speaking of creativity

Today I had ricotta + fig gelato.

And it was incredible.

Really. What will they come up with next?

{aspiring}

week fifteen:::a quality you aspire to

I had a ridiculous amount of fun with this one, but when it comes right down to explaining it things get a little muddled. First of all, I think I made this specific quality up. Secondly, I still don't know what to call it. Everything I come up with looks excessively alliterative, but at this point, it will have to do. So, to explain:

I aspire to Constant Creation. Or being Creative Constantly. Or maybe Constantly Cultivating Creativity. Take your pick; I'm afraid it won't make sense anyway without some examples.

like

EMILY FALCONBRIDGE:::She's the one that got me started with this art journal in the first place, which should be some indication of what she's about. But what I really love most about her is that art is a part of every corner of her life, from camera straps to afternoon snacks. What's more, she makes it a part of your life, too---her ideas and inspiration nearly demand that you rush off for an hour or two with paper and scissors. I feel like she is in a state of constant creation.

M.WRITES:::Besides hearting her mini journals and lower-case letters, I love how simple she makes living lovely seem. Sometimes, creating beauty is only a matter of adding a square of color here or a particular shine of ribbon there.

MOSTLY MARTHA:::This is where things get a little unfair, because not only does Martha have the color and composition thing down, she creates the most marvelous little stories, too. They begin and end just like a favorite memory, slipping in and out of consciousness with all the warmth and wonder her tales of family, childhood, friends and living hold. I love taking a minute to choose one at random from the archives; it has some Harry Potter magic to it, stealing memories from the Pensieve.

All of the above, essentially, give a good part of themselves to making this world more beautiful. They play with color and line, paper and texture, words and metaphor, creating miniature masterpieces as part of their everyday living. And luckily for us, they let us become a part of it, too.

Long story short, I'm lugging along my little box of inks and thread wherever I go, no matter what my dad says.

do you remember?

I really love realizing it's the 21st night of September, so that I can sing the song. Because then I get to smile about specific hilarity of an inside joke my senior year, which then leads to laughter when that reminds me of Ray Charles and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and then a blissful moment of reflection on potstickers and organic salsa. A! We were so hilarious.

I love the memories a sound can hold.

This morning I listened Brooke, remembering how she was my only friend the morning I landed in London all those many months ago. I remembered hauling my suitcase and carryon up and down countless flights of stairs, navigating the Underground based on colors and some latent directional instinct. I remembered falling asleep in Hyde Park, and then waking up to walk along Embankment. I remembered boarding the 509 to Cardiff, as if it were something I'd done a hundred times and couldn't have thought twice about it.

What I don't remember is ever being scared. Or nervous, or worried, or over-anaylsing, which is always, always the case with me. I remember being a little surprised at my calm and confident take on this new adventure, but then thinking it through as I left England for Wales. It made sense, I guess. I'd waited a long time for this, had planned and prepared to study abroad ever since I was old enough to understand my mum's attachment to Vienna. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, either; everyone was going their separate ways this summer, and my door had opened. I'm not saying I necessarily deserved it, like it was my right or my destiny---but I was ready for it, so ready. In that moment (Croeso i Cymru!), I realised that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and becoming exactly who I want to become. And Brooke sang still so young to travel so far/but old enough to know who you are . . .

Which, turns out, is a really fantastic feeling. I wish I felt it all the time. I wish everyone could feel that sense of purpose, that seal of approval. I hope everyone has those moments of clarity, and joy. And I'm really hoping everyone's headed to listen to their favorite song, ready to remember.

evviva!

Oh, I feel alive again!

Chelsea ran off to Pisa for the day, leaving me with her laptop---and Photoshop. I'd been waiting all week for this day, a chance to play with type and brush again, to cut and to paste and to create. It would be no exaggeration to say that I hardly slept at all last night, imagining up the fun I would have in the morning.

And it was fun---though, unfortunately, all that designing left me no time to write. So I'll just leave you here with the new layout, and you can figure out all the lists and linking yourselves.

PS: more fun at flickr, too.

my favorite ever so far

perché dovrei leggere il Libro di Mormon?

In Italy, my religion has been a mere curiousity to those I meet. Professoressa Muzzi offers me coffee every morning before laughing at her own forgetfulness; Luigia was shocked and then pleased to find her host daughters spend so many hours a Sunday at church. In general, they know I'm Mormon and that's that. But yesterday, I had all sorts of religion running at me.

Two stories:

1::: I took the bus to Firenze yesterday, where I paid a visit to David and then spent the afternoon pretending to be Lucy Honeychurch before heading home. I had just settled into a seat for the ride home when I noticed a man hop on at the last minute, standing in the open aisle instead of taking a seat on the crowded coach. He looked curiously at the busload of teenage girls, and then at me with Stephenie Meyer's La Luna Nuova in one hand* and my Italian dictionary in the other. His stare was unabashed and slightly unnerving; I chose to ignore it and keep to my book.

I read for an hour before taking a break again, at which point I could avoid him no longer as he took a step toward me, and spoke.

(Keep in mind that the following conversation happened entirely in Italian.)

"You are learning Italian?" he asked, pointing at my books and pens.

I nodded. "Yes, at school."

"You speak it well?"

I laughed, shaking my head sadly. "I am trying to, at least."

"Where are you from? America?"

"Salt Lake City, in Utah. . ." I answered, suddenly unsure. Most don't know my hometown, but he had jumped at the name.

"Salt Lake City?!" he repeated, his eyes wide. "But . . . but . . . Mormons!" He threw his hands up, then stumbled as the bus took a sharp curve.

"Yes, there are lots of Mormons," I agreed. He shook his head, holding up a finger as if I didn't quite comprehend what he had said.

"But they are spies!" he exclaimed.

I looked at him for a long minute, my brain trying to understand that, yes, I had heard the Italian correctly. "Spies?" I laughed. "Non è vero. That's not true at all." He was nodding his head vigorously. "Si, si, è vero," he assured me.

"Uh-huh," I said. "And who told you that?"

"I have hundreds and hundreds of articles--from newspapers, magazines, books! I keep them in a box at home!" He was shouting now, but in a terrified whisper.

I took a deep breath, considering this could go two ways. One: it becomes a phenomenal missionary experience. I explain my church's fundamental principles and beliefs, suggest a Book of Mormon, maybe recommend the man to our missionaries here in Siena. Two: he's actually completely totally crazy. And judging by the way he now stood shrinking into his trenchcoat and shaking like mad, I guessed it was probably the latter.

"Listen," I said, gently, quietly. "I am Mormon." He took a step back, away from me. I decided against adding that, not only was I Mormon, but half the bus was, too. "I am a Mormon," I repeated, emphasis on the noun. "But I am not a spy. I promise you."

He shook his head, muttering. He never said another word but for the next twenty minutes worked on moving as far from me as possible, until the doors opened at the city stop and he was gone.

And I? I went back to my book, telling Erin I'd explain later and feeling just a little bit incredulous. Serving a mission is going to be all kinds of insane.

2::: But it could be equal parts glorious. Back in Siena, I had just enough time to retell the day's adventures to my roommates before we were called down to dinner. It was the usual Italian fare and we had a good (if broken) conversation about my day in Firenze and Italy's artistic history. Luigia had just begun to clear out places when Franco spoke up from the head of the table.

"Ragazze," he said, slightly timid. "Not this Sunday, but another, maybe the next, is it possible for me to come to church with you? I would like to understand how you worship, and how you pray."

As Lauren said afterward, "How do you say 'very much YES'?"

_______________________
*This is an entirely other story and a post for another day. I know I told you I'd sworn off the vampires, but I never said anything about i vampiri. . .

I find it a little bit ironic that I only bought an umbrella today, in Italy. As if I didn't just spend two months in the UK.

It is bright yellow, which makes me happy.

schizzo, il gatto straordinario

benvenuto a Siena! mi presenta Schizzo, il gatto magico.

It is a happy thing that the familiglia Runfola keeps a cat, and even better that they love Schizzo so dearly they tend to talk to him in funny voices. He's a proud ginger with a name that means "sketch" and a dozen scars from the tough streets of Siena. He likes to curl up with me and my books, and occassionally even helps out with my homework. But that's not all; Schizzo also happens to be a little magic.

Lauren is sure he can teleport. One second he's in the kitchen, the next he's asleep on my bed. I leave him on the couch, he's suddenly at the window.

We have to lock every door behind us. Schizzo can work any doorknob under two minutes.

He types. Actual words. Hops right up on Lauren's keyboard and spells out "look," then waits patiently for us to obey. Actually, this was a little creepy. You get the feeling he actually knows something.

And he also stars in one too many photos, which I've just uploaded here. Happy Monday, friends!

sono piena.

FOR THE RECORD, I've been arting all along. I just haven't had the time to scan and post these past months. But now that I'm settled in Siena I've had a minute to catch up, and if you really want to keep up with the whole set, you can find them through the link on the right (I posted them on the dates they match, for my own memory's sake)

This week's prompt was the rather apt words. And after a week of lessons at Dante Alighieri, this is what it meant to me.

my name sounds like a revolution

A little story:

Siena is divided into 17 neighborhoods, or contrade, which have been around since the Middle Ages when they were used for funds and manpower to defend Siena's recent independence from Florence. Today they are not so administrative as they are driven by their residents' emotion and devotion---you take great pride in your contrada, every grand event (baptisms, weddings, festivals) celebrated by your small slice of the city.

So it is with great pride, and already the inkling of fierce devotion, that I introduce to you mia Contrada del Bruco. Yes, the Contrada of the Caterpillar.

Sure, everyone else can claim the she-wolf, the elephant, the porcupine, the giraffe. But don't dismiss my humble little inchworm quite yet---that post title you see up there? You'd better believe that's our motto. We deserved it (just ask Charles IV of Bohemia, 1369), and we're sticking with it.

voi siete qui

She smiled, nodding as if to make us understand. "Youra bags aheer, and then we goa to theea countrysieed. Yes?" We nodded, smiled, too. What else could we do? It had been an eight hour bus ride to Siena, where we were dumped unceremoniously at the station and left for adoption, mutt puppies in a cardboard box. When the famiglia Runfolo called our names, we could only swallow the butterflies and follow.

Our bags were left in the city, just as little Virginia had promised. A long pull up four flights of stairs and a whirlwind run through their frescoed apartment and we were back in the car, following Luiga out of the city. Virginia turned to us in the back, laughing now. "Mia mom, she runsa wid de car," she said. American songs played on the radio; the sun set over the Tuscan hills. We turned along a dirt road, down toward a country villa lit with warm light and candle glow. A dog met us at the iron gate; a small sign pointed to the pool. "Schizzo," Virginia pointed, introducing us to her cat; then "Angela, Giuliano" as she introduces old family friends. Angela won't tolerate a word of English, though she speaks it well. We ate at a long table under the stars, pasta and mozarella, prosciutto and figs. Virginia sat in the middle, the teenager ambassador of communication. "You can sleep this place anytime," she says as we return to the city. "Justa axsk. For weekends, swim? Thees isa okay?"

: : : : : : : : : :

Above Siena's Camollia Gate is written, "Cor magis tibi Sena pandi"--More than its doors, Siena opens its heart to you. In my three days here, nothing could be more true. We are a piece of this medieval city already, comfortable in its narrow streets and careful of the contrada rivalries. Today we started school, a frenzy of vocabulary and botched verbs. We have sketched in the Piazza del Campo and shopped the Euro store. I have given a tourist directions and found my own way to the English bookstore. Life, to say the very least, is so, so good.

i believe

This week's prompt was a little challenging, seeing as I could answer any number of things to I believe . . .

In the end, however, it was pretty simple. I believe in fighting for Truth, and for Light. For the good and beautiful in this world. And I'd just spent a day in the Vatican, studying angels. So it all pulled together quite wonderfully.