Week 4 – Dr. Masters – “Don’t Look Now” by Daphne DuMaurier

 

John and Laura have been to Venice three times, the first was for their honeymoon.  The third is to help Laura get over the death of their daughter.  The progression from good reasons to go, like a honeymoon or a vacation, to trying to get over bereavement, may reflect how things decay in Italy.  In Italy, you can be lost and scared easily surrounded by the Gothic architecture.  Venice is where Gothic was born, the drowning city as a setting for sinister plots.   

 

Things happen in Italy that may not happen anywhere else, at least according to a Brit, like premonitions of the future and seeing ghosts.  Back in England, in might not take such things seriously; one might not believe it as a possibility, but In Italy, it seems natural.  In the story, these strange things did happen and the characters responded to them as being in Italy, not England.  John’s reaction to meeting the twin sisters is different than Laura’s reaction.  Laura is comforted, John is in denial of his feelings as he tries to help her get over the loss of their child.  He has his own feelings but is not in touch with them.  He follows a red caped murderer thinking perhaps he is seeing his daughter’s ghost.  He feels guilty for not protecting her from disease and wants to make up for it in some way or to ask forgivness.  Instead, because he’s in Italy, he dies at the hand of a weird dwarf character with a knife.

Week 3 – Reportage

 

Skinny jeans are everywhere.  Young people, middle aged people, old people all wear their own version of skinny jeans in Spoleto.  Even in the workplace, skinny jeans are paired with a sport coat or a professional blazer.  Camouflage patterns, floral patterns and just plain blue or black jeans parade the sidewalks and piazzas daily.  Tucked into boots or topped with a tunic, tight pants rule.  Vibrant colors and a variety of patterns offer plenty of combinations for individual expression.  Blouses, sweaters, jackets, t-shirts, tunics all combine to create a unique look for the young and the old, the hefty and the model-thin. 

 

This is the advertisement that I imagine people are buying into.  There is no mention of body type or what styles flatter each type.  Wider legs at the bottom balance wide hips, or a larger mid-section, preventing the illusion of a lollypop on a stick.  Belts help give definition to a thin, small hipped frame.  For small busted women, ruffles can create an illusion of balance with hips that are relatively larger.  Large busted women, however, should wear dark colors on top and a v-neckline that draws the eye down or, conversely, a scarf around the neck that draws the eye upwards. 

 

All of these hints concerning how to look your best no matter what your body style seem to be consciously ignored in a land where skinny jeans rule.  This creates a landscape of lollipops and pencils where few body shapes are actually flattered by the look that skinny jeans exemplify.

Week 3 – Memory

 

Witnessing all the skinny jeans and tunics walking the streets of Spoleto reminds me of the fashion trend that was popular during the eighties.  Stretch pants kept down by the use of a stirrup that wrapped around the arches were paired with tunic sweaters and big shirts.  I can remember resisting wearing these until I was forced to assimilate myself into a group of women who met once a week to discuss planning upcoming civic events.  In order to convey a professional appearance I relented and purchased a couple of pair of these leggings that shrunk when washed and after a while would look really funny because of the gaping hole that grew between the end of the pants and your foot.  By the end of the season, discussions were all about how much more weight we had gained because we were wearing spandex all the time that did not function to alert us of just how much weight was accumulating as jeans did.  When you put on a pair of jeans and they fit tighter than usual, it was no big deal to drop a pound or two to make your jeans feel more comfortable.  We, as a group, made the decision to go back to wearing jeans, or at least pants that did not stretch out of shape, in order to stay in shape.  The consensus being that a few pounds was easier to shed than ten or more.

Week 3 – Image 4

 

Pictures taken of gelato masterpieces:

Melon, chestnut, pistachio,

White chocolate infused with dark chocolate slivers,

Crowned with cream, thick and rich,

Destined to blow up Facebook.

Umbrian white served with aperitifs:

Plump green olives, chunks of cheese and

Rosemary breadsticks (a euro if ordered separately)

Provides lunch and a view.

Red, gold, black and green whirls

Explode and contract with the Improv theatre

That storms Corso G. Mazzini.

Onlookers move in waves trailing

the troupe as theyWeave in

and out of the sunlit piazza and the

Deep shade of cobbled alleyways.

Propaganda appears on the table

Accompanied by hasty Italian presumably

Announcing show times, locations.

Waffle cone points vanish into grins

As clouds darken, threatening hail

Concealed in the gusts that disperse napkins

And bite through sleeves. 

Week 3 – Mark Twain: “The Innocents Abroad”

 

“Never smoke any Italian tobacco.  Never do it on any account.  It makes me shudder to think what it must be made of.  You cannot throw an old cigar “stub” down anywhere, but some vagabond will pounce upon it on the instant….One of these stub-hunters followed us all over the park last night, and we never had a smoke that was worth anything….He regarded us as his own legitimate prey,…Now, they surely must chew up those old stubs and dry and sell them for smoking tobacco.  Therefore, give your custom to other than Italian brands of the article.”    (p. 122)

 

The smokers in our group have all confessed to smoking more than they ever did back in Georgia.  Complaints of coughing up green phlegm from smoking the cheap Italian cigarettes cautioned me when I, too, ran out of the stash that I packed.  There are very few menthol cigarettes to be found here, so I was forced to settle for what was available.  I found a brand from Amsterdam that have completely impressed me.  They are in a beautiful teal and gold package with St. Moritz headlined over a coat of arms etched in gold of a horse on the left of the shield and an angel on the right.  When I opened the package, gold foil protected each of the twenty sticks of premium tobacco leaf.  And that’s not all.  When I took out my first fag, the rich gold band between the filter and the leaf pleasantly surprised me, taking my breath away.  I felt like aristocracy and was not disappointed when I lit up to a smooth, not too menthol, smoking experience.  I don’t want to try Italian brands now.  I want to pack my suitcase full of these treasures to take home with me.  My plans to quit smoking while I am in Italy have been completely blown out of the water.  I will miss these little gems.

Week 3 – Image 3

 

Legends Rewritten

 

Ginger cats orange as egg yolks

Prowl the night inspecting facades

Crushed by wind, rain and time.

Broken vines of stone, of wisteria,

Reflect glimmers of moonlight to

Reveal oozing pocked faces, scarred,

Healing distressed like the ancient walls

That loom in the shadows of Monteluco.

Window boxes strategically undisturbed

As Ginger maneuvers into position

To pounce smoky rivals, rewriting

Legends like the recycled granite

In the walls surrounding Spoleto.

 

Dr. Masters – Week 4: “Daisy Miller” by Henry James

 

Frederick Winterbourne is smitten with Daisy when he meets her in Vevey, Switzerland.  They both plan to winter in Rome where she is seen with Mr. Giovanelli, which makes him a little jealous, but he won’t admit it.  Gossip spreads of her behavior of being seen out with a gentleman unescorted.  Several of the characters contract dyspepsia, in Italy, of course.  Indigestion is not all that plagues travelers in Italy.  Rome fever is rampant and Daisy ends up contracting it from visiting the Colosseum and dies from it.  This sends a very direct message that Italy is bad for your health. Not only do you have trouble with the food, but you can get “The Fever” and die.  Mrs. Costello is known for her headaches, Randolph, his mother and father all suffer from dyspepsia, while Daisy seems immune at first.

 

Daisy breaks from societal rules when she goes out sightseeing with Giovanelli.  They visit Pincian Gardens and end up at the Colosseum where her punishment is this dreaded disease that takes her life.  Don’t dare to depart from social norms or you will be punished.  Visiting Italy is risking your life.  If you want to satisfy your curiosity, be warned of the consequences. 

 

This story is a little kinder on the character, Giovanelli, in that Winterbourne does a background check on him and finds him to be on the respectable side, but still wonders what his motives were concerning Daisy.  In the end, Giovanelli tells Winterbourne that she would never have married him.  She wanted Winterbourne to know that she was not engaged and leaves a message for him.  Italy will exploit your vulnerabilities that bring to her.  Daisy’s ended in death, Winterbourne’s and Giovanelli’s ended in regret.   

Dr. Masters – Week 3 – “Rappaccini’s Daughter”

Mad scientist with no energy for anything else just happens to be in Italy, the home of Gothic architecture.  The stereo-type of Italians being on the seedy side.  Where else would such a scientist be crazy enough to use his own daughter to experiment on.  Even Giovanni is described as having a Grecian head and that “ardent Southern temperament.”  The South of Italy has the reputation for being in a lower class than the middle section or the North.  It’s acceptable to use a Southerner without his knowledge to satisfy a scientist’s curiosity, after all, they are not as important as the elite sector further north. 

 

Giovanni is also described as being a part of a family mentioned in Dante’s “Inferno,” an extinct family.  This sets Giovanni up to be thought of as less than and a perfect subject for any kind of experimentation or even victimization in general.  Spooky things happen in Italy among the ruins and ancient aqueducts, why not in a Garden of Eden setting? 

 

Beatrice’s father was also paying a high price for his obsession.  He was being slowly poisoned every time he entered the garden.  We don’t know how many times he had tried to find a mate for his daughter that would be immune to the poison, someone who reacted in the same way that she did.  In the end, the antidote kills her.  Coincidentally, this antidote was offered by the rival of Dr. Rappaccini, Dr. Baglioni.  So, who won?  

Week 3 – Image 2

 

Life sculpts niches in cracks and corners.

Sun reaches street level only at mid-day.

Plants grow lush and green shadowed

by three stories each side of history.

Roots decay pavement, carving

survival between and below ancient granite

desiring only possibilities of change.

 

 

Week 3 – Response to Jo’s journal entry – Pine Lake JW’s (Week 2, Memory 1)

I catch a glimpse of the two older, black women wearing shrouded black dresses as if in mourning. They stand in the middle of the street at the corner, wiping their brows, trying to decide which narrow street of Pine Lake to go up, away from the lake or continue on around the lake. I fear they are moving towards my front porch, designed to welcome visitors. I grab my cell phone and hurry to the back of the house out of sight. I call my friend five houses up and warn her that there are JWs in our midst. She curses, thanks me for letting her know. Says she will hide out in the spaceship, her nickname for her closet office. My doorbell rings. I stay hidden in my bedroom; modulate my breathing as if they can hear; wait for what I think is the appropriate time for them to disperse and peek out to the living room, then beyond out the sidelight windows of the front door. The two women once again stand in the middle of the road in the sun looking like ancient mourners at the Wailing Wall. They inch up the street so slowly I know it will be awhile before they are ringing my friend’s doorbell. I wonder if their ankles are swollen; if their salvation hangs on their willingness to go into neighborhoods; how many doorbells they must ring, how many pamphlets they must hand out or leave. I think of two black slugs sliding along the uneven pavements of our roads, and text my friend, “No hurry, but here they come.”

My response:

Why do we hide when unexpected visitors ring our door bell?  What do we expect from them?  Is it fear of being molested or things turning so violent we won’t be able to survive?  Are we just annoyed that we were so rudely interrupted doing some very important task?  How important is it really?  What is it like to be a person who holds such strong beliefs about salvation that they are willing to face rejection, to have doors slammed in their faces?  To have people immediately bristle that they want to share life everlasting with?  What would it take for me to be so powerfully convinced that my fellow humans will perish that I would risk such humiliation?

Week 3 – Image 1

Groups chug up the hill emerging from the archway built when the Romans ruled Spoleto.  Young men with large, hand-crafted crosses around their necks followed monks wearing traditional robes held together at the waist by long cords entwined with rosaries.  St. Francis’ legacy in the flesh.  In the Piazza del Duomo the umbrellas at the café along the steps look like a Franciscan monk with his hood covering his head and face reminding me of the villainous characters in a Radcliffe novel. 

Week 2 – Memory

I was talking to Dr. Masters about how people don’t take into consideration how their behavior affects their kids.  I was reminded of the friends and acquaintances I have known who asked me why their kids were acting out during their divorce process.  I have asked several of them if they talked with their kids and explained what was going on.  They thought I was crazy.  They thought their kids were too young to understand.  I disagree.  Kids know exactly that something is happening that is turning their life upside down.  They usually blame themselves.  If parents don’t talk with them and tell them it is not their fault, the kids end up thinking they did something wrong.

When my daughter’s father and I divorced, the kids at school found out her parents were divorcing and they asked her why she wasn’t acting out.  Well, she did act out, but not in school.  I left her throwing a temper tantrum in the driveway once and went into the house.  I kept looking out the window to see that she was ok.  Once I didn’t see her at all and panicked.  Then I spied her in the tree, which was a special place for her.  I was so relieved to see that she was safe and close by.  She had to grow up quite a bit during that time, but she also realized that life was better with her parents apart than with them together.  I’m just proud of the way she leaned to adjust and to set the boundaries she needed to set with her father.  I hadn’t thought about that for awhile.

 

Week 2 – Junkyard 4

 

”Italy is like Las Vegas, what happens here stays here.  There’s a lot of weirdoes in Italy.  It’s a country full of weirdoes.”

This is something I heard during a conversation with a crazy Romanian who works at the Hotel Clitunno.  It sounded kind of strange to me and I thought I might make up a reason why he would say that.

Dr. Masters – “The Italian”

 

Ann Radcliffe’s Italian seems to be referring to the monk, father Schedoni, who is the stereotypical Italian villain.  He’s not in the Mafia, but he is a monk, a religious zealot with evil tendencies.  The Italians were depicted as either scumbags or the elite who owned castles or villas.  In this story, we have one of each.

 

Vivaldi sees this monk who seems to disappear quite suddenly and it happens to always happen at the site of a tower that is in ruins:  an archway much like the ones we walk through every day here in Spoleto.  This mysterious villain-type person is also a monk.  The Catholic Church is centered in Rome and most of Italy is Catholic.  This monk is Dominican and supposedly must earn his keep through preaching and were known as “the Hounds of the Lord.”  This order of the church could have some mysterious elements to an English person who considered the Roman Catholic Church to be in error.  The Gothic architecture lends itself very well to the menacing wicked ways of the Church and what those evil priests are capable of. 

Week 2 – Image 3

 

Round and green against the snow white plate, the olives of Spoleto tempt me with their plumpness making promises they can without a doubt keep.  Fresh, local, hint of salt, I taste olives as they are made to taste, natural, delicious.  The accompanying rosemary breadsticks perfectly compliment both the wine and the olives. The shapes fit together like bats and balls and cheese bases reminding me of America’s great pastime.  “When I Fall in Love” playing on the piano mixing memories with the present. 

Week 2 – Reportage

 

Sun broke through the clouds and warmed the pavement.  Traffic cones marked a lane for what, I don’t know.  I found out very quickly when the crowd started making noise and three antique cars rolled by honking and leaving the strong smell of exhaust behind them.  I ordered an espresso from Café Vincenzo.  To my surprise they brought a platter with five beautiful green olives, two rosemary breadsticks and three chunks of cheese.  You would never get snacks in the States with a glass of wine.  I am not a big fan of olives, but these were delicious and complimented the wine very nicely.  Until the next wave of cars rolled by and deposited their brand of exhaustion in the atmosphere leaving a sour taste in my mouth and burning my nostrils.  New cars rode before and after certain classics with the same sort of magnetic signs on their sides.  I couldn’t figure out why because they were going too fast for my tiny understanding of Italian to pick up the messages they were wearing.  It’s a parade, an antique car show, maybe a race.  It was exciting to watch the young kids’ reactions when they jumped up and down and followed behind until their parents reigned them in again.

Week 2 – Image 2

 

Opening the shutters first thing in the morning lets in the air and the pigeon speak above the buzz of traffic.  Cars speed past on the narrow cobblestones between the three and four story buildings.  Workers on their way to open Spoleto to the tourists and to maintain the centuries old architecture.  Delivery trucks carrying food and wine to supply the hotels barge through the constricted space as if there were an extra ten feet on either side of the road.  Construction trucks with ladders and tools strapped to their beds hurry to be on time.  Trash trucks haul away the filth generated by the layers of people stacked one atop the other in apartments with old finicky plumbing.  I wonder what it takes to keep such a beautiful place beautiful.

 

The shelf in front of the window is sturdy enough and wide enough to hold even me.  I crawl onto the thick plank and drink in the morning.  The cool, fresh air awakens my skin and opens my eyes clearing away the drowsiness from sleeping on the pull out couch.  Before long, I hear my next door neighbors open their window to the day.  I had listened to their laughter and happy voices well into the early hours last night.  A smile draws my face upward as I remember the feeling of warmth that reminded me of times listening to my daughter carrying on with her friends.  I miss her and the joy of hearing her laughter.  I drag on my cigarette and check the sky for clouds.  Will it rain today?  Will I find a place to buy an umbrella?  Will the Wi-Fi at the hotel work or will it be finicky today?  Will my knees hold up on those wonderful stairs?  The pigeons may know, but keep their secrets well hidden from me.

Week 2 – Image Junkyard 1

Roma.  We’re going to Roma. 

The train was very comfortable and had huge windows from which to watch the countryside pass.  We traveled South and as we left the mountainous region, the terrain became softer, gentler, and then, the tunnels.  Every time we went through a tunnel my eardrums retracted with the pressure and I found myself clasping my hands over my ears even though it did nothing to relieve it.  When I opened my eyes, I noticed the Italian woman sitting across from me was doing the exact same thing.  We exchanged grimaces in a shared form of bonding.  She in Italian, me in English, no translation needed. We worked our mouths in an effort to find relief and grinned when we finally achieved equilibrium and once again watched the rolling hills and graffiti takes turns gliding past our window like a B-movie whose scenes were disconnected, yet somehow came together at the end exposing connections not fully realized at first.

The graffiti was beautiful to my eyes, but in a different way from the rolling hills with houses and castles perched atop their summits.  At one point, we passed an intersection where the graffiti was layered, sloping up the hill, stratified in one beautiful layer after another.  It was if the artists were competing for a valuable prize to create the most beautiful, meaningful, work of public art.  The colors, the techniques, the messages were interspersed with icons, like company logos:  Tisko, Smithereps, Hot Boys, the Rung seemed to have quite an extensive territory, almost as large as the Hot Boys.  Vibrant green and yellow with accents of hot pink colored the wolves representing Lupi, wolves.  This philosophy seemed to be in compettion with a little blue space creature embedded in the Goonings’ message that popped out of a purple and yellow color scheme. 

Week 2 – Prompt from Twain

(Pg. 30)  Everyone else is seasick except him.  He pleasantly greets people as the emerge onto the deck and they respond by saying, “Oh, my!” and find a place to heave.

 

“I knew what was the matter with them.  They were seasick.  And I was glad of it.  We all like to see people seasick when we are not, ourselves.  Playing whist by the cabin lamps when it is storming outside is pleasant; walking the quarterdeck in the moonlight is pleasant; smoking in the breezy foretop is pleasant when one is not afraid to go up there; but these are all feeble and commonplace compared with the joy of seeing people suffering the miseries of seasickness.”(p. 32)

I was wondering why Twain would state that he took pleasure in other people’s suffering.  As we have all gone through an adjustment to a different culture and the obstacles we have encountered, I have been able to empathize with the process other people have in reaction to change.  I went through my own misery adjusting and coming face to face with my own limitations.  I think I have had to distance myself a little when I see others in misery, but I cannot say I was glad.  But then, I was glad it wasn’t me experiencing that particular brand of suffering.  After all, my brand of misery is my own personal process that I have become familiar with.  I realize it is normal for all of us to go through some misery in adapting to such changes and the challenges of having to work harder to feed ourselves, to use the toilet, to find ATM’s, to speak to someone on the street or in the shops.  I just keep coming back to something I have chosen to hang onto, I’m in Italia or I had pizza and beer in Rome.  When dreams come true, the everyday challenges become exaggerated, but it is still a dream come true.

Dr. Masters – May 14, 2013

“An Italian Affair”

Who am I supposed to be?  This thirty-something woman who just got divorced?  I really don’t care.  The characters seem flat to me.  I was made to be uncomfortable by the use of you are doing this.  Second person singular creates such distance between the reader and the characters, I don’t understand why it was used for a story about lovers.  I’ve been divorced and the process of getting over the end of a relationship that was important enough to get married is a long and arduous one.  Going out and getting a lover is just a band-aid.  Luckily, she doesn’t expect it to be anything other than a temporary affair. 

The sights and sounds of the setting were just a little bit more interesting because of my proximity to them.  Laura starts in Florence visiting the Boboli Gardens and Ponte Vecchio, but we are told she went there, we are not shown.  Part of the appeal of this kind of romance novel is the setting.  She ends up on an island, Ischia, and meeting this Bob Dylan look-alike.  Why Bob Dylan I don’t know, I’ve never been attracted to him in a romantic way.  But the local colour of the places she visits is just skimmed over, she could have been anywhere. 

I was painful to read this because I really didn’t care about any of the characters.  I kept thinking I wish I could choose another something to read.

Week 1 – Original Prompt

Mark Twain: The Innocents Abroad

“These are the people that make life a burthen to the tourist.  Their tongues are never still.  They talk forever and forever….If they would only show you….and then step aside and hold still for ten munutes…I would give a whole world if the human parrot at my side would suddenly perish where he stood and leave me to gaze and ponder and worship.” (135, 36)

 

This passage totally resonated with me.  I can’t take in all the information and stand in awe at the same time.  I also can’t always hear and understand what the guides are saying and often tune them out and go inside my head.  Being rushed from one archeological wonder to the next and information showered on you when you need a real shower is just overwhelming.  Most of the time it takes so much energy tfor me to listen and interpret an accent that I miss the information anyway. 

Armed with a basic synopsis, I could drink in the energy of a place and listen for things that are not put into words.  I could connect with the forest or the ocean or the cathedral that was built in the 1200’s or earlier.  There is an old energy that influences new energy and I cannot connect with that if a parrot is droning on and on and then whisking me away to the next place with its own energy.

I am extremely grateful to be here in Spoleto where I can pace myself and drink it in.  A sponge, when it’s dry, cannot draw up water until it has drawn up water.  Being in Spoleto, perhaps I can draw up water in order to draw up more water.

Week 1 – Response to Lucas’ post

Very astute observations.  The son with the tight red pants definitely looks like the partying type who would not care about the future of the hotel.  He is the one who said it was impossible for someone to be locked in and someone to be locked out of the big door at the top of the steps.  I don't know if this is an expression he might use like we might say "You've got to be kidding," or not.  But the problem remained the same and it proved to be quite possible. 

I sincerely hope that your assessment proves wrong and that one of the sons will care about their father's legacy.  It would be such a shame for such a great place to falter and die.  Although Italy has risen from the ashes many times and will continue to do so, I'm sure.

Thanks for your insight and imagination.

Dr. Masters – May 12, 2013

“A Room With a View” by E. M. Forster

“I want to see the Arno,” Lucy is devastated because her room doesn’t have a view of the Arno River.  Lucy wants what she wants when she wants it whether she is sightseeing in Florence or home in England.  She’s bored and rebels and takes off by herself.  She ends up getting a little more than she hoped for:  a man gets stabbed on the steps of Uffizi Arcade and ruins her prints.  She has to be rescued, of course, by a misunderstood Italian man who threw her purchases into the river she so wanted a view of.  All the excitement of Italy wrapped up in a stabbing in mid-day and the thing she remembers is the feeling of his arms around her.  She also got to see “the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.”

Mr. E. is a controversial figure who has radical ideas about society, especially the church.  He creates quite a stir when he interrupts the service. 

   "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes—now, unhappily, ruined by restoration—is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. "Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon."

Times were changing and Mr. E. seemed to be leading the pack, at least in the crowd of the characters.

 

 

 

Week 1 – Junkyard 4

The long table runs alongside the long wall ending at a sunny window.  Sheep cross the road in search of fresh grazing and a chorus of ews and ahs fill the air swirling with the sounds of laughter and cheery conversation.  Glass bottles of wine with ceramic and rubber stoppers act as sentinels lined up straight down the length of the gold tablecloth.  Clear rotund water pitchers subservient to the wine round out the place settings.  Arms reach across the table as people pour for each other generously.  Upturned mouths struggle to chew around their smiles and occasionally heads fly up in great guffaws as laughter explodes.  Each course a perfect example of the seasonal foodstuffs found in the region.  By the end of the firsts, chairs are scooted back from the table and satisfaction takes control of the room as smiles deepen and heads shake from side to side.

Week 1 – Image Junkyard 3

Ancient stones glued together with unknown materials that were mixed at the time from what was available create shelters as housing for both humans and animals.  The smell off arm fills the air at the summit of the Sacred Mountain where truffles live.  An old, mangy dog the color of the gravel in the road looks more like a sheep that shrank than a canine.  A large bulb of blood is embedded in his forehead like a young woman from India.  He moves as slow as my knees and it seems to take quite an effort for him to wag his tail.  Sheep and cattle droppings make for a nie warm bed in the sun to ease his aching arthritic joints.  He seems to love the perfume of the processed straw that softens his sunning spot by the road. 

Week 1 – Image Junkyard 2

            A burly restaurant owner runs out of his shop waving his hands, looking up the street then down.

            “Wait!  Wait,” he cries rushing to the group that circles around him bouncing on knees that had seen much use.

            “Is not enough,” he struggles with English while we all stare at him with gaping mouths ajar.

            “Not enough,” he repeats as he desperately tries to explain.  He scratches his head and raises his left hand as if he could catch coins from the sky.

            “Oh, no!” Choruses echo through the ancient piazza bouncing from one stone wall to the other.

            “Here, I have a fifty.”

            “So do I.”  We all rush to shove cash at him feeling embarrassed and foolish and hoping that by over paying him, we can somehow make up for the communication error.  The desire to erase, erase the incident causes more confusion.

            “Oh, no.  He meant 12 euro a piece, not twelve total,” someone says.

            “He said 12 for one.”

            “Yeah, that means twelve a piece.”

            Laughter mixed with empathy and the desire to make it right infects the group as money is produced and exchanged. The proprietor ends up with too much and shoves a five back at the crowd. 

            “Too much.  Too much.”

            “Here, Joanci.  Here’s your five back,”

            “I don’t get five back.”

            “I’ll take it.  I’m down to five anyway.”

            Scusi’s fill the air as he walks away waving his hand filled with cash.

 

Week 1 - Memory

 

Flight behind me; three hour bus ride behind me; trek up three flights of stairs, twice, behind me; trek to the grocery store behind me; trek to Bar Duella behind me; trek to pizza restaurant behind me, finally I was able to relax into my weariness and allow the sweet, fresh water to quench my parched mouth and dehydrated muscles.  The buzz of the patron’s laughter and conversation rang in my ears.  The smile on my face threatened to become permanent as I watched people reach for carafes and water bottles over others and wipe their travel worn faces with their hands.  Yawns were exchanged as we settled in to wait for dinner. 

“How do you say Coke?”

“Coca Cola,” hearty laughter ensued.

“What does this mean?  I don’t like anchovies,” mingled with sighs and the clink of glasses and silverware.

“These are tuna based.  These are pate.  These are tomatoes,” explanations of appetizers.

“Ew, I don’t like liver.  I’m not even gonna try that one.  This one is yummy.”

Relief filled the silence as everyone chewed on fresh, crisp toast points covered in tiny squares of red or creamy spreads that tasted better than any tuna from back in the States. 

“Don’t fill up on bread.  The pizza is excellent and you want to have room for that,” good advice.

“Ohh, ahh,” the pizza arrives and faces instantly sport circular mouths dripping with anticipation with raised eyebrows above bulging eye sockets.

Beautiful red tomatoes, black olives, green arugula ride atop thin crispy crusts that crunch in my head waking to the moment long awaited.  I am sitting in a pizzeria in Spoleto, Italy far, far from home and loving it.

WEEK 1 – Image 1

May 9, 2013

Dark, rugged beams support ceramic-like planks whose pores house past storms when soldiers flooded the streets.  The umber stains leach from the corner near the window that shudders when the trains go by.  Sienna, umber and ochre compete for the most real estate bleeding into one another leaving a rich velvety texture.  The horizontal planks step to the apex of the ceiling tripping over dense, rough-hewn beams chiseled from the oaks that populated ancient forests. 

WEEK 1 - Reportage

May 9, 2013

Different, sweeter, more natural, the air filled my lungs as I grappled with the fifty-pounds of essentials I once thought I could not live without.  After trudging through airports dragging my supplies for the five weeks in Italian paradise, my mind was reconsidering the many choices I had made to get to this point.  The decision to find out what the possibilities were financially, which included quries to the financial aid department.  Arrangements for a passport, which was surprisingly easy since the Buchanon Post Office was able to take my application and picture without an appointment and forward the paperwork that same day.  My cat, however, would be more of a challenge. At sixteen, Alley is very finicky about who she will tolerate and that does not include other animals. 

The airport traffic was a familiar sight as the bus merged into the lane marking the beginning of our last leg of the trip, a three hour drive up the mountains to our destination: Spoleto, Italy.

Stepping onto the bus, bone weary and dog tired, I passed bodies huddled and clinging together, regressing to neonatal forms.  Other heads with eyes staring and not seeing the fresh foreign landscape fought for control of an uncontrollable situation.  Drooping heads with exhaustion written on their faces were lost behind melting facades threatening obliteration.  Question marks mingled with the sour bitters decorating those facades that were inadequate to hide that state of melancholy that permeates the body after being herded from one continent to another.  Sheeple following the shepherd of aviation lack the ability to care one way or another where they are going, but only hope for an end that is rich with pasture. 

 

There’s solution in the air.

 

Dr. Masters - May 7, 2013

Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills, Percy Bysshe Shelley

In a country divided into regions with fighting factions devastating both earth and sentience, Shelley paints a bleak picture of the atrocities perpetrated on the inhabitants.  The remains appear as “One white skull and seven dry bones.”  The violent history seems to haunt the region like in a fog that clings to the landscape.  The past juxtaposed with the present point to loneliness and the anxiety associated with the questions one wonders about:  Will I find a friendly face or someone to love?  Will I always be as solitary as the haunted hills? 

Venice’s past glory is buried and only if freedom awakens will hope arise with it, like long awaited spring.  Peasants go about their business no matter the political climate: “A peopled solitude.”  The cycles of war, that reflects “[t]he despot’s rage, the slave’s revenge,” and peace where flowers bloom among the ancient stones that mingle with the bones, create this loneliness that hovers over the land.  Wars created many, many bones, but we get only one skull and the number seven bones strengthening the felling of loneliness.

Shelley uses the word peopling with solitude and “the lone universe.”  Loneliness swirls with violence as the spirits of the past affect the present and hope is a question, not a certainty.  Shelley seems to be praying “[t]hat the Spirits of the Air/Envying us, may even entice/To our healing Paradise.”  The ghosts of the past can become part of restoration, healing the rifts and peopling the solitude.  Hope and freedom can wake up and join the living.

First Impressions

Stepping off the bus in Spoleto I immediately noticed a freshness in the air. The air tasted sweeter, more pure.  I became aware of certain muscles in my face that seemed stuck in a smile.  The architecture taught me volumes about a subject that I used to be considered an expert in.  For years I have been distressing painted surfaces to mimic age and character.  All of a sudden I was confronted with the real thing.  My feeble attempts at creating ancient texture were revealed for the forgeries that they were. 

 

My senses were enhanced in general perhaps due to the traveling, perhaps due to the sweetness of the air, perhaps due to the realization that all the months of planning had culminated in my actually being present in Italy of all places.  At dinner, the rat race flowed off my back and I felt a tingling in my extremities as the knots compressing my neck muscles began to relax.  As I hydrated and relished the savory, fresh cuisine, my being rejoiced in the simple pleasure of good food and good company.  Each colorful dish that was placed before me to savory nourished me with a calm, pleasant glow that made me want to linger even though I was exhausted and dehydrated.  Lingering over a good meal and relishing camaraderie invigorated me and left me with a sense of peace and contentment which has led to gratefulness. 

Creative Writing: Expectations of Italy

Expectations of Italy

When I think of Italy, I envision the old Coliseum in ruins in the same city as the Vatican.  I picture brick walkways leading to stone chapels with high steeples and centuries old art galleries.  I expect Rome to be commercial and catering to tourists.  I look forward to the mountains of Spoleto littered with umber and sienna houses topped with clay tiles.  I envision myself resting at a seaside café drinking a latte and battling the hair that sticks to my mouth.  I look forward to soaking up the rich history and traditions of a culture that has thrived for many centuries. 

I am sure I will enjoy the authentic Italian cuisine that all too often gets Americanized here in the States.   Fresh, simple goodness will fuel my wanderings and inspiration will touch my soul in a way I cannot predict.  I would like to limit my expectations because I can’t imagine what it will be like to live there for five weeks in the midst of a completely different culture.  I want to leave room for new and exciting experiences related to my surroundings and also to my experiment with writing as a new medium of art expression.

Clichés

I have always heard that Italians speak with their hands.  It’s funny, though, that I have met all kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds who find that gestures are a good way to enhance the spoken word. 

I have also heard that Italian women are very maternal and get offended if you don’t eat enough to their liking.  I think a lot of maternal grandmothers fit into this category.