Falling back in it again in Italy.

Warning: this is long as fuck, and not necessarily cohesive or fluid.
Here are some scraps and scribbles from Italy.




Airport musings:

It’s hard to describe how Europeans look:
They are definitely attractive and exotic—
But there is something distinctly different
About their features: perhaps it is
The dramatic arches of their eyebrows,
Or their seemingly pursed lips,
Or their long, unkempt looking but
Totally styled hair.
I think, maybe, they look like vampires.
They are definitely all supermodels, for sure,
Fair and beautiful eye-candy,
And I can honestly say, I am now
Without a cent of self-esteem
Or self-adoration to my name.
Europe will be the demise of my vanity.

(And there is something totally campy
About flight attendant uniforms
And their dress code
And personal grooming regulation—
And about flight attendants in general,
But that’s a different matter entirely)

Before we left the house, my grandma
Instructed us to take photographs,
Reminding us that our generation
Is privileged to have cameras,
That in her day, they didn’t have such
Complex contraptions and devices
To their disposal.
Nor were they allowed to take pictures
At the Vatican.
(I think she’s still bitter about that)
Except for the Japanese—
They magically had cameras.
And they never followed the rules.

(Ironically, I forgot my camera; oops)

Also, apparently, when Europeans
Find you attractive, they pinch your ass.
My great-aunt explained that
When she was in her thirties,
A frisky Frenchman pinched her rump
In front of her husband at the Vatican,
And therefore also in front of God himself.
My grandma wailed and warned us
To be careful.
(I can only hope that someone
Finds me attractive amongst
All these beautiful people—
Maybe I have some mysterious
American charm and I will get laid,
Or maybe everyone will just think
I’m a child with special needs and ignore me)



Florence:

Florence is busy.
I’m not sure if they have traffic laws here.
I think they just make them up as they go.
Lanes are more like guidelines,
When there are lanes.
Stop signs and traffic lights
Are optional.
Everyone drives like I do
e.g. over curbs.
Except they all have small cars;
I have a mini-van;
They have no excuse.

Florence feels like a post-war town.
From what I have seen,
There is only graffiti
And construction
And cigarette butts
And plaster buildings
And street vendors.
The language barrier is intimidating
And I feel like the only thing
I can do is make awkward
Hand gestures and eye movements.
Maybe I won’t leave the hotel room.

The hotel is beautiful.
From the street, we missed the entrance
The first time looking for it.
All of the homes and shops
Have paper thin entrances—
You travel through narrow, dimly lit corridors,
And the space branches up and out as you proceed.
It’s like a labyrinth; rooms stacked impossibly.
There are hidden rooms and stairways and hallways
Tucked away leading to other living chambers.
I half expect the wardrobes to take me to wonderland.
There are miniature statues everywhere,
And bright flowers
And painted glass windows
Framed by stained wood.

The Italians really like their leather,
Whenever we pass a coat shop
Or a purse stand, the smell is so incredibly
Overwhelming, it seems as though
The cows are being slaughtered
Just behind the counter,
I wouldn’t blink twice if I saw blood
Seeping under the doorways to the backrooms.
I keep looking for the underground bondage clubs;
I haven’t found them yet.

We visited David; I swooned in ecstasy.
He was beautiful.
Michelangelo believed that
The nude male figure
Is the epitome of beauty.
(I agree with him whole-heartedly)
All of the figures we saw today were incredible:
Every muscle bulging,
Every vein exposed,
Bones protruding,
Chiseled perfection.
I fell in love with every single statue.
Each one gave me goosebumps.
I hope one day I’ll be able to create art
Like these masters.

We saw living statues.
Some of them weren’t doing it right—
Running around in ghost white bed sheets,
Face paint sloppily applied—
Jingling paper cups of change in peoples faces.
I didn’t pay them.

My first glass of Italian wine was delicious.
Sweet, slightly spicy.
Dry, yet rich and quenching.
I think the grapes here are fertilized
With honey and crack.

The Italians believe that when
You’re seated at the dinner table
You don’t age.
So you might as well sit back
And relax for a couple of hours
And enjoy the meal and the company.
Because you’re obviously
Not getting any older
Or missing anything important.
I like this mindset.

I saw great paintings:
I saw Caravaggio’s thieves, prostitutes and male lovers.
I saw Da Vinci’s Madonna clutching Christ,
I saw Botticelli’s Venus, rowing ashore on her shell,
I saw Paramigianio’s long-necked virgin,
I saw the birth of scientific linear perspective.
I saw the birth of the Renaissance.

The Renaissance was a time of
Exchanging ideas and theories,
Of intellectual and spiritual intercourse
And conversation,
Of poetry and wigs
And frilly dresses—
Of artisans, of invention,
Of turning to self and the capacity
And ability of man for inspiration.
Of human connectedness.
I should’ve lived back then.
In another life, I probably did.

I saw more living statues.
I walked up to one, dropped a coin
In his box and he slowly creaked to life.
We made eye contact.
We touched.
Held hands.
He started to pose for a picture;
I wanted to stop him and say:
“no, no, I just wanted to share a moment with you,
I just want to feel another being pressed against me,
I just want to feel human again WITH you,
Just for a moment”
But the language barrier prevented this.
So I quickly wrapped my arms around him,
He followed my lead,
And we embraced—a true, heartfelt embrace.
Cameras flashed, people smiled.
It was pure and beautiful and intimate.
I thanked him—we smiled at each other
And bowed,
And then he turned back into a statue.
I visited all of the others on the street.
It felt like pure prostitution:
We’re both getting what we want.
My side possibly more meaningful,
But it works out.
Maybe I’ll drop out of school
And become a living statue,
Busking around town to pay the bills,
And creating meaningful, human art.



I’m getting the tan I’ve been avoiding all summer.
Fuck.
I feel like a vineyard worker.

We ate out in the town, feasted on pasta
In a cellar and drank their sweet wine.
The chief listened to 90’s pop—
I’ve also had my fair share of lady gaga here;
She really has taken over the world.
(I had a fantasy about meeting her in Rome,
And I wanted to take a picture with her
And she wanted to take a picture with me
But we were both just so hot and sweaty and gross,
So we made out instead)

My sister and I took dead pictures around the hotel,
People stared, and it was okay.




Lucca and Cinque Terre:

It was bittersweet to leave Florence,
To leave the art and the life and the hospitality.
We went for a day trip in Lucca,
We rode bicycles around the top of the fortress walls
Surrounding the town; it was wonderful.
I don’t think I’ve been so happy and joyous and carefree
In a long time.
There’s just something about riding bicycles.
It was thrilling and satisfying.
(The experts are right; you never forget how to ride a bicycle)
We just rode around the fortress at a comfortable pace,
Taking in the scenery and letting the breeze sweep across our bodies.
It was refreshing; I checked out.
I felt like I was in an animated Japanese film,
Merrily peddling along, fresh fruit
In the whicker basket
Woven to the front of my bike,
The locals zooming by: some carried radios,
Others made out on the benches.
It was perfect.
We went to a little shop and bought sandwiches,
And feasted on salami, prosciutto and focaccia beneath the trees.

Then we bussed back to Cinque Terra,
A little town tucked away in the mountains,
Shielded from the elements;
Lemon and orange and grapefruit trees
Thrive in the humid climate.
We could see all the rooftops of the surrounding houses
From our hotel balcony—
It’s an old pirate town,
Everyone sun bathes,
Except for the elderly,
Who gossip in the shade
On the benches outside the churches.

We went to a restaurant predating
The second world war, and the owner and cook
Shared her secret pesto recipe with us.
Fragrant and potent basil,
Pine seeds and slick olive oil,
Mashed to all hell.
It was delicious.
We washed it all down
With sweet white wine.
Afterwards, we sat out on the terrace,
Comparing notes and smoking cigarettes
And star gazing.
It was surreal knowing that we were sitting
Under different constellations.
For once, I wasn’t under the same stars.

We climbed the mountainside on narrow,
Man-made stone paths connecting the small towns
Along the coastline—steep stairways embroidered
The jagged terrain; the people who dwell here
Grow grapes and basil and tomatoes on the cliffs.
It’s amazing what can be sowed and harvested
From these dangerously steep, stale and bone-dry gardens.
Incredibly, wild bamboo plants and morning glory vines also reside.

We walked through a tunnel of love:
Couples flock here to declare, memorialize and solidify
Their commitment to their lovers by locking lockets along
The railings of the tunnel.
Human hearts, roses and other images of love and passion
Were graffitied onto the walls.
(I wondered how many of these couples were still together.
And then I wondered how many of the skeptics kept
The keys or scribbled down the combinations just in case
Their relationships turned sour)

I sat out on the balcony of our hotel with a refilled glass
Of white wine, inhaling cigarettes and enjoyed
The scenery—the rooftops and awnings.
I didn’t go to the beach, my farmer’s tan is too embarrassing.
Everyone here is just so beautiful,
In their speedos, making out on the rocks,
Glistening in the sun,
The waves lapping at their feet,
The foam licking their toes.
They look like mermaids.
I want to be a mermaid.

A humming bird flew by,
Quickly drinking the sweet nectar
From a potted flower on my terrace.
It was brief.
And I wondered what hummingbirds did
With the rest of their time
When they weren’t making fleeting appearances.

Tuscany:

The hills here resemble the landscape of the human form:
Voluptuous curves, full mounds, fleshy complexion,
Like the smalls of backs, or the arches and dips of breasts,
Sewn together and clothed in a patchwork garment
Of plantation fields.

We went to a wine tasting.
We discussed art and politics,
We discussed St. Catherine’s severed and preserved head,
We sat in awe of the resiliency of the Tuscans,
Who blocked up an entire arched gateway to the city,
Using massive bricks they pried up from the streets,
To prevent the Germans from invading.
We traded tales about relatives
Who immigrated to America
And stressed the importance
Of remembering and preserving and recording
Their histories and their stories
Before we lose them and it's too late:
Loaves of bread, aunt rose, wartime factory gossip.




Rome:

(By the time this trip is over, I wont have any clothes
That haven’t been stained and ruined from olive oil splashes at dinner—
I’ll have to shop for an entirely
New wardrobe when I return)

We went to the Vatican.
I saw the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
I came in my pants on the spot.
It was messy.
We saw Bernini’s beautiful sculptures,
Cheered and rooted as David pulled his slingshot,
Peeped at Theresa moaning in ecstasy,
Witnessed Persephone’s rape,
Watched as Daphne transformed into a tree
And consoled Apollo mourning his unrequited love.
Each statue was posed in arching, twisting,
Dramatic, ballet-like, lyrical stances.
They looked as though they could come to life.
The detail was impeccable,
The skin of Persephone’s limbs impregnated and penetrated
By the pressure of Pluto’s grasp as she flailed to free herself.
I came in my pants once again.

We went to the colosseum;
I imagined the glamour and desperation,
The bread and circus,
The exotic splendor
And the facing of one’s own mortality.
Mussolini called it “monumental clutter”


We did the tourist thing,
We inhaled gelato,
We drank lemocellos to “aid digestion” after dinner,
We ate Bacio—delicious confections—fists of dark chocolate sprinkled with almonds
With little slips of passionate poetry folded inside:
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind”
“The heart cannot be bought or sold, only given”
“A sponge to wipe away the past,
a rose to sweeten the present,
and a kiss to greet the future”
“Love submerges in a wave of kisses
and surfaces in a torrent of passion”
(I think, this is where Italian men get their pickup lines,
Cheesy as fuck, but I love cheese, and I ate that shit up)
We cast coins into the fountain of Neptune.
I threw in three so that one day I will return
With the man of my dreams.



My aunt says every equinox and solstice,
Her family and friends come together to celebrate,
Gathering in front of a roaring fire.
On little slips of paper,
They write down their dreams and desires.
Then they drop these prayers into the fire
And let them burn.
And as the ashes disappear
And their hopes are released into the atmosphere
They pray that the world answers their requests.
It’s kind of like ‘the secret’, but without
The greedy material gain,
Rather, it’s spiritual and emotional healing.









Every time I sit down to write a list of qualities
I hope to find in a man, I keep describing
The last person I was in love with.
He seemed perfect,
Sometimes, I still think he is.
But clearly he isn’t,
Otherwise we’d be together,
And I wouldn’t be writing this.

This is probably healthy, maybe.

I want someone taller than me,
Someone who can literally
Sweep me off my feet
(Which shouldn’t be too difficult
To begin with since I have about as much
Meat on my bones as a holocaust victim)
I want an artist, a writer, a musician, a poet,
A romantic, a dreamer, an explorer, an inventor.
“Someone schooled in an art, as though he was kissed
By God, full on the lips”
I want someone who communicates,
Someone who won’t jump ship when faced
With discussing himself and his feelings.
He must be sturdy,
And vulnerable,
And eloquent—
Someone who finds beauty
In the simplicity of life.
Someone who is candid,
And not emotionally detached.
Someone who isn’t too glittery or misty,
Someone strong and protective,
Someone with wit and charm,
Style and class,
Someone who can express his love
Not simply through spoken word
Or physical pursuits,
But through other creative, expressive
And unexpected outlets.
I want someone who can appreciate me for who I am,
Not for who I could potentially become.
I want someone who doesn’t think I have growing to do,
That my feet aren’t too small for the shoes I’m trying to fill.

Someone like this:

Someone “…who wishes to build sand castles with words,
Who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander.
We build this place with the sand of memories;
These castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible.
So part of us believes that when the tides starts coming in,
We won’t really have lost anything,
Because actually only a symbol
Of it was there in the sand.
Another part of us thinks we’ll
Figure out a way to divert the ocean.
This is what separates artists from ordinary people:
The belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough,
Somehow the ocean won’t wash them away.
I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.”
(Anne Lamott “Bird by Bird—Some Instructions on Writing and Life)

Amen, Anne.

(Alas, “we plan, god laughs”
I had an emotional experience
Whilst watching “Iron Jawed Angels”
On the flight home.
It was probably the wine.)

Anyway,
No more planning.
My clairvoyant friends
Can predict when guests
Are going to arrive.
I’m usually bad at this.
But I get the feeling
Things are looking up