A TOENAIL THING

“SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”

I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.

I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.

Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask. “Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.

“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.

“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”

Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side. “OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”

I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”

Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”

I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”

Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”

I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”

Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.

Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”

Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine.

I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.

Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”

Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date. The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.”

She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.”

Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.

I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”

Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”

I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”

Carol nods her head vigorously in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”

I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.

Carol raises her eyebrows then asks with renewed spirit, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”

“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”

“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.”

A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato. Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.

“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”

“Right!” I agree enthusiastically.

The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”

“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.

Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”

“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,”

But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard open-handed slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”

I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.

A few minutes later, Carol exits her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides. She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”

Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.

“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”

Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.

“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.

Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”

I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”

Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”

Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and  screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall. She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.

I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal positon while her weeping intensifies.

I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers.

After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair.

Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”

I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.

Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand. We walk out onto the balcony then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, take the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass.

I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”

Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing. I’m over it”

We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night.

My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.

Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.

I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.

Neither of us speak a word.

Mehran Hashemi: A Poet’s Journey from Silence to Words  

I was born and raised in Iran, in a neighborhood where dreams often felt out of reach. Financial struggles shaped my childhood, and from an early age, I learned what it meant to fight—not with fists, but with resilience.  

“”blowing bubbles 

takes me back to my childhood

when i was immersed 

in sweet reveries 

dreaming of blooming hope

when the world’s vastness

could be grasped by my little hands 

and i wasn’t burdened 

by the sun that never sets””

As a student, I excelled academically, but beneath my achievements lay an unbearable weight of stress and anxiety. Something inside me whispered that I was different, that I was meant for something greater, yet the world outside wasn’t so kind. Bullying was a constant in my life—first as a child, then as a teenager in high school. My body felt weak, not just because of the torment I endured but also because of my fragile health. Chronic sinusitis and severe allergies kept me in and out of hospitals, making antibiotics a staple in my life. I was a slender, self-conscious boy, struggling with deep insecurities. I attended therapy for over a decade to navigate stress, social anxiety, and panic attacks. But no matter how hard I tried, I felt like I was drowning in a world that refused to understand me.

“”depression is like a dark umbrella 

that doesn’t let me

face the rain””

Then, in 2019, everything changed.  

Scrolling through Instagram, I came across a short, powerful poem. Just a few words, yet they carried an entire universe of meaning. Something about it resonated deeply with me, sparking a desire to create something just as meaningful. I started writing poetry—simple, short verses that captured my emotions, struggles, and hopes. At first, I hesitated to share them, but when I did, people connected with my words in ways I never imagined.  

“”if i am a poet today

it’s because i once gazed at the moon

and she reminded me  

that i carry a sun within””

For the first time, I felt seen. Writing became my sanctuary, a place where my thoughts—homeless for so long—finally found a home. The love and support I received encouraged me to keep writing, first on Instagram and then on other platforms. The more I wrote, the more my audience grew.  

“”when nobody was there

to listen to me 

i noticed the ears of a paper 

silently wanted to hear

so i talked  

then the world listened””

In 2023, I took the leap and published my first poetry book, Light Needs Darkness to Shine. The response was overwhelming. After that, I published Drinking Ink (2024), Caged Hope (2024), and Homeless Thoughts (2025).  

My poetry was also featured in Poets Straight from the Notes App (2024) and Musing Around at Midnight (2024). I later collaborated on My Sad is Sadder Than Yours (2023), an art-graphic poetry book, and Thunderstroke (2025), a poetical memoir.  

After publishing Light Needs Darkness to Shine, I began receiving significant recognition. I was featured in a paperback magazine, interviewed by several online platforms, and had articles written about my journey and my work. The attention and appreciation from readers and fellow creatives fueled my desire to keep writing and sharing my voice.  

Today, I continue to write, not just for myself but for those who feel unseen, unheard. I write for the child who, like me, felt too small for the world, for the dreamer who just needed one sentence to remind them they mattered.  

“”i know life can be ugly 

but remember 

everything has a reason 

like when you’re hopeless 

and your head is down 

you see a beautiful flower

on the ground that you couldn’t find 

through the sky”

Because sometimes, all it takes is a single poem to change a life.

Call My Friends And Tell Them That I Love Them

i’ve been waiting for you to call

me back. i don’t know why my

heart thinks we’re more than friends.

if i miss you too much and

end up freezing tell

the rest of them

the truth. that

i couldn’t help myself and i

am sorry that I couldn’t help but love

one more than the rest of them

Dream…

This story is about the adventures of a boy in his dream. Actually, I wanted to write about something else. Unfortunately, my heart was not drawn to them. So, I started. 3, 2, 1… We left.

     There lived a boy who was 6-7 years old, beautiful, medium height, with long hair and a small heart full of love, who was not like anyone else in the world. His real name was Milash. Every day the boy saw his favorite reindeer, Nerri, in his dreams and played with him. But this time, Milash faced scary and cruel events in his dream. That’s what happened in the dream. 

    The sky was dark, the wind was blowing. It looked like bad things were going on. Everything is covered with white snow. It’s quiet like pouring water around. Something was not visible. At that moment I called Nerry. There was no sound. After a moment I saw its branches in the distance. My deer was running towards me. I started running out of joy when I saw him. I looked and saw that Nerry was being chased by robbers. Knowing this, my heart stopped for a breath. Then I made my legs faster than before. But I couldn’t make it. They took my joint away before I left. I couldn’t hold back my tears after this incident. Because he was my companion since childhood.

Then I caught myself and began to follow the tracks of the robbers. I have no choice. Missing him tormented me every moment. Then I walked without stopping until the tracks were gone. Finally, I saw that they had entered a cave for the night and were talking. Then I waited for them to sleep. They slept. I slowly walked over to open the door to my caged steam room. I opened it now. A man woke up. Then the rest woke up and attacked. In the end, I was full, I threw everything and ran away. 

      The afternoon ended well. I am happy about it.

Khomidjonova Odina is a student of the 8th grade of the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov

	Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.

Examine a close reading of Brechtian theatrical drama “Mother Courage and Her Children”. 

“We’re doing an honest trade in ham and linen, and we’re peaceable folk” exemplifies Mother Courage’s mercenary enterprise that distinguishes her entrepreneurial proprietorship as the chief source of bread winning for the fulfilment in familial obligations. Sustenance of livelihood and survival hood is solely dependent upon the provisions of money generated from the returns of investment in the trade cart. The sergeant’s feigning of interest with the belt buckle and the recruiter’s abduction of Eiliff gobsmacks the dumb girl Kattrin, who gesticulates wildly. Eventually years follow and Eiliff is commissioned for pilferage and thievery of cattle from the supply wagons of the settlers.

Eliff’s “The Song of the Girl and the Soldier” is a notebly sung in chorus for the valour and bravery, gallantry and heroism in the office of the veteran general. However ousting of protestant by the Catholics implicates measures of extradition policies to exterminate the defenestrated regime. Catholic reinstatement to power is imminently catastrophic for these peaceable folks as soon as allied forces have been defeated by them. Mother Courage’s masquerading with chameleon stance and camouflaging Kattrin in ashes; Yuvette’s fastidiousness to wager a ransom price at the behest of Mother Courage to take over the custody of Swiss Cheese occur as an after effect of the repercussions. Mother Courage’s profit satisficing initiative forlorn recognition Swiss Cheeses’ cadaverous corpse ushered by the crusaders of Catholicism. “The Song of the Great Capitulation” is caroled by Mother Courage for her nonchalance and lackadaisical demeanor in involving herself into a court martial trail. “I changed me mind. I ain’t complaining” propounds her expostulation in refraining from alleging the battle. 

Black and white photo of a covered wagon with two women inside and two young men walking in front in breeches and shirts and scarves. The women are in skirts and coats with covered hair.

Nonetheless, Mother Courage snatching of the looted overcoat of the soldier and her preceding denial in offering clothes to bandage wounded crusaders subverts her bourgeois mercenary identity. Kattrin’s brandishing of her mother with the plank and the chaplain’s exploiting of the wardrobe outfit resurrects the impresario of veteran insignia. The braggadocio of Mother Courage is ameliorated by Kattrin’s uprising to feminist womanhood as reflected in the maternity caregiving to an orphaned destitute. Mother Courage is truly the distinct hyena of the battlefield in relegating pacifism to ruining her business. “War be damned” is inverted by Mother Courage through her militaristic stance to bolster profits. Painstakingly the male survivor Eillif is implicated in war crimes during peace treaty coalition and trailed to justice.

Ultimately Mother Courage and Kattrin are harboured to the brink of existentialism and grave inhumanity befalls upon their gothic macabre. “Once fertile areas are ravaged by famines, wolves roam the burnt out towns…Business is bad, so there is nothing to do but beg.” Mother Courage’s reclaimed womanhood and feminist body polity consciousness transcends patriarchy and masculinity as reflected in abjuration of employment in chaplain’s tavern. The heartwrenching predicament of Mother Courage and Kattrin as harrowing survivors envisions utopian legacy of peasantry and peasanthood, “Happy are those with shelter now/ When winter winds are freezing.”  

Mother Courage is alien to religiosity and ideologies and fosters ambivalence towards adversarial circumstances for her entrepreneurship. A formidable quester of wartime profiteer, striking, bargaining, lying and cheating to earn her survival. Brecht’s idolization of Mother Courage’s personae  cherishes transcendental triumphalism of Christianity: “hatred against the sin but love for the sinner”. Brecht’s heroine is a stalwart embodiment of craftiness, shrewdness, canniness and resourcefulness.

Brecht chastises and lambastes Mother Courage’s inhumanity towards the dead body of Swiss Cheese. This inevitably chilling climax crystallizes theatre audiences, readers and critics of modern European drama. Despite dumb, Kattrin, the guardian of goodness’ precautionary vigilance of crisis and her sacrificial martyrdom symbolizes an astounding climax without deus ex machina. Yuvette’s transformation into a colonel’s lady from a camp whore epitomizes pragmatism and materialism unlike other characters and their mise-en-scenes.

Unlike Mother Courage, Yuvette’s femininity and womanhood salvages to the brink of prosperity by discarding the world of squalor. Terrifying and endless struggles of Mother Courage breaches armistice and beseeches war feeding enterprises. Brecht’s characterization of soldiers and generals, stewardesses and butlers, harlots and whores, peasants and tradesmen harnesses twentieth century realistic traits of surviving a doggerel world. Warmongers are victimizers whose fatalistic preying dawns upon the human beings possessing virtues as pacifists and abolitionists of wars. Emotional appeal and theatrical flair of the tragical drama is the exposition of crucial roles cast by the victimized and traumatized as embodied by Mother Courage and Her Children. 

Further Reading, References and Endnotes

Brecht On Theatre Translation by John Willett, From the Mother Courage Model, pp. 215-221

Five Great Plays Mother Courage and Her Children pp. 207-215, Stephen Unwin, A Guide to the Plays of Bertolt Brecht, Bloomsbury. 

Where?!

I returned home back

But ………

Where’s my neighborhood?!

Where’s my friends?!

Where’s my home?!

Where’s my balcony?!

Where’s my Olivera?

Where’s my beautiful flowers?!

Where’s my cup of coffee?!

Where’s my books and papers?!

Where’s my memories? 

Where’s my things?!

Where am I  ?!

Ahmed Miqdad

Gaza

The interview with Michael Poryes turns into a script

“No one ever leaves a star. That’s what makes one a star.” (Sunset Boulevard, Billy Wilder)

But the idiot who leaves a star, rest assured that a real star will never allow his return, I say.

Here is how my interview with the great Michael Poryes begins. 

But it is certainly not a traditional interview. It cannot even be called an interview. 

It could be defined as an interesting exchange of experiences, of work and life, where the theme of fame opens many treasure chests, often dramatic.

I therefore “transgressively” skip all the questions that I should have asked the immense screenwriter and filmmaker Michael Poryes and begin to talk about Billy Wilder, his daughter Victoria Wilder, who I met recently, my contact with Gloria Swanson and still on Billy Wilder, for me the number one director in the history of cinema. 

An embarrassing statement, however, since Federico Fellini was my mentor. 

Michael thinks of Billy Wilder’s films, he can’t remember the title of Wilder’s most theatrical film and asks me. 

I : “The most beautiful film on the history of cinema and absolutely the most beautiful film in the history of cinema?” – I answer him – “… is “Sunset Boulevard”. 

The film par excellence about fame, the theme of Poryes’ most famous work, the four time Emmy nominated  “Hannah Montana”. 

Poryes answers me by telling me that Hannah Montana deals with the theme of fame, which instead in “Sunset Boulevard” is fiercely the protagonist. 

There is a common aspect between me and Poryes: we are both famous, with the problems of those who are famous and we both try to take fame away from our lives, invaded by fame. 

Michael tells me that, coincidentally, his son, yesterday, made him understand how his life can potentially be controlled by his fans, since his information is everywhere on the Internet.

Hannah Montana fans are many and each fan wants to penetrate the life of their star, Michael Poryes, the creator of Hannah Montana!

What do fans really want from their idols? A vast and delicate topic this.

One of the goals of the fans, often linked to unawareness, is to deprive the star of his golden mantle that he shows off on stage, to, in the end, reverse the roles. But how? Just like in: “Les Bonnes” by Jean Genet, where the star is physically killed, his power is killed, his magnetism and seduction is dethroned, to absurdly reinforce his incorporeal icon, which is the only thing that matters to a fan. Atrocious. And this is what happened to me now: someone has penetrated my orbit and attracted by my magnetism towards my core, the “metaphorically” mortal clash is now underway. Who will survive?

At this point Michael talks about Miley Stewart , a teenager who wants to become a pop star. As her success grows, her friends start to look at her differently. And when she, because of her success, moves to Malibu, Miley wants to change everything: she divides her personality between being a star and herself and so creates Hannah Montana. Miley wants to be treated as herself. I reply that this is why I can’t live my life and Michael tells me that you never know if someone is treating you genuinely or treating you to get something from you or they are around you to show off to their friends that they are your friends and never treat you honestly. 

Michael tells me that he has had friends since he wasn’t famous and they have never changed with him. And he asks me if it is the same for me. I reply yes, but mine is an unconvincing “yes”, since the energy of the few friends I have is captured by all the others who treat me for my fame. 

Michael says that his career has had notable ups and downs, as he assumes mine has also been. Yes, my career has also had moments of glory and moments of oblivion, like the character of Norma Desmond. 

And Michael adds that it is very difficult to navigate between people who are your friends, but who are also friends of your fame and people who are just your friends. 

All this gets complicated when you are a teenager. You have to understand if your parents use you for the money you produce. I quote Amy Winehouse where the family does not seem interested in Amy, as a human being, but to be interested in her, as long as Amy produces money, so Amy, feeling useful, abuses drugs, to keep up with her shows, and then dies for this and for a love lived in this context. Atrocious. They talk about Lady Gaga and her mother, Sophia Loren and her mother, Cher and her mother. The theme again moves away from Hannah Montana, but the background on fame broadens.

I feel it is right to make known my dramatic relationship with my father, in relation to my fame, obtained, as with Miley Stewart/ Hannah Montana, as a teenager.

My father, a powerful lawyer, destroyed my friendship with Federico Fellini, forbade RAI TV, the Italian state television, from working with them, completely tore me away from my world of entertainment which for me was life, and I, in short, found myself alone, collapsed on the floor of my house in the grip of a powerful depression that isolated me from everything, everyone and even from myself, a depression fueled by my father for years, while Fellini called me for his films and my father tore those vital calls, as oxygen, from my life, because they would have given me back my fame, now in agony like me!

Michael is struck by this dramatic story of mine: because of my fame, my father literally rejected me as a son and punished me for no longer being his son Federico, for having become Wardal! Atrocious.

Only after my father’s death, little by little, without strength and disappointed by everything, I was collected out of pity by a great playwright who imposed me once again on the great stage and when I heard the loud applause of the audience, forgotten due to my long absence, I said to myself, with tears in my eyes, while the curtain fell: “Wardal, listen! You can no longer leave your audience, since it is the only one that loves you and will always love you! Courage, Wardal, you are not guilty of being Wardal! You see, they call you back for the applause! And then, Wardal return to the stage and be Wardal forever! ” .

I was sorry, really, to have vented with the great Michael Poryes, but it was inevitable: the themes of his Miley Stewart/Hannah Montana are so close to mine! Since long ago, now, forever. 

Michael comments on how slippery our world of entertainment is, repeating that the anchor for him are true friends that Michael has because he is whole, intact: Michael has never been contaminated by his fame. 

That’s why Michael has the same friends as always who have never changed with him, because Michael has never changed. Michael believes in friendship, where fame has no access. Another problem in our entertainment industry is people who want fame without wanting to study, without any preparation that deprives the possibility of believing in something and there is the absence of authenticity since, with my personal experience, I have often seen scripts presented as originals that were instead totally copied from famous scripts, never well read, that were authentic flops. 

Another aspect of our entertainment world is that it always requires us to be reborn when we do not feel the need, to renew ourselves when we do not feel the need, to change when we do not feel the need and it takes a continuous “Metamorphosis” to sell, a “product” forced to be born?! A show that I am writing is called “Metamorphosis” and I will share it with Michael, since I know that he is an authentic artist, an authentic person. 

A great and current initiative of Poryes is to have rewritten the story of Al Kamilah, immortalized in the non-fiction film: “Al Kamilah the miracle filly” by Angela Alioto directed by Christopher A. Salvador , into a children’s picture book . The story that has fascinated and still fascinates social media is that of a filly for which no one wanted to try anything to save her life and Angela Alioto, on the contrary, trying everything and believing in the miracle, after months and months of dedication and love, saved her life. The book will be released soon illustrated. Poryes believes in believing and, in my opinion, believing only takes place in genuine, honest, authentic beings and that belief can produce miracles. 

Michael Poryes, recently becomes very popular also in Italy by Sky TV for his TV series called: “Home, Sweet Rome”, which broadcast by Max an enhanced streaming platform from Warner Bros has obtained in 2024 a huge success also in the USA. “Home, Sweet Rome” is a comedy that has totally interested the Hannah Montana audience, since like Hannah Montana it focuses on the teenager Lucy, played by Kensington Tallman, who changes her life and moves from California to Rome with her father and in with her stepmother, Francesca, who is an Italian pop star! The theme of fame reappears again, but it is less evident and everyone identifies with Lucy, immersed in a new life, in a new culture. Wonderful scenarios of the city of Rome open up with the irresistible glamour of Italian fashion and Roman life that my mentor Fellini immortalized with his most famous film “La dolce vita” and where the air of Fellini remains at the Trevi Fountain, in Via Margutta, at the “Canova” and “Rosati” bars in Piazza del Popolo where I used to go with Fellini and now it seems like I’m having a coffee with Lucy.