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

Knowing your worth.

We went up to Buffalo
For the weekend to visit my grandmother;
I always forget how beautiful
It is up here in the late summer.
We’re usually here in the winter,
Buried under feet of snow,
Uselessly trying to shovel our way out.
However, during—what seems like—the three months
It isn’t snowing,
It’s lovely.
All of the houses here
Are paneled in wood
And painted in creamy pastels,
The siding weathered and aged,
The worn windows flanked by shutters.
Almost every house
Has a widow’s peak
And a cozy front porch,
Accented by Victorian spindles
And intricate arabesque archways;
Porch swings and rocking chairs sway in the breeze.
All of the wild flowers are in full bloom;
The fields trimmed with
Daises, tiger lilies, hollyhocks and bluebonnet,
The Queen Anne’s lace still blotted with blood
As thick and fresh as the juice
Dripping from the sweet blackberries.
Farmer’s markets line the cobbled brick roads—
There’s even an ostrich farm down the street.
This town is quaint as fuck.

Saturday morning,
My cousin and I went garage sailing.
And I picked up some kitschy treasures.
Then we drove on the interstate;
The voyage was exhilarating.
There’s nothing like flying down the highway
With the windows rolled down—
New York State air is refreshing—
Bluegrass blasting through the speakers
And letting your hand dip
And flail across the air.
There’s nothing like
Being lost in the country,
Letting the winding, concrete ribbon
Sweep you away.

It’s nice to check out sometimes.

We visited relatives; family is refreshing.
They say there’s nothing thicker than blood,
Sometimes, I think they might be right.
We drank wine, feasted on spicy sausages
And fried green tomatoes.
We traded stories, offered advice,
Exchanged tales of encounters with the paranormal,
And compared notes on surviving this
Fucked up lifetime.

As always, we watched a disaster film.
Nothing brings people together
Quite like an alien invasion.
My aunt says, when we die
And we meet the aliens,
They’ll be shocked and amazed
That we survived a lifetime on this planet.
Granted, life could be worse,
A lot worse.
But still,
It’s really fucking difficult
Not to wig out
All the time.


Lately,
I’ve been on the bender.
I haven’t been taking care of myself.
I’ve been reckless,
And unhealthy,
And self-deprecating,
And self-destructive,
And it’s taking a toll.
My bones and muscles ache,
I can feel my heart and my will breaking.
And I don’t like it.

Sometimes,
It’s necessary to compile
A list of things that
You’re good at,
And qualities
You like about yourself,
Just to remind yourself
That you ARE a worthwhile person,
Despite what others have chalked you up to be.
And despite what even you have chalked yourself up to be.

Sometimes
You need to remind yourself
Of your own worth.


I have nice hands
And I like what I can do with them.
I can sew,
And mend holes,
And bind books together.
I could make you a doll
So you won’t have to sleep alone at night.
I can nurse a dying bird back to health,
I can also make scrambled eggs.
I could put together
The most beautiful bouquet
Of wild flowers you have ever seen,
And I’m casual around bees.
I look hot in briefs.
I can carry a tune.
I can lose my phone,
But I won’t forget to call you back.
And when the satellites
Come crashing down
I’ll still remember how to communicate.
I can beat a hoop with a stick,
I can carve a whistle out of a branch,
I can weave cat’s cradle.
And do other useless things.

I know how to grieve—
We have strange rituals,
We bury our dead
And visit their graves.
And we cry
And dwell.
This is how we cope—
I know how to grieve.
So don’t tell me how to mourn.

I can cut losses,
But I won’t burn bridges.


Although I couldn’t buy you a drink,
I could write you a heartfelt letter,
And pen poetry,
And compose songs
And paint you a masterpiece
If you asked me to.










And now, some words from the experts:

“I've learned that you cannot make someone love you.
All you can do is be someone who can be loved.
The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care,
some people just don't care back.
And it's not the end of the world.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust,
and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life,
but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself
to the best others can do,
but to the best you can do.
I've learned that it's not what happens to people,
It's what they do about it.
I've learned that no matter how thin you slice it,
there are always two sides.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words.
It may be the last time you see them.
I've learned that you can keep going
long after you think you can't.

I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done
When it needs to be done
regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that there are people who love you dearly,
but just don't know how to show it.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry,
but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow even over the longest distance.
Same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to
doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I've learned that no matter how good a friend is,
they're going to hurt you every once in a while
and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgiven by others.
Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken,
the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are,
but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean that they don't love each other.
And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I've learned that sometimes you have to put the individual
ahead of their actions.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing
and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter the consequences,
those who are honest with themselves get farther in life.
I've learned that your life can be changed in a matter of hours
by people who don't even know you.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give,
when a friend cries out to you,
you will find the strength to help.

I've learned that writing,
as well as talking,
can ease emotional pains.
I've learned that the people you care most about in life
are taken from you too soon.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice
and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe.
I've learned to love
and be loved.
I've learned...” (Omer B. Washington)







I can love.
I can love you.
I can love myself.