Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Fetch The Wax, Find the Bitters. (4)

From my small piece of cheese, I send my teeth to fetch the wax: find the bitters, the striking! Strike me awake! Wake me in Italy.

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In the city of fountains, I twist, dazed between the sheets, my body in need of water.
The light weave between the closed shutters, the fanciful drapes, onto the blankly thick walls, weaves between faded blue-grey -- golden sheen like the inside of a goblet -- faded blue grey of the inside of a stormy sky.
Water. I twist into a sit, rise quickly.
In this lofted residence the winds that move the skies above, that put the liquid light from pouring to sipped, the winds open and close. It slams again, the bathroom door, opens itself, clicks again shut, resounding through the hollow workroom with the snap of wood thrusting metal into bronze.
Water. Slowly I gulp at the deep cup. Water. Gulp, gulp down the words, I read: Water, the waters of Rome. Sitting, twisting, skittering between bathroom bedroom workroom, water. I read: the waters that revived Rome. The fountains that laid pilgrims into love of Rome. I read: the preferences of one aqueduct over another - "Vergine...for boiling vegetables."
I want to taste this. Revive me: Shirt plain, brown-patched white socks, perfectly tanned leather shoes.
Door closes, outside - speckled light, light normal enough for me to walk quickly, speckled and bland enough for me to ignore the peppering. To the park, and they notice me; they look at my eyes, look at my shoes. American - cloven - Italian - shorts - long light hair - leather cloven. They are obviously confused, not sure whether to be in disgust. I look back down as I pass through the park, green-filtered light mixing into the deep, grey cement. I had folded the socks, socks on my still tingling legs, to put on the shoes, to become something different, something unidentifiable. I do not know what those legs are as I look down at them - black shorts, filthy socks, shoes with the gleam of a Florentine cow's backside.
My limp is less now, the air entering me as I round the corner, to the shop where the yellow hair on the purple-red meat hanging on ropes signify it is dry.
Entered in a daze: the daze of the hectic, and the constant daze at the real, unrefined, true-colored quality of the food - edible food - all over these walls.
The two men there smile. One is Roberto, the one wit tired red wrinkles sunken into the eyes of his skinny brown face. He is tired, and occupied. But his partner sends out "Dimmi."
Un Buffalo, latte, Caccionata: it is not hard to decide. The only difficulty is in requesting slightly less, asking him to slice off that hunk of reality, that true flavor, that wakening taste. Now I smell bananas, I am in such confusion. Slice off a smaller piece, so I can pay less, so I can constitute myself more in between these two words, rather than firmly in both. Blue grey - gold, blue grey. The walk a teenager takes down the sidewalk, the age a traveller takes when he leaves home.
Roberto does not forget home. Another 'ciao' says everything, but I ask him, I wonder why his eyes look that way? Why on Saturday did he hurry in madness, the madness of the specialty shop! Was it because Sunday, domenica, the Day of Rest had thrown its labors his sabato way?
Normal, yes, worried with work. But me, how was I? How did I feel?
Triste, my explanation, one settimana left here. I seemed somber. This morning I had walked through quiet, my eyes felt dug in and grey. I had walked with slow and sluggish movement, trying to stumble smoothly home.
And so I got a pinch! This Italian actually pinched me on the cheek. He did it twice, he told me of his beautiful country, told me of my own week remaining, and he gave me a new walk, told me exactly, serenitá, the quiet peace I should find in this city of life, in this last week before I see my family.
And we left with a ciao.
Was a pinch enough? I wanted espresso. I wanted the tiniest of cups with the most necessity to sip. I wanted spicy serenity, in a little white goblet, golden-brown glow within.
"Come va il giorno?" I asked the barman. And he asked me to repeat it. Did I speak Spanish he wondered afterwards? Si, Si. I released a laugh. I laughed more. He was awake now, and he had been for a long time. His eyes were bright, but still, "Cuando dormi?" "No dormo. Non mai." We laughed, back and forth with each other. We were awake, different, and serene, quietly mixing into each others' dizzy afternoons. The light was a dimmed gold inside, and I stepped out to be greeted by the bright.
At the door, the family leaving tried to understand my words, not my shoes. We all held the door for each other. As it closed, my coins jingled all at once, as though on uniform bell in my right pocket, clanking with the hammer of my thigh. We bounced up the stairs, sharp clear jingles sweeping me up past the shadowy platform on the second floor staircase. I slowed, through the shadows of black, into the dimness of yellow grey, through the turning lock. Metal and wood clink, and the bathroom door reopens. I slowed, mounted the workspace - workspace flooded bright white, tainted with reflections of pink and green, And I hurried into the two pages.

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