Hazel Cesano Whore ❤️

About Rome

So I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, geniuses, total geniuses—and it’s all bleak, right? That horse, that wind, “The wood is dry,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, “Yeah, dry like my love life!” But whores? They ain’t dry, nah, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, rain or shine. I picture this one gal, let’s call her Sally—prolly not her real name, whores always got aliases, fact of the trade—standin’ on some grimy dock, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cigarette like she owns the damn port. And I’m like, “Good for you, Sally! Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But also—kinda grosses me out! All those sweaty sailors, me included—ugh, the hygiene, the STENCH. Makes me wanna shower just thinkin’ bout it.

Palazzo Arese Borromeo

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After that, I’m feeling all hyped, so I decide to hit up the local art scene. I stroll down Via Garibaldi, and there’s this pop-up gallery. I walk in, and it’s like stepping into another world. Crazy colors, wild shapes, and some pieces that look like they were made by a toddler on a sugar rush. I’m laughing, thinking, “I could’ve done that!” But then I see this one piece that hits me hard. It’s a painting of the Tiber River, but it’s all twisted and dark. It’s like the artist captured the soul of Cesano. I’m standing there, feeling all the feels.

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