Beat's Not Dead

who said what?

i said that

immaterial and possessed, i write with eyes closed because my eyes just distract. i write with eyes closed so i can touch my thoughts. i touch them and feel heat

touch the ridge of my neck and watch a line of fire pour down my spine

we scream in the night WOW because we're alive

we scream to measure our existence and delight in the excess, of joy, of humour because this is funny, this world of worrying and speaking too softly, of showing decorum and deference

we laugh because we know this world is a fantasy, the product of our eyes; i write with mine closed

we scream in the night because we are on fire, burning and burning before we explode into ash and cover the streets and get in your hair

we're funny you know, just because we are. we laugh because what else can we do

?

Pensieri italiani

I remember Italian.  I remember the way it felt to speak it, the way my mind had to contort itself to fit within the strictures of foreign grammar.  I remember the way my thoughts followed suit, the way I felt Italian.  I walked differently when I thought in Italian, my toes pointed and leading the way along the cobbled stone streets, my stride longer and slower than usual, head up high even though my eyes were vigilant to uneven stones.  I felt invincible and a little bit invisible, the way a cat must feel invisible: seen but not understood.  When I spoke, I spoke emphatically, repeating "Sì" over and over in rapid succession, just like Italians do.  I can't explain it; I would never hiss out "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes" in a crazed stutter like I did in Italian.  I was different.  It wasn't just the place, the antiquity, the food; it was in the words and the way my lips had to pucker out at the end of certain words, the way my tongue did flips behind my teeth.  Grocery shopping was even sexy: I kept a steady supply of pompelmo (grapefruit) and fagiolini (green beans).  The line between English and Italian blurred the longer I was there; I took lecture notes in both languages, journaled in Italian, drafted bilingual shopping lists, spoke in Italian without meaning to...  I can feel my stomach tightening just below my ribs whenever I think about it, a mixture of obnoxious nostalgia and longing over how easily the words slipped out sometimes and how on other days I could barely speak in any language.  Lines of untranslated Italian appear in English books I read, and I have a selfish sense of pride because I understand and because they feel written for me, only for me.  I despair at my forgetfulness and rejoice when my thoughts spontaneously arrange themselves into Italian sentences, subjects tacked on near the end and adjectives at attention behind their nouns.  I hope someday I can reconnect with the unapologetic impostor I was that summer, she for whom the city would open up with the key of a few melodic words.  Maybe someday I'll find her "getting lost" in side alleys, biting into a mela, oblivious to the juice running down her arm.