Another blast from the past. Italy 2004 continued…[Warning: some R content]
June 5, 2004
Frescoes are a poor man’s Bible in a time when a Bible cost as much as a house.
Dante’s eyes in his statue look alive but trapped in stone, possessed or dying. Dante was excommunicated and tried writing very well to be reinstated to Florence. Milan Kundera’s theory is that being excommunicated from your home makes you a better writer.
I need to get kicked out.
June 6, 2004
The poppies on the hillside look like light blood stains on green pants, scraped knees and grass stains. Boys playing in fields snatching at footballs and shoulders, tumbling to the ground and bruising. Wrapping their knobby bones and flesh together for mere seconds then pushing apart and running with a continued fervor.
One of the girls on the trip is eating an orange like an apple and biting into the skin and swallowing it.
We went on the Blue Grotto boat ride around the Isle of Capri. Drove into a cave –sounds of water clapping against polished white walls. Echoes of voices like shards of glass cutting the water and hollowness. The water rises and sinks sending diamond bracelets dangling from stalactite hands. Dipping my palm into the turquoise Mediterranean Sea and when it dries in the Italian sun there is a shimmer of salt coating my fingers.
The young man working the snack bar on the jetfoil to Capri looks like a man in a movie, not from good looks but in the nature in which he inhabits the room. Silent, sad eyes. He lightly probes the room. He trails a pretty older lady as she walks by then resigns to making espresso, staring at the slowly filling white cup with the same sad, empty expression. In the movie version of his life, we follow him back to his room. We call him Dante. He’s lonely, horny. He jerks off in his bedroom watching commercials for self-tanner. He imagines himself with the older lady. He lightly touches her breast. The linen of her shirt. Hesitates, pulls his hand away. His sad eyes searching her face. And then he’s back. Back to us, making the cappuccino, back to being alone.
And for the hell of it, another poem:
Apollo and Daphne
Perhaps the characters will be named
Apollo and Daphne
Chasing one down a long hall of
glowering ancient busts,
Climbing into a laurel tree and
shivering from fear
and the cold night air. A predator
at the base with a gold
Arrow in his hind. Naming
oneself after a Greek myth
is only so cliché that it can
be new again.
The lead in her side causing an itch,
a tearing of the flesh, a vomiting
at the look of those loving eyes.
Let night come! She pleads,
Let the sun go away.
Let the leaves fall around the
Crowns of your head.
In Dante’s writing, the reader visited Heaven and Hell and everything in between…if that sort of fiction interests you, check out my satirical novel about religion on my other site here. A new chapter is posted each Wednesday afternoon. And don’t forget to add your email to both sites to follow all new content.