From my second book, temporarily called Lysa around the world:
Chapter 1, Childhood
Albums are important, or at least photographs. They tell stories our memories would struggle to remember. In those photographs I could see how happy my mum had been in those first years in Australia with my dad, whom I loved very much. She smiled loads, she was free and full of life and passionate.
Then, she gradually changed. Everybody was more serious in the pictures, angry, resentful. That’s after I came along. I knew it wasn’t her fault. It was just that shit happened and I came along at a bad time. But this mum, the mum they see in the pictures of when my siblings were little, I have never met. I would glimpse her on occasion, and I loved her terribly, but it was only a rare glimpse.
I missed my childhood. There is no doubt about that. Despite looking at it later with the eyes of an adult and realising it was a neglected, emotionally abrasive and damaging childhood, if I looked at it with the eyes of what was real, what felt real, I missed it.
I missed the freedom. If I looked back, I thought of instances I loved.
I thought of scattered green oases within a greater desert land, lush trees and grass and rumbling waterways. Cows grazing. This was the countryside around Arequipa, in Peru. I was always allowed, because there was nobody to say no, nobody to ask permission to, either, to go for the longest walks, getting lost in nature.
I wanted that back. I had often felt like I was waiting to have that back my whole life. One of the things I waited for was to go back to that.
I am sure many people miss their childhood, but how many live in the constant, daily craving to return to it? All this at the same time as being aware of all the good things in this life that are now present, that have passed and are yet to come.
1971 – 1976 New Zealand
My infancy began in Rome. I was born by Cesarean section there. The family (my pregnant mum, my dad and my siblings) was there because my dad got fed up and restless of a perfectly good work situation in Australia, decided to return to Italy by boat on an impulse, was penniless and jobless for months and then found a job in New Zealand. So I was born in Rome but conceived in New Zealand. He barely said hello to his third baby and departed again. We all joined him a couple of months later.
I was a couple of months old when my sister, my brother, my mum and I joined my dad in New Zealand. We lived in a lovely house by a big river, surrounded by trees and greenery. When I was old enough, 3 or 4, I used to tricycle to school. Sometimes I tried to keep up with my older sister, her friend and my brother who tagged along with them. I could never keep up with them for long. I used to climb trees, sometimes chasing our cats,
and bounce on the trampoline for ages and ages. I explored, alone, and loved every bit of it. And when I say every bit I mean I sometimes spent hours just interacting with the insects, the dirt, the blades of grass, the earthworms.
Sometimes we would have tremendous fun when my dad was there, organising film sessions where he was the man dressed in black, and he chased us around the woods around the house, in and out of empty gardens, and us kids completely loved it, and he would film it all.
I had a friend called Tyler, a little Maori kid, he was my best friend and the only one I remember, except for Bee,
who was my neighbour, a round headed blonde little girl, we used to climb under fences to see each other. Taylor was the best because he would climb trees with me, and he was better than me at climbing down, so while I got stuck on the tree a lot of the time, he would clamber down and tell my dad to come get me.
One of these times he hadn’t come in time and I fell and broke my arm.
On one occasion on a trip out, we were horse-back riding.
I was very little, maybe three? Everyone was on a horse, my dad was walking holding the rope for my horse. I loooooved being on that horse, so high up. We walked a long way, then we walked up a hill. On turning back however, my sister and brother’s horses went full gallop down the hill. My horse followed! I was scared of the galloping, but held on as much as I could, exhilarated, thrilled. At one point I was vaguely aware of my dad being dragged behind me, trying not to let go of the rope, bumping on his bottom as my horse got free, then veered off back to the road, and I fell, and rolled down the steep edge of the hill, and everything spun, and I wondered whether this was when I’d die. I didn’t, I remember my dad near me, I must have been fine.
This didn’t put me off horses, I still thought them amazing beautiful creatures. I was already jealous of my sister for having her own horse. I felt sure I would have one too, someday.
As a writer I’ve established I need to a) get rid of everything that was my life and b) regain a semblance of writing craft, one that I had loads of, once upon a time.
Hence this book.
Everything in it is as true as can be, considering my often failing memory. And yet, at the same time, because the truth is never black or white, there are always nuances, versions, perceptions. I don’t want to sound maudlin, I want my life to be pleasant to read, I want my book to show the adventure and the laughter and the beauty of freedom, rather than the sadness, the isolation, the awkwardness and the loneliness.
This is also why I am posting bits here. They’re for me, mainly, so I can come back and look at them with the eyes of an outsider.
Of course, any feedback is always welcome.