Gabriella Montanaro Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Catania

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.

The Night Mail

Montanaro (student of Marcel Marceau) in the Sculpture Garden, or puppeteer Marshall Izen in the Founders Room. No RSVP necessary. (See.

But then, outta nowhere, this lady starts wailing. I mean, full-on opera style. I’m standing there, trying not to laugh. Like, lady, chill! It’s not a concert! But then I feel bad for her. I mean, grief is a weird thing, right? It hits you like a truck.

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