"The poor little Mexican
gal in Calexico, writing
on Oct 1 1952 to Manuel
Perez in Watsonville whose
clothing & belongings I found
intact on the Pajaro levee
dump, wants money to
buy a tablecloth—can
you picture an American
woman asking money for
such a humble, useful
purpose—“unos manteles
para la mesa." "Honey,"
she says, "dime porque no
me has escrito”—“tiene
tan...pensamientos para ti."
She loves him—I am
wearing all his clothes not
knowing whether he's alive or
dead-or in the Army?
I found several of her
sad letters on that dump,
in October,—in the dry
dust, just before the rainy
Season,—"
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Belfast Rememory
9 November 1968
Ciao, S—
(I fancy saying that. Relish it really…)
Anyway, you asked me once how I met my wife. I remember that night and the things to which we admitted. But I couldn’t then talk about her. But I owe you this one. So, in answer to your question, I met Katherine in Belfast…
That was right after I’d finished university in the States and decided to go back home to continue my studies. I was up North at Queen’s, and I found a nice place within walking distance. The elderly proprietress had never rented to a man before, and I think she finally did to me under false pretences. I gave my name as Dr. Brannan—in anticipation of the fact—and she must have thought that meant 'medic.' She probably hoped I would be able to treat the whole house if any Orangies tried to bomb us out.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t slept any the night before. I’d been at the library with my head between the pages of some Elizabethan author, and all I could think to do was collapse onto my bed once I’d gotten a few things moved into the flat out of storage. My flat was in the basement, dark and damp, but it was good enough. But that bed would not do. It must have belonged to the woman’s eldest son about the time he was in grammar school. It was short and narrow, and it had to go. Some boys from the college helped me carry a new double bed through the streets of Belfast all the way to my flat. (We put the old bed out in the coal shed.) When we showed up with that bed up on our shoulders, the old lady could not have looked more scandalised. ‘What use does a single man have for a double bed?’ It was mostly an accusation. She probably imagined loads of evil snogging was going to happen in her basement. She would have been right. That’s where I met Katherine afterall.
She lived in the upstairs flat and took care of the proprietress’s books. I didn’t know that for a while, though. I’d seen her coming and going from the house nearly every day at seven, wearing an orange beanie. I could count on seeing her walking back up to the house just before eight on those mornings, usually with an armful of chrysanthemums and a piece of fruit, and sometimes an old library book. Between seven and eight, I would imagine her walking the streets of Belfast, picking up an apple from the market, smelling every flower the peddlers had for sale before picking the brightest mums. I was envious of those mornings, of the streets and the sky. They had her.
I was late to my eight o’clock seminar nearly every day, but it was worth it just to catch a glimpse of that orange cap. One morning I didn’t see her at all. It was a wet day, but that had never stopped her from going out before. I was concerned, but there was little I could do, so I gathered my things and prepared for class. On my way out, I heard Katherine speaking to the old woman behind the door of the flat one flight up. I froze, for how long I don’t know, but I stayed just outside my own door until the door above opened. I pretended that I had just arrived back at my flat. Katherine saw me, and we made some sort of polite greeting. I commented on the dreary weather and somehow managed to convince her to take tea with me. You know as well as I know that I am not a charming man, and I think she only agreed because she had it in her nature to be a compassionate person. And I was just the poor, bookish bachelor sequestered to the dank basement.
There was something about the way she smiled. Katherine had an illegible smile, indelible. I remember she was wearing periwinkle trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. She smelled just like ripe tangerines. I don’t remember what we talked about—or if we even said anything at all—but I knew. She had misty, amber-coloured eyes to match her chamomile tea. I never made it to class that day.
I miss those days, especially at this time of the year when the air is wet and cold like it was the day I met my wife. I miss her. And you. And Ireland. I’m getting away from myself now. This was probably more than you were expecting when you asked how I met Katherine. But I just remembered that I had never answered your question. I hope that helps explain a bit.
Dia duit,
J
Ciao, S—
(I fancy saying that. Relish it really…)
Anyway, you asked me once how I met my wife. I remember that night and the things to which we admitted. But I couldn’t then talk about her. But I owe you this one. So, in answer to your question, I met Katherine in Belfast…
That was right after I’d finished university in the States and decided to go back home to continue my studies. I was up North at Queen’s, and I found a nice place within walking distance. The elderly proprietress had never rented to a man before, and I think she finally did to me under false pretences. I gave my name as Dr. Brannan—in anticipation of the fact—and she must have thought that meant 'medic.' She probably hoped I would be able to treat the whole house if any Orangies tried to bomb us out.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t slept any the night before. I’d been at the library with my head between the pages of some Elizabethan author, and all I could think to do was collapse onto my bed once I’d gotten a few things moved into the flat out of storage. My flat was in the basement, dark and damp, but it was good enough. But that bed would not do. It must have belonged to the woman’s eldest son about the time he was in grammar school. It was short and narrow, and it had to go. Some boys from the college helped me carry a new double bed through the streets of Belfast all the way to my flat. (We put the old bed out in the coal shed.) When we showed up with that bed up on our shoulders, the old lady could not have looked more scandalised. ‘What use does a single man have for a double bed?’ It was mostly an accusation. She probably imagined loads of evil snogging was going to happen in her basement. She would have been right. That’s where I met Katherine afterall.
She lived in the upstairs flat and took care of the proprietress’s books. I didn’t know that for a while, though. I’d seen her coming and going from the house nearly every day at seven, wearing an orange beanie. I could count on seeing her walking back up to the house just before eight on those mornings, usually with an armful of chrysanthemums and a piece of fruit, and sometimes an old library book. Between seven and eight, I would imagine her walking the streets of Belfast, picking up an apple from the market, smelling every flower the peddlers had for sale before picking the brightest mums. I was envious of those mornings, of the streets and the sky. They had her.
I was late to my eight o’clock seminar nearly every day, but it was worth it just to catch a glimpse of that orange cap. One morning I didn’t see her at all. It was a wet day, but that had never stopped her from going out before. I was concerned, but there was little I could do, so I gathered my things and prepared for class. On my way out, I heard Katherine speaking to the old woman behind the door of the flat one flight up. I froze, for how long I don’t know, but I stayed just outside my own door until the door above opened. I pretended that I had just arrived back at my flat. Katherine saw me, and we made some sort of polite greeting. I commented on the dreary weather and somehow managed to convince her to take tea with me. You know as well as I know that I am not a charming man, and I think she only agreed because she had it in her nature to be a compassionate person. And I was just the poor, bookish bachelor sequestered to the dank basement.
There was something about the way she smiled. Katherine had an illegible smile, indelible. I remember she was wearing periwinkle trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. She smelled just like ripe tangerines. I don’t remember what we talked about—or if we even said anything at all—but I knew. She had misty, amber-coloured eyes to match her chamomile tea. I never made it to class that day.
I miss those days, especially at this time of the year when the air is wet and cold like it was the day I met my wife. I miss her. And you. And Ireland. I’m getting away from myself now. This was probably more than you were expecting when you asked how I met Katherine. But I just remembered that I had never answered your question. I hope that helps explain a bit.
Dia duit,
J
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
26
Dear Andy,
Don't tell the other girls, but I have the best big brother ever. Happy birthday! I love you.
-Becca
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Carpet Squares, Red Balloons, and Other Things That Don't Really Go Together
The Red Balloon never made much sense to me, even then, sitting on a carpet square in Mrs. Seeger’s second grade classroom, behind Ben Daugherty and his pointy elf ear, lifting our chubby first two fingers up in the air as high as we could to quiet our peers. The tile floor would be a mosaic of carpet squares in baby blues and camels and the lone hunter green square that everyone fought over. When the carpet squares came out, that’s when the fun began: room switch.
That movie always depressed me—why did we watch it so often?? It left me feeling empty, scolded, and tired. Could this have just been the effect of sitting on a hard floor with only an 18” x 27” carpet square for nearly forty minutes in the midst of other mouth-breathing second graders? Or did the silent French film really have some profound effect on my tiny psyche? Or…not so tiny psyche after all…? For me there was something evil about it, something sacrificial maybe. That’s what I couldn’t get past, every time I watched it. Was I too sensitive? Or was I just too…old…for a second grader?
(Little boys can’t be lifted off the ground by balloons; I don’t care how many there are.)
Oh the joy of writing! I remember how easy it was for me and how fulfilled I felt after finishing a story (though I started countless more than I ever finished). My first story was an explanation as to why mice have long tails. My take? An elephant stepped on the mouse’s stubby tail just as he was trying to run away from the elephant, and his tail suffered the stretch. It was a fantastically neat and simple explanation, one I remember being proud of, most likely because it was so practical. Always a perfectionist, even first-grade Rebecca kept things nice and tidy without too much imaginative distraction.
I was so proud to see my story (with illustrations!) tacked up on the cork board tract outside Room 2 along with my classmates’. I eyed it with pride—my own cover drawing of the fleeing mouse waving at me, “Hello! Hello!”—either during bathroom breaks or on walks down to the office—but only when I was on mail duty, the most coveted job on the list. I loved school, still do I guess (or maybe just the idea of it). I loved how the last breezes of the summer would rush through the open doors and how the assignments and construction paper artwork on the cork board runners would flap like autumn leaves. I loved the look and smell of a brand new box of crayons and just how bright my white tennis shoes would be for the whole first week.
Kristen Miller lived up the street from us, and she and Andy were in the same grade. She gave me her clear jelly sandals, the ones with the little fruits appliquéd on the instep. They hurt like hell, even on my summer feet, but I was so proud of them. She showed me how to take out a lightening bug’s glowing bulb and stick it to my finger where it would continue to pulse. Even as a kid, I was slightly disturbed by such destruction of property. Kristen had a cousin named Tyler who was a year younger than I. She wanted us to be friends. I pictured a tire swing every time I heard his name.
I was a flower child growing up, whether I knew it or not. I remember spending summer afternoons with my dad, playing with the tadpoles in the puddle at the edge of the rocks. He showed me how to cup my two chubby fists around enough water for one to swim in my hands. Or I would dig up dandelions with my mom in the backyard, being careful to get all the roots out.
How strange it was to live a precocious childhood, to have been serious and shy, knowing that someday I'd make friends my own age.
(If I had a bunch of balloons, I would fly away too.)
That movie always depressed me—why did we watch it so often?? It left me feeling empty, scolded, and tired. Could this have just been the effect of sitting on a hard floor with only an 18” x 27” carpet square for nearly forty minutes in the midst of other mouth-breathing second graders? Or did the silent French film really have some profound effect on my tiny psyche? Or…not so tiny psyche after all…? For me there was something evil about it, something sacrificial maybe. That’s what I couldn’t get past, every time I watched it. Was I too sensitive? Or was I just too…old…for a second grader?
(Little boys can’t be lifted off the ground by balloons; I don’t care how many there are.)
Oh the joy of writing! I remember how easy it was for me and how fulfilled I felt after finishing a story (though I started countless more than I ever finished). My first story was an explanation as to why mice have long tails. My take? An elephant stepped on the mouse’s stubby tail just as he was trying to run away from the elephant, and his tail suffered the stretch. It was a fantastically neat and simple explanation, one I remember being proud of, most likely because it was so practical. Always a perfectionist, even first-grade Rebecca kept things nice and tidy without too much imaginative distraction.
I was so proud to see my story (with illustrations!) tacked up on the cork board tract outside Room 2 along with my classmates’. I eyed it with pride—my own cover drawing of the fleeing mouse waving at me, “Hello! Hello!”—either during bathroom breaks or on walks down to the office—but only when I was on mail duty, the most coveted job on the list. I loved school, still do I guess (or maybe just the idea of it). I loved how the last breezes of the summer would rush through the open doors and how the assignments and construction paper artwork on the cork board runners would flap like autumn leaves. I loved the look and smell of a brand new box of crayons and just how bright my white tennis shoes would be for the whole first week.
Kristen Miller lived up the street from us, and she and Andy were in the same grade. She gave me her clear jelly sandals, the ones with the little fruits appliquéd on the instep. They hurt like hell, even on my summer feet, but I was so proud of them. She showed me how to take out a lightening bug’s glowing bulb and stick it to my finger where it would continue to pulse. Even as a kid, I was slightly disturbed by such destruction of property. Kristen had a cousin named Tyler who was a year younger than I. She wanted us to be friends. I pictured a tire swing every time I heard his name.
I was a flower child growing up, whether I knew it or not. I remember spending summer afternoons with my dad, playing with the tadpoles in the puddle at the edge of the rocks. He showed me how to cup my two chubby fists around enough water for one to swim in my hands. Or I would dig up dandelions with my mom in the backyard, being careful to get all the roots out.
How strange it was to live a precocious childhood, to have been serious and shy, knowing that someday I'd make friends my own age.
(If I had a bunch of balloons, I would fly away too.)
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Dante and Boccaccio Walk in to a Bar...
“Cin, cin!” Dante Alighieri and Giovanni Boccaccio exchanged as they clink their raised glasses of beer. Dante looked down into his mug before he stated:
“You know, Boccaccio, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this country of ours’. It seems like things are always changing; sometimes I think we have a new foreign king just about every week! First we had the Normans, then the French. When will Italy be Italian?! In my opinion, we all need to get behind the Pope. He is the one who should have all the power. Besides, a country is only as good and prosperous as it is virtuous; if we all practiced religious virtuosity we wouldn’t have so many problems.”
“Easy for you to say, Dante. You were born into nobility and always had it easy. I, on the other hand, am the illegitimate son of a merchant! I have always been looked down upon. I studied in Napoli, but my life wasn’t easy. I got ahead in life on my wit and intellect. If you ask me, that’s what will keep Italy together, even while this Black Death wreaks complete havoc on our cities. And you know what I think? I think maybe the Church is part of the problem. There’s so much hypocrisy, what with all these wealthy friars who have supposedly given their lives to charity and chastity. Why do you think I set the Decameron in the Tuscan countryside? The cities are just outposts of religious hypocrisy,” Boccaccio stated. “I wanted my characters to get out where they could breathe clean air, literally and figuratively.”
“Boccaccio! What you speak of is heresy! How can you go against the Church? Maybe the problem is that we were writing almost 30 years apart, and times were different. But we must live our lives for God. Otherwise you will descend into Hell! Don’t you remember what I said about the time I visited Hell? ‘…the grim terrain shook violently; and the fright it gave me even now in recollection makes me sweat. Out of the tear-drenched land a wind arose which blasted forth into a reddish light, knocking my senses out of me completely, and I fell as one falls tired into sleep.’”
“As terrifying as Hell sounds, I think this pestilence is hell enough. I prefer to enjoy life now, while I know that I still have life. Besides, there are many reasons for a man to fall to the ground, as you did in Hell. Why, take Ser Ciapelletto from my own opera. ‘He was a great glutton and phenomenal drinker, so much so, in fact, that sometimes he suffered in a, well, less than polite way.’ He had a great many other vices, but in the end, his wit got the best of everyone, and he became a saint! He’s not so unlike some of the saints and friars I know of these days,” Boccaccio declared before gulping down the last of his beer.
“Giovanni Boccaccio! You are a lost cause! I’ve lost my taste for this drink now, not only because of the way you gluttonously slurped yours down but also for all the blasphemy you’re preaching,” said Dante with a huff.
“So, uh…I guess you won’t be finishing that…?” And with that, Boccaccio reached across the table for Dante’s beer and finished it in one swallow.
“You know, Boccaccio, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this country of ours’. It seems like things are always changing; sometimes I think we have a new foreign king just about every week! First we had the Normans, then the French. When will Italy be Italian?! In my opinion, we all need to get behind the Pope. He is the one who should have all the power. Besides, a country is only as good and prosperous as it is virtuous; if we all practiced religious virtuosity we wouldn’t have so many problems.”
“Easy for you to say, Dante. You were born into nobility and always had it easy. I, on the other hand, am the illegitimate son of a merchant! I have always been looked down upon. I studied in Napoli, but my life wasn’t easy. I got ahead in life on my wit and intellect. If you ask me, that’s what will keep Italy together, even while this Black Death wreaks complete havoc on our cities. And you know what I think? I think maybe the Church is part of the problem. There’s so much hypocrisy, what with all these wealthy friars who have supposedly given their lives to charity and chastity. Why do you think I set the Decameron in the Tuscan countryside? The cities are just outposts of religious hypocrisy,” Boccaccio stated. “I wanted my characters to get out where they could breathe clean air, literally and figuratively.”
“Boccaccio! What you speak of is heresy! How can you go against the Church? Maybe the problem is that we were writing almost 30 years apart, and times were different. But we must live our lives for God. Otherwise you will descend into Hell! Don’t you remember what I said about the time I visited Hell? ‘…the grim terrain shook violently; and the fright it gave me even now in recollection makes me sweat. Out of the tear-drenched land a wind arose which blasted forth into a reddish light, knocking my senses out of me completely, and I fell as one falls tired into sleep.’”
“As terrifying as Hell sounds, I think this pestilence is hell enough. I prefer to enjoy life now, while I know that I still have life. Besides, there are many reasons for a man to fall to the ground, as you did in Hell. Why, take Ser Ciapelletto from my own opera. ‘He was a great glutton and phenomenal drinker, so much so, in fact, that sometimes he suffered in a, well, less than polite way.’ He had a great many other vices, but in the end, his wit got the best of everyone, and he became a saint! He’s not so unlike some of the saints and friars I know of these days,” Boccaccio declared before gulping down the last of his beer.
“Giovanni Boccaccio! You are a lost cause! I’ve lost my taste for this drink now, not only because of the way you gluttonously slurped yours down but also for all the blasphemy you’re preaching,” said Dante with a huff.
“So, uh…I guess you won’t be finishing that…?” And with that, Boccaccio reached across the table for Dante’s beer and finished it in one swallow.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Lullaby
Paint me in blues, reds, and purples, like a Tom Waits song of disproportionate beauty and fear, illiterate and shivering, naked, stark, and resplendent.
Picture me in the sunset, escaping just beyond the horizon line, disappearing from your line of sight into memory.
Remember me standing on bare tiptoes, reaching for the last orange on the tree, arms outstretched like branches crying for the clouds.
See me everywhere and nowhere at all, blooming like late summer goldenrod between rows of weeping sunflowers, bowed down to the first days of the Fall.
Anticipate the rain and feel like spring, waiting for your mother's hand to pull the leaves down around your sleeping eyes.
Lend me your boat for crossing the river and forgive its incorrigible darkness as you push me away.
Go home and listen to the sounds the sun makes as it bulges its belly into the corners of your room, popping like toy fireworks on pavement.
Blame it on disposition, constitution, intuition--anything but chance. Because what is whim without desire? What takes the place of anything once it's gone?
Wake up where you fell asleep and take the love from your back pocket. Flip to the last page and onto it pen: A voice made for lullabies will never speak many words.
Picture me in the sunset, escaping just beyond the horizon line, disappearing from your line of sight into memory.
Remember me standing on bare tiptoes, reaching for the last orange on the tree, arms outstretched like branches crying for the clouds.
See me everywhere and nowhere at all, blooming like late summer goldenrod between rows of weeping sunflowers, bowed down to the first days of the Fall.
Anticipate the rain and feel like spring, waiting for your mother's hand to pull the leaves down around your sleeping eyes.
Lend me your boat for crossing the river and forgive its incorrigible darkness as you push me away.
Go home and listen to the sounds the sun makes as it bulges its belly into the corners of your room, popping like toy fireworks on pavement.
Blame it on disposition, constitution, intuition--anything but chance. Because what is whim without desire? What takes the place of anything once it's gone?
Wake up where you fell asleep and take the love from your back pocket. Flip to the last page and onto it pen: A voice made for lullabies will never speak many words.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Trapeze Swinger
For me this song is like the smell of spring rain, a warm hand hold, and wet grass between my toes.
It's just like being up and being down in the same moment, holding a baby for the first time, or burying a friend I barely knew.
It's everything all at once and nothing at all, like being warm in the middle of the winter.
When I hear it, I think of my grandmother's rose bush on the side of my house and how we could always count on a rose for my brother's November birthday.
When he sings, I feel the way I did when I first sang out loud.
It's the sunrise and the sunset, my last yawn before falling asleep and my first thought upon waking.
This song is beauty in emptiness.
It's just like being up and being down in the same moment, holding a baby for the first time, or burying a friend I barely knew.
It's everything all at once and nothing at all, like being warm in the middle of the winter.
When I hear it, I think of my grandmother's rose bush on the side of my house and how we could always count on a rose for my brother's November birthday.
When he sings, I feel the way I did when I first sang out loud.
It's the sunrise and the sunset, my last yawn before falling asleep and my first thought upon waking.
This song is beauty in emptiness.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Italian Sunday
On my trek to il duomo for Mass one Sunday morning, I passed an old man coming out of la pasticceria on Via Ulisse Rocchi, carrying a cake-sized package tied with red string. He looked so happy; he wore a terrifically huge grin on his face, just like a little boy who'd just been given his first red bicycle. I couldn't help being delighted myself. I saw him eyeing my grin, and I mentally cleared by throat. But instead of a polite "Buon giorno" the cute old man positively burst with a joyful, "CIAO!"
I returned it with equal gusto, feeling happy and warm to the tips of my fingers.
I returned it with equal gusto, feeling happy and warm to the tips of my fingers.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Jesus Is Coming: Look Busy
Heard during a game of water pong at the Slanty Shack in northern Missouri on a cold January night:
Drew: "If Jesus were here, they'd all be wine."
Greg: "At least purified water."
Drew: "If Jesus were here, they'd all be wine."
Greg: "At least purified water."
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Nella Stazione
Approaching the Giarre-Riposto station, the voyeur in me immediately spots the 20-something couple making out on the platform, surrounded by other waiting Sicilians. She has her hair up in a high, side pony-tail, something I have seen since about the 3rd grade. She's taller than he is, poor bastard. I can't see much of him from the way he's positioned, but he appears to be not only shorter, but slighter in frame than his perfectly average girlfriend.
Even from my window on this moving train I can clearly see her wide-open eyes, mid lip-lock and all. I wonder which of them is leaving. Is she relieved to see him go? to finally get him and his short-man syndrome out of her life--if not for good--at least for a while? or is she looking forward to leaving him in Catania while she escapes to something more? And does he have any idea at all?
In my mind, I smirk and shamefully make horns with my lifted index and pinkie fingers.
Even from my window on this moving train I can clearly see her wide-open eyes, mid lip-lock and all. I wonder which of them is leaving. Is she relieved to see him go? to finally get him and his short-man syndrome out of her life--if not for good--at least for a while? or is she looking forward to leaving him in Catania while she escapes to something more? And does he have any idea at all?
In my mind, I smirk and shamefully make horns with my lifted index and pinkie fingers.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Two Thumbs Up for America
Twenty hours, two take-offs, and two landings prior to the capture of this photo, I was sipping a cappuccino and eating a Nutella cornetto at a Roman bar. And while I will miss shooting Italian espressos for 60 euro cents at any bar of my choosing, I enjoy being back in America, where I can get free (tap) water at the airport Starbucks and be the most dressed-up 20-something on the plane--even in a t-shirt and jacket. Hello, America.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Don't Wait Up for Me
My time as a Perugian is winding down. I'd like to think that, despite a halo of red hairs giving me away, I have dug in enough to pass as a local. But I'm ready to uproot myself and move on. I'm ready to stay up all night in Spain and drink wine with cheese in France. And when the train once more in Italy stops, I will be ready for the reunion. I hope il Mezzogiorno will also be ready for its latest visitor.
For all the love I have for Europe, I have even more for the Midwest, my true country. I can pass for una ragazza italiana, but I am a Midwesterner through and through; I always will be. I have come to love America (absence really does make the heart grow fonder, no?). Some nights I dream I am driving on a dusty road West. Always westward... Maybe the truth is that I can never be satisfied unless I am moving from place to place, with never enough time to understand or be understood. Maybe it doesn't matter, though, because this is just who I am.
For all the love I have for Europe, I have even more for the Midwest, my true country. I can pass for una ragazza italiana, but I am a Midwesterner through and through; I always will be. I have come to love America (absence really does make the heart grow fonder, no?). Some nights I dream I am driving on a dusty road West. Always westward... Maybe the truth is that I can never be satisfied unless I am moving from place to place, with never enough time to understand or be understood. Maybe it doesn't matter, though, because this is just who I am.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Relocation
Ciao a tutti!
I am here in Perugia, and I have to say I may never return. Well, if I had a choice anyway. No, no, no. But really, I cannot explain how much I have fallen in love with this city and its people. It is the perfect Italian city to learn the language. I am already spelling English words wrong and thinking in Italian. They say actors learn a language better because you have to become a different person. Sono d accordo (mi dispiace, I cannot find the apostrophe button on this European keyboard). I feel like speaking and thinking in Italian has brought out a different person. In class today (my first of the semester), I joked around with il professore. He called me problematic, polemic. Ma, tutto va bene. I live in an apartment in sight of the famous Etruscan arch (look it up) with two Americans and an Italian ragazza dal Sud. Giulia (la Sud) made us dinner our first night, and her boyfriend Giovannis brothers (Giusseppe e Francesco) and his sorella Eleonora came over too. It was...unlike anything. Everyday is an adventure. The food is great, the people are great, tutto va bene. I dont have my computer, so I dont have as much time to actually write so much as give a briefing on what Im doing (unfortunately), so this and consecutive blogs will probably seem really chaotic, frenetic, and schizophrenic. But I will try to write when I can. Also, I have set up another blog to keep my parents and family, etc., up to date. That address is: gaelicandgarlic488.blogspot.com. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want. OK, ciao. Vi voglio tanto bene.
I am here in Perugia, and I have to say I may never return. Well, if I had a choice anyway. No, no, no. But really, I cannot explain how much I have fallen in love with this city and its people. It is the perfect Italian city to learn the language. I am already spelling English words wrong and thinking in Italian. They say actors learn a language better because you have to become a different person. Sono d accordo (mi dispiace, I cannot find the apostrophe button on this European keyboard). I feel like speaking and thinking in Italian has brought out a different person. In class today (my first of the semester), I joked around with il professore. He called me problematic, polemic. Ma, tutto va bene. I live in an apartment in sight of the famous Etruscan arch (look it up) with two Americans and an Italian ragazza dal Sud. Giulia (la Sud) made us dinner our first night, and her boyfriend Giovannis brothers (Giusseppe e Francesco) and his sorella Eleonora came over too. It was...unlike anything. Everyday is an adventure. The food is great, the people are great, tutto va bene. I dont have my computer, so I dont have as much time to actually write so much as give a briefing on what Im doing (unfortunately), so this and consecutive blogs will probably seem really chaotic, frenetic, and schizophrenic. But I will try to write when I can. Also, I have set up another blog to keep my parents and family, etc., up to date. That address is: gaelicandgarlic488.blogspot.com. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want. OK, ciao. Vi voglio tanto bene.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Darning with the Milk-Eyed Mender
I am convinced that Joanna Newsom is a Medieval wood nymph and/or elf. I think once my harp-playing skills have improved I will join her in the forest.
Or maybe instead, I'll join this troupe. Yeeeaah...
Or maybe instead, I'll join this troupe. Yeeeaah...
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The Queen of the Forest
The orator stated his case
As he tore the bandages loose.
And the ladies of the royal court
Began to shriek most wretchedly
When the picture window revealed
The king’s well-hidden secret.
And on the steps of the canal
The pretty girls in yellow robes
Danced thrice around the toppled throne
While the queen of the Old Forest
Cast sidelong glances at the prince,
Perched in disaffected silence.
And St. Ignatius was making
Deals with lions in the back hall
While Eusebius turned his head.
Then angel choirs soaked in gold
Saturated the air with grace
Begging only that they be heard.
But surely the king will not come
And the queen will survive the Fall.
Ignatius will woo the lions
And go once more to Antioch
Where the dour prince will find his voice
‘Til the flood comes and takes them all.
A Word About Warmth
It was the first of the month, so, naturally, I was taking my rent to the drop box in the basement of my apartment building. Down three flights of stairs, past the mailboxes, around the corner and through a doorway, down another set of stairs—I came out by the laundry machines and stopped. I felt like I’d just been wrapped up in a loving embrace. And—no joke—I laughed out loud with glee. I seriously considered staying there for the rest of the day just soaking up that soft, loving warmth like a baby in her mother’s arms. But the image was fleeting; after dropping my envelope in the box for “RENT”, I threw on my winter coat and went out into the cold, April afternoon.
Fever Dream
I can barely remember the last time I was sick. But by my estimate the last time I was this achy and sniffly was somewhere around January 11, 2008. I guess I’ve been well overdue for some kind of setback.
The little buggers always catch up with me when I’m down. That’s how I can remember the exact date of my last malady; there was a circumstance (which is of absolutely no importance to me now, and therefore will not be regaled here) that tripped me up around the time of January 11, 2008.
This time my illness arrived on the heels of a particularly surprising phone conversation with my mother. The afternoon was beautiful—one of the first really nice days this month—but I’d been cold all day. Really, I’ve been cold all month…not important. My tears on the phone surprised me, though, and in an agonizingly sparse monologue I let my mother in on all that had been gnawing at me. I haven’t been happy for months; I’ve been battling too much with my self. In a soothing, sage-like sigh I would never have expected from her, she dispelled my demons.
Just a few hours later, though, it all caught up to me. Every dirty doorknob I’d touched, every sneeze I’d walked downwind of, and every glass I’d shared with unassuming germ carriers came back to haunt me. My throat flamed up, my back ached, and my brain felt like it was trying to squeeze its way out of my skull.
After two nights of waking up at 2 to the sound of intoxicated sorority girls classin’ it up below my window, I decided to take something to help me fall asleep…and stay that way for a while. When I finally awoke at 7:30 (a good hour later than usual), I noticed that I’d been sleeping on the wrong pillow and the wrong side of the bed.
What dreams must I have forgotten by morning to have ended up on that pillow, on that side of the bed…with ash on my forehead.
The little buggers always catch up with me when I’m down. That’s how I can remember the exact date of my last malady; there was a circumstance (which is of absolutely no importance to me now, and therefore will not be regaled here) that tripped me up around the time of January 11, 2008.
This time my illness arrived on the heels of a particularly surprising phone conversation with my mother. The afternoon was beautiful—one of the first really nice days this month—but I’d been cold all day. Really, I’ve been cold all month…not important. My tears on the phone surprised me, though, and in an agonizingly sparse monologue I let my mother in on all that had been gnawing at me. I haven’t been happy for months; I’ve been battling too much with my self. In a soothing, sage-like sigh I would never have expected from her, she dispelled my demons.
Just a few hours later, though, it all caught up to me. Every dirty doorknob I’d touched, every sneeze I’d walked downwind of, and every glass I’d shared with unassuming germ carriers came back to haunt me. My throat flamed up, my back ached, and my brain felt like it was trying to squeeze its way out of my skull.
After two nights of waking up at 2 to the sound of intoxicated sorority girls classin’ it up below my window, I decided to take something to help me fall asleep…and stay that way for a while. When I finally awoke at 7:30 (a good hour later than usual), I noticed that I’d been sleeping on the wrong pillow and the wrong side of the bed.
What dreams must I have forgotten by morning to have ended up on that pillow, on that side of the bed…with ash on my forehead.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Jesus Would Sing Like an Angel
something beautiful from Fleet Foxes:
"Crayon Angels" by Judee Sill
"Tiger Mountain Peasant Song"
"Crayon Angels" by Judee Sill
"Tiger Mountain Peasant Song"
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
In My Dreams I Am Everywhere. In Wakefulness I Am Absent.
The first thing I remember is the restaurant. It was my first day as a waitress. I kept repeating to myself, “Hi, I’m Rebecca. I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with an appetizer?” I should point out that I have never been a waitress and I hate saying my own name out loud. I always stumble over it. I kept repeating that bit in my head.
I was assigned the outdoor section of the restaurant. My parents had showed up, probably as curious spectators. I patted my dad on the back as I walked by their table. The outdoor dining area was all grassy, almost like it had been a soccer field at one point, surrounded by a steep, grassy hill on two sides. The hill was reminiscent of something you would spread your blanket on at an outdoor summer concert…
As I continued my walk along the grassy field, I abandoned my restaurant job and found myself amidst a crowd of people, possibly concert-goers. I was trying to walk up the hill by way of the earthen steps that had appeared out of nowhere, but a little girl got in front of me, blocking my progress. She had funny hair. The ends were a brassy red as was the very top of her head. But in between, the hair was silver. It looked like a bad dye job. She was having trouble climbing the steps, so I grabbed her hands and pulled her along. She kept her hands wrapped around each of my index fingers. She weighed considerably less than a cloud, and I lifted her into the air and set her down upon each new step.
Her grandmother was nearby. She looked like La Befana, hunched over, with a big, crooked nose and bulging, paranoid eyes. She was wearing a scarf on her head and kept reciting cities in the Balkan Peninsula. At least, that’s what I assumed because she mentioned Serbia a number of times. Conveniently, a map appeared at my feet with what looked like the corresponding area on it. I couldn’t understand the old woman’s language; it resembled Portuguese, though, with all its “sh’s”. As I continued to help the little girl up the steps, I made sure she paid attention to the map so she could keep up with her grandmother’s lecturing.
At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in a hallway. It could have been any hallway anywhere, what with its cream-colored walls and nondescript doors leading off the main hall, but there was something ominous about it. The next thing I noticed was the presence of the little girl’s brothers and father. Except, maybe it wasn’t the little girl because she and her grandmother were nowhere to be found. I recognized the father. He works in the library where I do, in a different department. He wears those big plastic glasses my own father did in the ‘80s. He reminds me of someone my grandfather would have taught with.
But in my dream, he was younger, wearing fatigues and those same clunky glasses. He looks panicked, terrified really, a look you don’t see very often. Really, that look was haunting, alarming. Paranoid, frantic, like someone who knows he’s at the end.
The grandmother was there again. She was talking about revolutionaries, saying they were Bolsheviks. I have no idea, just some more talk of Serbia and Bolsheviks.
I touched the father’s elbow and fervently asked what was going on; where were they going? He wouldn’t tell me at first, but then he said they would probably go back to California…
That’s where I woke up. I could hear my roommate in the kitchen dumping pots of water into the coffee maker. I have no idea what she was doing. I looked at the time—3:05. Irritated, I again found myself wishing I could live alone. I finally fell back asleep and proceeded to dream of a Valentine’s Day banquet of tables laden with Oreos and sugar cookies iced with the Toyota logo…
I was assigned the outdoor section of the restaurant. My parents had showed up, probably as curious spectators. I patted my dad on the back as I walked by their table. The outdoor dining area was all grassy, almost like it had been a soccer field at one point, surrounded by a steep, grassy hill on two sides. The hill was reminiscent of something you would spread your blanket on at an outdoor summer concert…
As I continued my walk along the grassy field, I abandoned my restaurant job and found myself amidst a crowd of people, possibly concert-goers. I was trying to walk up the hill by way of the earthen steps that had appeared out of nowhere, but a little girl got in front of me, blocking my progress. She had funny hair. The ends were a brassy red as was the very top of her head. But in between, the hair was silver. It looked like a bad dye job. She was having trouble climbing the steps, so I grabbed her hands and pulled her along. She kept her hands wrapped around each of my index fingers. She weighed considerably less than a cloud, and I lifted her into the air and set her down upon each new step.
Her grandmother was nearby. She looked like La Befana, hunched over, with a big, crooked nose and bulging, paranoid eyes. She was wearing a scarf on her head and kept reciting cities in the Balkan Peninsula. At least, that’s what I assumed because she mentioned Serbia a number of times. Conveniently, a map appeared at my feet with what looked like the corresponding area on it. I couldn’t understand the old woman’s language; it resembled Portuguese, though, with all its “sh’s”. As I continued to help the little girl up the steps, I made sure she paid attention to the map so she could keep up with her grandmother’s lecturing.
At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in a hallway. It could have been any hallway anywhere, what with its cream-colored walls and nondescript doors leading off the main hall, but there was something ominous about it. The next thing I noticed was the presence of the little girl’s brothers and father. Except, maybe it wasn’t the little girl because she and her grandmother were nowhere to be found. I recognized the father. He works in the library where I do, in a different department. He wears those big plastic glasses my own father did in the ‘80s. He reminds me of someone my grandfather would have taught with.
But in my dream, he was younger, wearing fatigues and those same clunky glasses. He looks panicked, terrified really, a look you don’t see very often. Really, that look was haunting, alarming. Paranoid, frantic, like someone who knows he’s at the end.
The grandmother was there again. She was talking about revolutionaries, saying they were Bolsheviks. I have no idea, just some more talk of Serbia and Bolsheviks.
I touched the father’s elbow and fervently asked what was going on; where were they going? He wouldn’t tell me at first, but then he said they would probably go back to California…
That’s where I woke up. I could hear my roommate in the kitchen dumping pots of water into the coffee maker. I have no idea what she was doing. I looked at the time—3:05. Irritated, I again found myself wishing I could live alone. I finally fell back asleep and proceeded to dream of a Valentine’s Day banquet of tables laden with Oreos and sugar cookies iced with the Toyota logo…
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
From the Forest
J,
You always make me laugh. You're too serious, you always take yourself too seriously. But I'm glad you're like that. I think people tolerate me better when I'm with you. At least...no, I don't know. I just get the feeling. And I'm really glad you remember Rosie's. And the snow!! I thought it would never end and then there we were stumbling down the trail like prophets, stumbling into that greasy spoon. What do you think the locals thought of us? I want to know everything. Tell me everything. I'll hold you to your promise.
-Silvio
You always make me laugh. You're too serious, you always take yourself too seriously. But I'm glad you're like that. I think people tolerate me better when I'm with you. At least...no, I don't know. I just get the feeling. And I'm really glad you remember Rosie's. And the snow!! I thought it would never end and then there we were stumbling down the trail like prophets, stumbling into that greasy spoon. What do you think the locals thought of us? I want to know everything. Tell me everything. I'll hold you to your promise.
-Silvio
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tutto è fatto della luce
Abbiamo comprato un bel caffè e ci siamo seduti nell’angolo del bar. Ci siamo guardati e a me hai sorriso. Ho visto alle mani. Mi sono sentita tutto. Quando a te ho guardato, ho detto:
Dov’è la luce?
Hai smesso. Hai pensato. Poi mi hai detto:
Tutto è fatto della luce. Tu, io, la rosa dietro il tuo orecchio…tutto è luce. C’è luce nell’oscurità.
(Perché io sogno di te?)
Sono stata in alto mare. Ti ho voluto, ma mi non hai voluto. Hai voluto il sogno. È abitato nei tuoi sogni. Hai pensato alla ragazza perfetta, ma lei non esiste! Quando capirai? Il caffè ha avuto troppo caldo, e non abbiamo parlato niente. Mi sono sentita che il mio cuore è diventato pieno della luce. Poi ti ho detto:
Nell’estate saprai che sono sempre stata lì per te, sarò sempre lì per te.
Ho lasciato il caffè sulla tavola e ho messo la rosa dal dietro del mio orecchio nelle tue mani. Mi sono messa il mio cappello. Ho baciato la tua fronte e sono uscita del bar.
Dov’è la luce?
Hai smesso. Hai pensato. Poi mi hai detto:
Tutto è fatto della luce. Tu, io, la rosa dietro il tuo orecchio…tutto è luce. C’è luce nell’oscurità.
(Perché io sogno di te?)
Sono stata in alto mare. Ti ho voluto, ma mi non hai voluto. Hai voluto il sogno. È abitato nei tuoi sogni. Hai pensato alla ragazza perfetta, ma lei non esiste! Quando capirai? Il caffè ha avuto troppo caldo, e non abbiamo parlato niente. Mi sono sentita che il mio cuore è diventato pieno della luce. Poi ti ho detto:
Nell’estate saprai che sono sempre stata lì per te, sarò sempre lì per te.
Ho lasciato il caffè sulla tavola e ho messo la rosa dal dietro del mio orecchio nelle tue mani. Mi sono messa il mio cappello. Ho baciato la tua fronte e sono uscita del bar.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
A Song for Sleeping (Revisited)
As I slept, you came to me in a dream. Your face was white with two all-knowing eyes. Your lips were red and cracked after a long day of solitude without water. In your hands you held the sun and the full moon. You gave me the moon while you cradled the sun within your arms; my heart burst. Then you threw the moon into the heavens. In your sorrow you sang this song to the pieces of my heart:
I see the moon,
The moon sees me.
The moon sees the somebody I wanna see.
God bless the moon,
God bless me.
God bless the somebody I wanna see.
With that you flew to the stars. You burn and will burn on and on through every morning and every day like fabulous yellow roman candles, but the moon will freeze every night, forever and always.
I see the moon,
The moon sees me.
The moon sees the somebody I wanna see.
God bless the moon,
God bless me.
God bless the somebody I wanna see.
With that you flew to the stars. You burn and will burn on and on through every morning and every day like fabulous yellow roman candles, but the moon will freeze every night, forever and always.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Lunch Break, or, Moldy Grapes and Walnuts
I see this guy everywhere. I’ve probably had class with him every semester, but I’ll never remember which classes. He’s so ordinarily distinct. He chooses the table directly across from me. Of course. There are four other people in the café and he sits right there. I watch him make his bologna and cheese sandwich (on wheat) like he’s on stage. He’s reading, noting, and he furrows his brow when he feels my eyes on him. Upon finishing the sandwich he rolls himself a cigarette with American Spirit tobacco and dons his hat and scarf. I wonder where he’s going, where he’s been.
I wonder if he knew I was writing about him.
I wonder if he knew I was writing about him.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Response
S,
I’m glad you wrote. I’m glad you’re doing well.
Of course I remember the night on the trail. And the next morning at Rosie’s. Rosie’s, where the waitress with the blue eye shadow kept bringing us cups and cups of coffee and I just kept filling it with bourbon. I think she knew. She kept winking at you. You were always the good-looking one of the bunch. That was the bathroom where I first noticed the lines around my mouth. I’ve never told anybody, but I panicked. You talk about feeling old, I know I’m old. It’s written on my face for everyone to see. I got over that soon enough, though. Just a momentary slip I guess. It snowed faster than I’d ever seen that night on the trail. I almost started to regret our vow for a sober evening when it started piling up around us. Turns out that was a good decision. I can’t even remember what we talked about over that plate of eggs (over-easy!) but I remember the smell of the whiskey on that dark wood table. Damn, it smelled like warm brown sugar and molasses. I know I’ve never been warmer.
I don’t know what to say about your new lifestyle. A man can’t live on words and thoughts alone. Or even green tea. I know because I’ve tried. Soon that empty feeling you’ve got will turn to paranoia and plain worthlessness. The void can feel like home for a good while, but it will turn against you if you depend on it too much. Keep a mixture of black coffee and Kentucky bourbon somewhere inside of you and you’ll always be warm. Everything happens for a reason. I’ll tell you everything someday.
Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
J.L. Brannon
I’m glad you wrote. I’m glad you’re doing well.
Of course I remember the night on the trail. And the next morning at Rosie’s. Rosie’s, where the waitress with the blue eye shadow kept bringing us cups and cups of coffee and I just kept filling it with bourbon. I think she knew. She kept winking at you. You were always the good-looking one of the bunch. That was the bathroom where I first noticed the lines around my mouth. I’ve never told anybody, but I panicked. You talk about feeling old, I know I’m old. It’s written on my face for everyone to see. I got over that soon enough, though. Just a momentary slip I guess. It snowed faster than I’d ever seen that night on the trail. I almost started to regret our vow for a sober evening when it started piling up around us. Turns out that was a good decision. I can’t even remember what we talked about over that plate of eggs (over-easy!) but I remember the smell of the whiskey on that dark wood table. Damn, it smelled like warm brown sugar and molasses. I know I’ve never been warmer.
I don’t know what to say about your new lifestyle. A man can’t live on words and thoughts alone. Or even green tea. I know because I’ve tried. Soon that empty feeling you’ve got will turn to paranoia and plain worthlessness. The void can feel like home for a good while, but it will turn against you if you depend on it too much. Keep a mixture of black coffee and Kentucky bourbon somewhere inside of you and you’ll always be warm. Everything happens for a reason. I’ll tell you everything someday.
Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
J.L. Brannon
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Letter to the Mentor
Dear J-
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and going back and forth, ya know. Living off of stale saltines and green tea the past two weeks. It’s not that I can’t afford to go buy myself something decent to eat, I just don’t really see a point. Not hungry. It’s helped me see things clearly. So don’t go and start worrying about me. I talked to Ed about what we talked about. He said he’s fine with that and to just go on ahead like we said. I think he’s sad about something. I can’t tell what, though. His girl left him last April, but it shouldn’t take a man that long to forget someone. Gotta be something else. I tucked my undershirt into my pants for the first time today. I feel like my grandfather. Old, I’m getting old. I got a postcard from Danny. He’s up in the North Country with his father. I’d like to go back up there sometime. I haven’t been since I was at the university and then it was only for a couple a days. I need to see the people more. I just know there’s something different about those folks. I accidentally bought a book of poetry in Portuguese from the used bookstore down on the corner. Portuguese for chrissake. I can’t make any sense of it, can’t tell the front from the back to save my skin. But I think if I keep looking at it it’ll start to make sense. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. I have to tell you, I’ve never felt this pure! I’m on some kind of flat plain looking out. I feel deep and empty but so whole. Just, ah fuck. Clean. Void. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I just felt like I should tell you because it’s the kind of thing you’re always talking about. I think about you from time to time. Most of the books I’ve been reading lately have characters, well, I just think you’ve been acquainted with a lot more authors than you ever let on. You’ll have to tell me about them sometime. I hope we run into each other again soon. Maybe when you’re back in the area we can go to Rosie’s. I think the table in the back room still smells like the whiskey you spilled on it. Remember? You were spiking your coffee the morning after we stayed up all night out on the trail. I hope you remember that.
Write back when you can,
-SK
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and going back and forth, ya know. Living off of stale saltines and green tea the past two weeks. It’s not that I can’t afford to go buy myself something decent to eat, I just don’t really see a point. Not hungry. It’s helped me see things clearly. So don’t go and start worrying about me. I talked to Ed about what we talked about. He said he’s fine with that and to just go on ahead like we said. I think he’s sad about something. I can’t tell what, though. His girl left him last April, but it shouldn’t take a man that long to forget someone. Gotta be something else. I tucked my undershirt into my pants for the first time today. I feel like my grandfather. Old, I’m getting old. I got a postcard from Danny. He’s up in the North Country with his father. I’d like to go back up there sometime. I haven’t been since I was at the university and then it was only for a couple a days. I need to see the people more. I just know there’s something different about those folks. I accidentally bought a book of poetry in Portuguese from the used bookstore down on the corner. Portuguese for chrissake. I can’t make any sense of it, can’t tell the front from the back to save my skin. But I think if I keep looking at it it’ll start to make sense. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. I have to tell you, I’ve never felt this pure! I’m on some kind of flat plain looking out. I feel deep and empty but so whole. Just, ah fuck. Clean. Void. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I just felt like I should tell you because it’s the kind of thing you’re always talking about. I think about you from time to time. Most of the books I’ve been reading lately have characters, well, I just think you’ve been acquainted with a lot more authors than you ever let on. You’ll have to tell me about them sometime. I hope we run into each other again soon. Maybe when you’re back in the area we can go to Rosie’s. I think the table in the back room still smells like the whiskey you spilled on it. Remember? You were spiking your coffee the morning after we stayed up all night out on the trail. I hope you remember that.
Write back when you can,
-SK
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Walk Down Memory Lane Always Leads to a Bookstore
I sat across from him, noticing his knobby knuckles and five-o'clock shadow. He ordered coffee with his pizza--his first cup of the day. I told him about the time I'd downed 22 cups in one day. We both admitted to our dependence. The image of us in fourth grade, dressed as angels in the all-school Christmas pageant came to mind for no reason at all; I was a head taller than he was even then. Then I thought of the picture the yearbook staff had taken of us for our senior superlative. My sash and his crown said the same thing: Most Musically Talented. I couldn't believe I'd been dreading our lunch reunion, worried we wouldn't have anything to say. I should have known better. The more we talked the clearer it became that we had done our respective maturing in separate spheres but had somehow met up on the other side, now running parallel in the lifelong race.
After the plates were cleared and the bill had been payed we walked to his car for my Janis Joplin shirt and his cigarettes. He asked me to explain the writing process to him and to suggest a good book, one that would make him want to keep reading. As I waited for him to finish his cigarette I explained that I wrote mostly about my own life--moments, events, and chapters more so than day-to-day occurrences. I didn't say it, but I was already writing this in my head, well before the reunion was concluded.
We walked around the shopping mall, laughing at the gaggles of teenagers, relieved that that era of our lives was behind us. We discussed passion and music and passion for music. He told me matter-of-factly that writing music came before work and money and he has no problem with living poorly. I smiled: he was the same boy I've always known, a bit more serious and thoughtful but still the same.
Our wandering led us to Borders where he again challenged me to find him a book. He promised to buy whatever I picked out, trusting me completely to supply him with inspiration.
With my mission in mind, I set off. I considered inspiration and passion and the fact that he was not a reader. I was well into the K's before I realized I'd passed what I was looking for. Back in the S's I cringed at the over-abundance of romance novels. I started to worry I wasn't going to find what I was after.
"I hope my life is never so pathetic that I have to resort to trashy novels for excitement, ya know? Ah, here it is!" I squatted down to look at the selection.
"I don't have your address, but can I send you angry letters if I hate it?"
"Oh, for sure. Just leave them with Andy, he'll get them to me." He laughed.
Triumphantly, I stood up and handed Luke a copy of Nine Stories.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Una canzone per dormire: the Sun, the Moon, and an Exploding Heart
Mentre io dormivo, ho visto nel mio sogno tu. La faccia era bianca con due occhi che sa tutto. Le labbra erano rossi e incrinati dopo un lungo giorno della solitudine e senza acqua. Nelle mani tu portavi il sole e la luna piena. Mi hai dato la luna mentre cullavi il sole tra le braccia; il mio cuore ha scoppiato. Poi hai gettato la luna su al cielo. Nella tua tristezza hai cantato questa canzone ai pezzi del mio cuore:
Io vedo la luna,
La luna vede me.
La luna vede il qualcuno vorrei vedere.
Dio benedica la luna,
Dio benedica me,
Dio benedica il qualcuno vorrei vedere.
Con quello hai volato alle stelle. Tu brucia e brucerai durante tutte mattine e giorni così fuochi d’artificio favolosi e gialli ma la luna gelerà tutte le notti per sempre.
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