes the vinyl dog tray Sonia's bowls rest on. Then there's the required morning pet, which must include clucking and a body massage, and then there's the  required distribution of rawhide bones throughout the day. Yup, Fiorella is dog tired.

Computers in Command

In this electronic era, when the computer commands everyone's life, Fiorella feels the need to connect with tangible reality, to pick up rocks in her hands, to construct her own holiday decorations with scissors and ribbons, to start a fire in the fireplace with rotten wood.

And she wonders. Are we getting too far ahead of ourselves? Do we have too many apps on our phones? Are we are too dependent on our gadgets? Are the electronics are controlling us rather than us controlling them?

Think about it.

Intense Introspection

Fiorella is full of herself, so full she's about to explode.  When the artists attending her church's Sunday reception were invited to comment on their art, their recitations stirred something up in her, and, come her turn, she cut loose.

Fio does not get her inspiration from dreams, her childhood, or nature. She has THE EYE.  She is intensely NOW.  She sees shapes and lines and color.  She is fascinated by light and shadow. She strives for honesty, originality, and balance, not only in art, but everything she does.  Fio is driven.  She was born with a flame burning within her. She can do no other.

Metaphysical Speculation

As Fiorella slaves away on WHERE THE HEART LEADS, she wonders if the story is purely the product of her own fevered imagination, or if it actually exists somewhere in the universe. Has Fio somehow tuned into someone else's life?

What about her other manuscripts, like the story about the Minnesota investigative reporter teaming up with her ex again.  How about the art teacher and her marriage of convenience to the jaded entrepreneur with two failed marriages behind him.  And the accidental vampire.  And Lolly's story, which Fio's agent and editor didn't like.  And Carmen's story, which is coming to Fio in bits and pieces as she revises Moira's story.

And if so, is someone out there channeling Fiorella and writing her story?

Fiorella Ponders

Part and parcel of being an artist is that appearances are very important.  Fiorella can't walk through a  room without tweaking a pillow and can't walk into the garage without sighing in sorrow.
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Fiorella figures our atoms are recycles, but that there's something more--a spirit, a soul--that lives forever
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Your Fio was born with her skin on inside out, a vulnerability which makes for a very good poet, but a troubled psyche.  She has her ups and downs.
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Fiorella forgives those who trespass against her, but she does not forget.  It's a matter of self-protection.
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The only realities are life, death, and dinner.

Winner

When Fiorella was a child, she loved watching the hurdles event in the Olympics, and when she went to bed, she had dreams about leaping hedges as she raced from lawn to lawn down the street.  Ah, the joy of running, the leap, the rhythm, the achievement!

Unfortunately, Fio is short, stocky, and not athletically inclined, but she's still leapt her share of hurdles. Babe, that's what life's all about.

What Is?

Just as it seems right and normal to me, the way my life is, does my father's life seem right and normal to him?

I've made so many adjustments and accommodations through the years--to partial blindness, loss of my singing voice, problems with stamina, overweight, and age, not to mention disappointments, failures, and tragedies. Maybe I also am living in a world constructed by my own brain out of rags and tatters of objective reality.

But then, aren't we all?