Monday, September 24, 2007

L'Acqua Felice: The Terminus to Rome's Thousand-Year Draught


Terminus of Acqua Felice


Creator and Creation
In the time of the Empire, 11 aqueducts amply fed the city of Rome's 1,212 public fountains, 11 imperial thermae, and 926 public baths (Morton 31); with this consistent supply the metropolis had no need for water storage. When the Goths ravaged the last of the aqueducts in 537 A.D. the city had already been floundering for several hundred years (55). Following that loss, a trickle from the Acqua Verine became the sole external supply of water for the populace for one thousand years. During that period, Rome's then severed population gathered around the few bends in the Tiber river, where the surface area was greatest.
The waters of Rome returned when in 1585, Pope Sixtus V commanded the completion of a new aqueduct within one and one half years (117). The thousand year wait was trying indeed. Such a monumental restoration project at such a rapid pace as Sixtus' was not fit for average abilities: Sixtus' successor, Pope Gregory VIII only went so far as to propose the project (117).
Sixtus V (1521-1590), originally Felice Peretti, came from poor roots (117). As a young shepherd he taught himself the basics of reading. His intellect recruited him to the church and when he was elected to the papacy in 1585 at age 64, he was full of determination, described as "autocratic and irascible like Julius II" (Majanlahti 172). With this motivation, ne was named after Sixtus IV, the same that restored the Acqua Vergine a century earlier. His building plans were just as, if not more ambitious: Sixtus V restored the ancient Acqua Alexandrina to the modern Acqua Felice, repaired the Quirinal Palace (Morton 175), completed the dome at St. Peters (Wikipedia) and erected four obelisks around the city (Majanlahti 174) among a horde of other projects. These extensive plans for the city were executed with the constant aid of his prized architect Domenico Fontana (1543-1607).
To achieve construct his legacy during the limits of his lifetime Sixtus had to be commanding, strict and without remorse or hesitation for punishment. Upon entering the papacy, the new pope was asked the sentence of the current prisoners, and his reply was that "while I live, every criminal must die" (Majanlahti 172). That summer the criminals' heads staked on the Ponte S. Angelo were "more numerous than melons in the market" (172).
The Acqua Felice was planned to lead 15 miles from the swamps at the Pontano Borghese on the back of the old ancient Acqua Alexandrina (Morton 120), in the process draining the swamps for agricultural use. With the same obsessive pace as his criminal campaign, the aqueduct was completed in one year. However, under the strain of the papal taskmaster, the first engineer was unable to create a level flow (119). At this point, Fontana took over and leveled the grade within six months (119). The long wait was over, and the now watered city ready to thrive.

Design by Fontana

Most of the visual manipulation of the Terminus at the Fountain of Moses can be explained through the direct propaganda at the end of the monument's inscription which explains: Sixtus V was responsible for this aqueduct which has water from the springs near Colonna, brought through Prenestina, is of a certain length and is named Acqua Felice after the Pope's original name (Virtual Roma). In common Italian, felice translates to 'happy'. It is a subtle yet precise alteration. By naming the fountain 'Felice', rather than after his papal name, Sixtus not only appears as modest, but he labels the fountain as a thirst quencher, a bringer of happiness to the people of Rome. In doing so on his project he simultaneously attributes those qualities to himself. This same shrewd method was used to name a street, the Strada Felice, and a bridge commanded by the Pope among other public works (Majanlahti 172).
The effect of this glorification is enhanced through the poignant revival of the Roman Triumphal arch (Morton 127). Domenica Fontana cleverly portrayed Sixtus V as an unusually generous and fruitful pope. What was once used in the days of ancient Rome to guide a victorious army and its spoils of war back to the Roman populace now welcomed the waters of the Acqua Felice through this triumph after its fifteen mile voyage from the Pantano Borghese and was gallantly distributed to the people of Rome.
Also a symbol of gathering and distribution, the fountain is laiden with scallop shells, signifying the great pilgrimage (Crull) that this water took to reach the terminus as those pilgrims to the Vatican did. The lines of the shell converge on the single crest of the wave, representative of the force of God that brought them this distance (Crull). Pilgrims brought these shells to the fountain to scoop up the water of the Felice as they neared the Vatican (Crull).
In this religious fashion, the Roman citizens receiving the water are tied to characters in the biblical scenes on the monument's reliefs. On the left, Aaron brings water to the wandering Hebrews (Virtual Roma). The right side is debated, as the fountain was finished in such haste, but is presumed to be the story of Gideon as he chooses soldiers by the way they drink (Virtual Roma). At the center, a statue of Moses portrays the leader drawing water from a rock in the desert (Virtual Roma).

The statue of Moses is the most clear sign that Sixtus' project was indeed rushed. In this prominent feature of the monument, the sculpture holds the tablets of law, but is inaccurate as at this point in the bible Moses did not yet have possession of them (Ostrow 272).
The story is but one minor reason for this statue receiving four centuries of constant criticism. The foundation for this began when Giovanni Baglione wrote a biography on Prospero Bresciano, one of the Moses' sculptors, and therein laid out a ream of skewed facts for critics to come (283). And yet, even at the unveiling, the statue was not well received. At this point in the history of Western art, proportion was meant to resemble reality, to a divine degree; disproportionate design was utter failure (280). In addition, the statue was bombarded by constant comparison to Michelangelo's stunning Moses from 40 years before, the critical barrage of Tuscan writers in support of the Florentine Buonarotti (275), and the frightening man in charge: Sixtus V Peretti.
For the critics, Moses' characterization is minimal, the coat ungraceful; the tablets are not a major feature, nor is his pose. But from these many viewers and points of pressure on the sculptors Bresciano and Leonardo Sormani, the collective target has been their proportional inabilities (278). A ridiculing pasquinade from the unveiling read that the sculptors had literally "lost their mind" (272).
In this era there existed an idealization of the human form that every statue should depict. The sculptor's duty was to recreate God's work. In accordance, the work of a Renaissance sculptor was defined by both measure and taste, Misure e Giudizio dell'occhio (278). The artist must capture physical proportionality, as well as the sense of beauty that only the eye can master. Without the support of accurate measurement, this piece was unable to portray actual beauty. The practiced model maker Bresciano and sculptor Sormani failed to achieve the idealization in the hastily carved Moses. Rather, it was a major disgrace when compared to Michelangelo's emotive rendition of the biblical figure (276). This Moses is considered an actual error (282) because it does not follow the laws of the time, the laws of proportion and perspective, the laws that consider the viewer's position as well as the sculpture itself.
However, while the sculpture fails to properly glorify Sixtus' achievement, direct symbols on the monument from the Pope's coat of arms laud the Pope more exactly. Felice Peretti, as he was originally called, assumed a crest with three pears, in reference to his surname, as well as a lion as a show of strength. Four lions therefore perch at the entrance to the fountain itself. They are docile, but firm in stature (130).
Because the aqueduct was finished before the fountain was, two black egyptian lions were moved to the monument from in front of the Pantheon. This was not an issue of historical significance for Sixtus as though he "loved building, he was no lover of antiquity" (Symonds 311). The two adjacent lions were rushed, carved from white marble (Garden Fountains). The Egyptian lions have now been replaced by more modern white marble designs (Morton 133).

The balustrade of the Acqua Felice was taken from elsewhere, still bearing the name of a Pope Pius V (1566-72) who preceded Sixtus (133). While Sixtus had greater priority for modern improvements than ancient structures, namely his own, he did hold respect for the styles created. As seen in the obelisks and the Egyptian lions, he held a fascination with the ancient world. This fascination is most visible in his erection of obelisks around the city (Symonds 312), an outstanding engineering feat that only a leader with specific interest in their meaning or significance would assume. For Sixtus this significance was a triumph over Paganism.

"Nothing was more absent from the mind of Sixtus than any attempt to reconcile Ancient and Modern. He was bent on proclaiming the ultimate triuph of Catholicism." (Symonds 312)

While obelisks are generally seen in Rome standing alone, Egyptian tradition placed two side by side at an entrance as symbols of rays of the sun. Here on the Fountain of Moses, two obelisks are visible, testifying to Sixtus' understanding and interest in the ancient tradition and his works with them around the city.

Affect of Aqueduct on Renaissance City

The Acqua Felice was of tremendous proportion for its time.
Several massive troughs line the front of the monument, each with a designated structural purpose, humans and their livestock all in consideration. However, the size was additionally meant to act as a display of Papal greatness; because the volume and pressure of the water flowing from this fountain was so far beyond than any other aqueduct or Terminus since ancient times (Garden Fountains), it truly glorified Sixtus's accomplishments in returning Rome to a state of stability.
The Felice's breadth of distribution was and continues to be exceptional. After its 15 mile journey to the Terminus in the outskirts of the old city, water was distributed as far as the Santa Maggiore, North to the Villa Medici, and to the heights of the Campidolgo at the fountain of Roma (Rinne). The left bank of the Tiber, however, did not receive any water from this aqueduct; the left bank's growth was therefore minimal until Pope Paul III built his equivalent, the Acqua Paola in 1608 (Morton). While other aqueducts have brought Lazian waters greater distances, the breadth of distribution throughout the city remains prolific today; this aqueduct was the source of revival of a vast amount of the withered city.
While Sixtus did distribute this coveted resource once it had reached the Fountain of Moses, it was siphoned preferentially to those people and locations in the Pope's favor. Pious organizations of his liking, including monasteries and cardinals, received water in the form of 'donations' (Rinne). Meanwhile, the extensive gardens of his nearby Quirinale palace and the Fontana del Quirinale received the largest amount of the Acqua Felice supply (Rinne). Aside from the public fountains that Sixtus himself created, the civil government was forced to buy a significant portion of the water with only a limited stipend of 100 oncie (Rinne).
The aqueduct's direct effect on the growth of the city is visible in the endeavors of the succeeding Pope Paul III. The Acqua Paulo of 1608, which was the second built since the time of the empire, came just twenty one years after the completion of the Acqua Felice (Morton 164).This competition for reputation and memory was a common drive among popes in commanding public works. However, in the case of supplying a material resource of water, as opposed to the more common religious monuments, the city was actually able to support a larger and more stable population. In the era of church reformation, these waters would be able to revive the capital of Catholicism.

Visible in maps from sixteenth century, Rome is a city wrapped around the folds of the Tiber, where the greatest surface area was available. What today is the city's periphery was then the location of country villas. The population beyond the Vatican was composed around "solitary little churches and monasteries which had managed to exist by virtue of an old well" (Morton 123). Sixteenth century Rome was wild without water.
Sixtus was therefore very proud of the effects of his aqueduct, and made sure his meetings with foreign dignitaries were held at sites where water from the Acqua Felice sprung. As a Sunday tradition, the 66-year-old Franciscan would walk from the Vatican to the top of the hill at his Quirinale Palace and down to his favorite church, Santa Maria Maggiore following mass (140). On his walk he would observe the buildings being constructed along the causeway of the Felice's fountains. Much of this construction on these initially rural areas was by his own persuasion, by providing tax exemptions and building material (140). Such neighbors of the Fountain of Moses include the Monte Cavallo Fountain, the Quattro Fontane and the Triton Fountain Piazza Barberini, and further off, the fountains on the Capitol (127). Also, for his own pleasure, the Quirinal Place now thrived with secret grottos and lavish foliated decor (142).
On the quiet country hill where the waters from Pontano Borghese were first collected now roars one of Rome's busiest intersections.
This literally loud success was not happenchance, the lucky break of one aqueduct by yet another hastily building Pope. Rather, aside from the fact that much of the the aqueduct was originally the Acqua Alexandrina (Virtual Roma) and the concept for the renewal was that of predecessor Pope Gregory VIII, propaganda effectively directed applause to Sixtus. The propaganda involved in the project, including name manipulation, the use of the Triumph and the display of the aqueduct to dignitaries all contributed to the widespread appreciation of the achievement. This propaganda-based success in turn contributed to the competition that soon after led to the construction of the Acqua Paolo.

Modern Day Acqua Felice

In comparison to ancient Rome's 11 aqueducts, today there are only 6 for the entire population of this seemingly boundless city (Morton 64). Five of these six is a restored aqueduct from one of those first 11; the work of the ancient Romans is continued by their modern counterparts. The city is still uniquely supported by a continuous flow as "no other city is served in a similar way" (Morton 65), though the need for water storage is finally being considered for the current population. Even the unit of measure, the oncia, is in use in the modern system:

"It is astonishing to hear a hydraulic engineer, while seated in the most modern of offices...pick up the telephone and discuss with a colleague the measurement of water in terms that would be comprehensible to an engineer of the XXth legion." (Morton 65-6)

The current organization in charge of Rome's water supply is Azienda Comunale Elettricitá ed Acque (ACEA). Following the lead of their predecessors, ACEA employs prideful propaganda to address their subjects, or customers. As part of the information they provide, ACEA includes programs on artistic lighting and community solidarity as part of the company . This closely resembles the attention to visual appearance and manipulation of the masses that the Senate, emperors and Renaissance Popes like Sixtus V Peretti employed.
Rome's bella figura of water is not only supported by the visual presentation of its fountains' sculptures. The presentation of taste follows ancient tradition as the waters from the different aqueducts remain unmixed, this "owing to the different characteristics and qualities carried by the various aqueducts" (Morton 65). With these specifications, the individual citizens, the users of the water, maintain the culture as well. As Morton approached one old Italian man filling up a pot with water at a fountain in the street, he was greeted with the response, "There is nothing better than the Acqua Vergine for boiling vegetables" (70).
The waters of Rome remain the livelihood of its population, culture and legacy and are most likely a keystone to its future.



Bibliography

"ACEA for Rome." ACEA. Online. Sept 12 2007.

Crull, Kerry. "The Scallop Shell: Walking the Camino de Santiago". 14 Feb 2007. Other

Spain. Online. 12 Sept 2007.

"Fontana Del Mose." Copyright 2007. Garden Fountains. Online. Sept 12 2007.

"The Fountains of the Acqua Felix." Virtual Roma. Online. 12 Sept 2007.

Majanlahti, Anthony. The Families Who Made Rome. London: Chatto and Windus, 2005.

Morton, H. V. The Waters of Rome. London: George Rainbird Ltd, 1966.

Ostrow, Steven F. "The Discourse of Failure in Seventeeth-Century Rome: Prospero

Bresciano's Moses." The Art Bulletin 88 (2006): 267-291.

"Pope Sixtus V." 9 Sept 2007. Wikipedia. Online. Sept 12 2007.

Symonds, John A. Short History of the Renaissance in Italy. New York: Henry Holt and

Company, 1894.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

With Green Shutters (5)

'The cracks and creases enchant me. On the outside, I see a number 20. It dribbles down, lightning slits in the fortress wall. Number 20, enter here. Number 20, dribbles here. Number 20, breaks here. Number 20: it grows here.
Here, the 20 lay their roots in stone.'
The quietest cloister in Rome: Santi Quattro Coronati. mezzogiorno di Mer, 5 Sept. Scabbia.


Yes, my most beautiful sights of Italy are the walls: certain walls; most walls. They are those most colorful walls, yet not necessarily the brightest; sometimes a grey wall can hold more visual flare than the freshly painted orange mockery next door. The color of the walls grows with time - they are aged like the wine drunk inside of them, like the generations that move slowly through their space. There will be a patch of dark metal color, then one so rained upon it appears as clear pewter. The patchwork pattern on these walls reflects the clouds, shifting steadily overhead as these erected skies hold up a slow maturation of the events on the ground.

If a beer bottle is hastily chucked over a Roman shoulder and smashes into the wall, it does not immediately crumble to the horizontal plane. The wall shows first its pain with a dents, a rough edged, monotone hole. As the drunken nights pass, the edges wear, they leak downwards and stagger the wall beneath with painless lines. The hole itself collects rain, and drops that down too.


These walls serve as intermediaries between the sky that makes Rome - Makes the water of Rome and the fruit of Rome and the light of Rome and the sometimes sooty breath of Rome: makes Rome - and the land of Rome itself. Just as the people change the products of the rain with their cultural crops and their flooded roads, so too do the walls mediate the sky as it enters the people enlightened by it.

Here in Rome, we live in layers. It is easiest to show one, to be modern, simple minded towards la festa. And yet, of course there are other layers: There is the ancient we walk through, there is the solitary rooms we sleep in, there is the flood of others from around the Mediterranean, from around the Indian, Atlantic and Pacific. And while as travelers it may be difficult to see those layers all at once, the shock of their presence forming a wall by its own accord, the Romans see it. Not all at once of course, but they see many layers, and I have proof! Have you seen a Sicilian scream about a bus? Have you seen a leather vendor grumble away a carelessly rich tourist? Have you seen the sexy stare of a middle-aged, woman tightly bound by her clothing? The Romans are dramatic. They are not one emotion, but a collision of emotions at once. They are open, releasing their experiences, soaking in the new ones that, however modern, are tainted with the ancient. Rome is not botox - it is alive with wrinkles on its face, with movement and smiles and scowls about the littlest of things.

In that cracked grey stone, we find the most vibrant color, vibrant because it holds flavor, it holds old scent, and fresh tears. These walls have watched for a long time, these colorful walls. And the walls that are yet to be colorful, the walls of a dull new orange, eventually they will bellow in frustration and laughter as walls of the city of Rome.

Minestrone (9)

Enough of this stale food, this packaged, plasticized, extracted and injected monocrop crap. Basta, Basta cosi. I am going to Italy.
And I am here. The pepperoni, the spinaci dance in my belly, spaghetti and olio winding around their waists. Even the dried peppercorns on my tongue act freshly dramatic as a grump Italian woman woken up from her siesta by a load of tourists.
No, there is no scanner here. The vendors have eyes, they have dirt-creased hands, they have responses: laughing for a stranger, excited for the meal they help to prepare, disgruntled at the rush hour where their produce cannot be given the proper care. Produtti di Italia, that is what we buy here.
I buy cheese every day or two, bread every day or two, milk and pasta once or twice a week. But the fruits, the vegetables, the greens and roots - I bring a new bag of bags of them home every afternoon. Yes, even with each day's purchase overlapping with the next, each meal is still fresh.


Sometimes I am disappointed, that all I can say in Italian are in introduction of myself as a student, and then a heaping sack of food words. But, we are communicating through our mouths somehow, the Italians and I. If we eat together, if we share their handsome produce, bagged by hand in paper and plastic, instead of crated crates of crudely decrepit crassness, if we pass the food from one to another, the game of telephone comes through more clearly, the scents brighter, stronger, more audible. Yes even a stranger from across the Atlantic can learn in the first dish to cook with the Italians, to cook with their fruits, their pomodori, their piatti. I don't like to go out to the restaurant. I don't like to go out to the supermarket and rush back home. I like to make my way from the bakery for half a loaf of Napolina to Roberto's for some guanciale and parmiaggiano, to the frutavendoli, back and forth between them until I find the perfect combination for a salad, sauce, a stuffed pepper, a midday snack and some vitamin C. They teach me as we speak, even if it is only with the price and a smile - I know what to make of a dish, if I can listen to what is fresh, sometimes even see the dirt around the cracked hands of the fig vendor in the Piazza in Trastevere. Nothing more than, "che...che Buona."
---
Tomorrow is Rosh Hoshannah and Today in the Campo, I picked out seven apples and passed her the bag. Relentless sugary munching on a sweet new year. She did not weigh them. She looked in the bag, shifted hands, and said un euro cinquanta. Un limone (to contrast the sweetness and raise its happy effect) as bumpy and gnarled and plump as I could find. E tre funghi (tonight was to be my second attempt at a stuffed peperono). It was rush hour, it was the Campo, and soon we were both gone. But all day I carried those apples in my pack with the crusty stubs of bread. Carried them when I went back over the filthy Campo (though at least it is filthy with bright, fresh leaves and fruits of Roman soil) while those useless sweepers attempted to tidy the place while blowing puffs of smoke into the air and spitting mud all over the ground in two neat little brush-stroked lanes. In late morning, she was the first apple seller I saw, and I walked all the way around the Campo and saw other busy people with more costly apples and I walked back and stood there with a bag of reds and speckled yellow-greens, and I waited for her to come. I paced around the stand to every angle to catch her at ready. And when the lines had cleared and I stood solitary off to the cash register at the side, she was still in a hurry. But she still has my three euro, and I her apples, and we trust each other with them.
---
Roberto and I smile easily to each other now. Just as easily as we started, really. The first day Mark and I walked in on our way home through Trastevere, we found ourselves talking about peace and tranquility of the world, of what is important. And when I returned from Florence he dramatically responded to my fazed view of the city with the knowledge that Rome truly has "cuore, cuore." This he assured me of with a nod, a squeeze of the brow, and bend of the back, and crook of the arm; it was as though he was wrapping his skin around the heart of Rome, in his heart, in his San Francesco a Ripa store, In his full-feeling city.

Roberto has given me many interesting cheeses, each one with a lingering bushy smile. He's a skinny guy, for an Italian specialty shop. The buconccini, the Sieneta, the Malga, each wrapped up finely in plastic, wax, unwaxed, with a twist that remains impenetrable until it is warmed by the heat of the pan and the cutting board. But when I see him next, I am going to want him to wrap something different. Product of Italy, I want him to wrap a journal for me. Hopefully there will be a nice little stick handy to put on the edge. Smiley man, friendly man, a bushy moustache on his skinny browned frame - skin the color of the yellowed lights of his shop. How can I buy cheddar from Trader Joe when I get back home? How?
---

---
It felt strange going all the way to the Campo to buy bread from an unfriendly, hurried baker. I wanted to meet an unfriendly baker in Trastevere. The first time I went in, she was curt. I knew nearly as much Italian bakery lingo as I did today, but it's all about timing in the oven, and how much you knead the bread. The next time I ordered two cornetti, lemony frosted and my first, in exchange for some euro and a broken friendly offering. Yesterday, I gave a quick ciao. I got a pagnato, mezzo. And just as I was leaving, I tossed in a pointed Buon Domenica. She smiled. Today, I noticed, we still do not know each others names, but we know our produce - her work, my appreciation. Un ossagio d'Italia, I told her, as I asked for two different half loaves.
---
I had wanted to share that day, but by the end of the morning's market experience, I felt like I had only given the two vendors half of what they wanted. The first had run all over the Piazza Trastevere for me just trying to break my hefty ten. But I left there with three syrupy, oozing figs, the lightest flesh with the slightest hint of sweet water and a blast of sugar within. "Due fichi" had meant three to him, " with the explanation of "...che...Buona." Came back a week later to make some sweet insalata. Roberto had some Greek Feta for me, but at first didn't know why I needed so much, or wanted to put it with fichi. The fig man. Asked for some figs and in a moment I felt myself spinning away with a kilo plus of little tough balls of the fruit, boxed and bagged with 4.50 euro and a smile. Still don't really know how that happened so hastily. But when I left, I remember, between the dizzing results of a rapid--paced sale, that there were no more figs on the table when I staggered away grinning goofily. They went very well with the feta. The full kilo plus.
---
First I wanted to know what that dirty looking batch of pre-cut leaves sprinkled with bright violet beans and glowing carrot slices was. Really, sitting in that shallow crate, half shoved to one side, half of the pale wood planks showing, it reminded me of the market's equivalent of the pork butcher (they are definitely the most raw; the whole store looks pinker than a 60's diner). But on a Saturday before Notte Bianca, after a week when I had learned that if I did not stock up on energy and excitement for Sunday, the quiet would make me sad and hungry, I just asked: "Minestrone," I chewed on the familiar word. That is my next dish, or pot, as the case may be.
---
Damn it. I just got back from Despar - the desperately dispensed despot. I have some pale red tomatoes (they're supposed to be truly red tomatoes). I have a 44 cent pasta bag, which I should be frustrated with myself for buying. The tear in the bottom of the frail green plastic just about amounts to my amount of confidence in this shop. I looked for twenty five minutes, three friends waiting for beans. Canned, frikkin' beans. "Sotto," the red-shirted, broom-wielding man said. Not sotto. Not! Alla entrata. Sopra. SOPRA!
I hope the pasta e fagioli turns out tasteful. Hopefully rosemario will save the evening.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Mattina, Domenica, Siena (self)

Prompt: With a limited capacity to speak Italian, we see many people that we do not actually converse with. Without even meeting them, we still make presumptions about them in order to try to understand what they are doing in this foreign land. One might even say, we tell ourselves stories about these strangers. Tell me a story about one of your strangers.

A creature rustles on the wall...a shutter. The opener grimaces out at the day, one arm half raised, the other in full stretch at the rope above.
This morning, I realized, I reached Italy.
As I sit here on this wall, Italian sun washing my face in soft tangerine, I remember a walk through Cahors. Beyond the city barricades of Sienna, I sit now at a junction - a way home, a way away, a road to the road. I am glad to be writing here, in this book, and thank you pen but I would prefer a more natural version of your kin.
I have said twice now that I have been in Italy. And that was true. But each time, I lose it. And each time, it returns with more magic of itself unguarded. Here I am, and I am in no need of bean soup to see Tuscany properly. A church, a bus to a walk, friends. Eyes open, eyes closed, I am here.
The people that walk by - I can hear them in these morning streets, cobblestones ricocheting off the brick walls. One seemed a drunk, or rather an old woman, or rather - when my presumptions from her head movements gave way to full-bodied sight - She was elderly, and handicapped by Leash of Dog; her head and shoulders did indeed bob unpredictably.
The cars here, head not to market. They go far from here, or they go home. The people to work. The birds to sing. Not consumption, but life, the day. The cars run beside the city walls, they go through them. They shake and buzz. This is real.
The sun and I, we seem cradled by two peaks of the valley - dividiamo, resting encieme. We rest in Italy.
Another shutter opens, and three motorbikes move on, up the hill.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

Warming the Center

The climax of this day is such a subtle yellow.
I sit on marbled sidewalk, surrounded by dusty pools of pale-canary sepals.
This has all come so gradually, so dripping from closed lips, from tense tongue, from echoing mouth, down, flavorfully, warm, slow, dripping down my throat.
The day began. It was closed, resting. And upon arising, the day became glum, disappointed and bare in the fragrant wind. The center of my stubborn frying pan refused to heat.
Slowly I spoke, smiled. Later I shared.
Now I breathe deep, am caught amidst a veil of dog droppings, and release the canine-clotted yet breezy evening air with Laughter.
Dinnertime. Showertime.