etymological ambiguities

On our last afternoon in the little library with a view of the Tuscan hills, Alessandro told us about The End. "In Italian," he explained, "the word can mean two things. It is only a changement of the masculine or the feminine." Which sounds ridiculous, but Italians like to complicate life like this. You can use prego in about a hundred different ways. Same with allora, or quindi. And while la fine means the end, il fine means the aim, or the goal.

Like most wordy things, I like that.

Tomorrow I'm off to Munich, the last stop in my Farewell Tour. By Tuesday night I'll be home. And with three hours left in November, this seems a good place to stop.


LA FINE

:::of Europe. they say it changes you. I'd have to agree. hoping it's a good thing.

:::of the Brunette Ambition Tour 2008. no better way to go out with a bang. loving these last few magical days with my mum and sisters, who manage to make me laugh and cry all in one moment.

:::of this little chapter in my life. a little worried about what comes next---I worked toward studying abroad for so long, it's hard to realise that it's over.


IL FINE

:::a whole month of arting! mum and I have a full list of projects for the coming holiday weeks. am already planning paper patterns and canvas collages.

:::a marathon. so many people and places and things to see, so many stories and lives and thoughts to hear and tell. scheduling dinner parties and no-sleep sleepovers on every spare scrap of paper I can find.

:::a new challenge. don't much like being in a foreign country without the language to go along with it. think I might learn German.


I know I'm going to miss this. But I also can hardly wait for Home, my Whole Family, and the New Year.

Tschüss!

a true story from a long time ago

Hey.
Hey.
You headed home?
Mm-hmm.
Are you okay?
Yeah. Yeah. Just feeling quiet.
Should I not talk?
No, you’re all right.
Oh. Pressure. I don’t know what to say now.
Well, what were you going to say before?
I don’t know. Anything.
Were you going to make me laugh?
Probably. I like your laugh.
I stole it from my mom.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

I think the above is true for pretty much every aspect of my character—my art, my handwriting, my love of home, that crazy voice I like to talk to cats with: it’s all hers.

And now she’s up and taken us through Italy, Switzerland, Austria and Germany without a stumble, innately knowing North from South and switching languages just as frequently as we crossed borders. Isn’t she just first class? I am glad, at least, that I managed to nab that laugh. And I'll keep striving, of course, for all the rest.

austria

Coat mittens hat. Frozen air. Christmas lights. Pine boughs. Straw stars. Silent night. Down comforters. Hot water bottle. So happy.

dankeschön

It's funny, isn't it, that my most favorite Thanksgivings have been so far from home? Today I am grateful for:

:::seven-hour train trips (and holding your breath through the Alpine tunnels)

:::conversations only sisters could have (". . .and that's how I feel about Prop 8."---"Do you think Angela will get married?"---"I love Volvos.")

:::wooden bridges over icy lakes (and an H&M on the other side)

:::raclette with dear friends (and a family history that pulls me to this country like no other)

:::Switzerland (and the inspiration in every wooded valley and frozen lake)

Also, meine Mutter, for speaking German as if she speaks nothing else. My dad and brother, for going this holiday alone. And German keyboards, for making this post so much harder to type than it should have been.

sienese holiday

Okay, so it doesn't quite have that Hepburn ring to it--but I promise you just as much fun, even without Gregory Peck. Most people take this Tuscan town as a day trip and, I'll be honest, that's really all you'd need if you're doing the tourist thing. But if you have a few extra hours outside the requisite Duomo visit and a lazy afternoon people watching nel Campo, here are a few of my favorite things:

CONTRADA FOUNTAINS:::
Like I said earlier, Siena is divided into 17 neighborhoods, or contrada, each with a mascot and some serious pride. Each contrada also has a meeting house, museum, church and---huzzah!---a fountain. The former three are open only to contrada members, but if you're up for the wander, tracking down all 17 fountains is good for an afternoon of adventuring and so much fun. I'll even give you a head start: check out the Unicorn fountain on Via del Porrione, just off the Piazza del Campo.

KOPOCABANA:::
Both the cheapest gelato in town and the largest helpings---win-win. It's not the most fabulous gelato you'll ever have in your whole entire life, but the price is right, and the staff always up to helping you with your pronunciation. Try: fondente,

CEMETERIA MISERICORDIA:::
A strange addition to any itinerary, but if you're used to gardened lawns and white crosses, I suggest a look into this small cemetery just outside the city. Tip-toe through the candle-lit hallways and be sure to climb down into the crypt, then take in a sweeping view of the surrounding countryside from the small grassy knoll at the far end.

IL MERCATO:::
If you're visiting on a Wednesday, make room for an early morning at Piazza del Gramsci, where the weekly market sets up with everything from underwear to outerwear, in neons to neutrals. The market snakes through several streets and out past the city walls, moving from flowers to home goods to food to fashion, and is open from 7 to 2.

FOUNTAIN OF FONTEBRANDA:::
This might be a stop solely for students of the humanities---Siena's ancient aquaduct pool, cited in the thirtieth canto of Dante's Inferno. But it's a quick look-and-leave, so drag all your friends there, too, just to see this haunting black fountain under San Domenico.

As always, I could go on. But if you're really looking for more, comment with your question---and make room for me in your suitcase, too.

table, table, i am hungry*

What's Italy without the food? Next time you're in Florence, try:

PUGI:::
for a snack
Fabulous focaccia in all sorts of styles, conveniently located just across the way from Fra Angelico's cells at San Marco. Just be prepared to stand in line a while, and ready to order at your number's call. It would be nice to share a wee bit of your spoils with the sparrows in the square, too. Recommend: zucchini+rosemary ciabatta.

(Piazza del San Marco)


DUE FRATELLI:::
for lunch
You know when they say hole-in-the-wall? Well, it is. Quite literally. But you won't find better panini for miles around, and certainly not at two euro a pop. These two brothers know how to serve them up right: just list up your preferences and they'll pile on the pesto at their tiny space off Via dei Calzaiuoli. Recommend: wild boar + fresh pecorino.

(one street past Festival del Gelato)


FESTIVAL DEL GELATO:::
for always
Desperate for some Lion chocolate? A cup of Kinder and kiwi? If Festival del Gelato doesn't have it, no one else will either. Seventy-five different flavors to choose from on any given day, plus a lot of color and liberal neon lighting---indecisive types be warned. Recommend: fig, strawberry mousse, baci.

(Via del Corso 75r)
__________________________
*if you happen to know the rest of that song, full lyrics would be much appreciated. driving me crazy.

it is fate. but call it Italy if you like, vicar.

Further from Florence than you'd like? No worries, we'd love to have you along. Simply

::forget the Baedeker
::put some flowers in your hair
and
::fall in love

dear diary,

Were I to own one of these . . .

TODAY:
November 22, 2008

I LOVE THE SMELL OF:
Rome. Taxi cabs. Airports.

I LOVE THE SOUND OF:
Mum's laugh. O's singing. N's wit.

I LOVE THE TASTE OF:
Grancereale (frutta). Clementines. Tears.

I LOVE THE SIGHT OF:
Sisters. Mum. Family.

I LOVE THE FEEL OF:
Anticipation. Joy fulfilled. Group hugs.

(Family reunions have never been so fabulous.)

amici del cuore

I lost both arms and a leg today, my besties off to Croatia just before the program ends. I’m already feeling lonely and, let me tell you, hopping back to Rome won’t be any sort of fun without them. So, without further ado, the necessary Radio Disney shout out:

KIMBERLY
“Dov'ѐ?”

There are so many cosmic connections in our past that we should’ve been friends years before, but apparently it took Italy to throw us together—and I’m so glad it did. Kimberly is not only a party-planning, story-telling, life-changing girl extraordinaire, but a sincere, sensitive friend as well. Quite legitimately a peachazoid.

SHARLIE
“Hold on, let me tap into my personal integrity.”

My most favorite bit about Sharlie is her complete commitment to life, whether it be note taking in Humanities or a spontaneous Newsies kick in a foreign piazza—she does nothing half way. And she goes about it so positively! I've never heard a single disgruntled word out of this girl, only smiles, laughter, and general good cheer. Just don’t use her toothbrush.

LAUREN
“Stop. Collaborate and listen: drug addict is ‘tossicodipendente.’”

Here’s the thing about living with this girl: you shouldn’t. She is too consistently funny, too genuinely hilarious, too positively entertaining. She’s always thinking up the perfect adventure to steal us away from homework, orchestrating some grand musical in the Piazza del Campo, or killing any sign of a deep discussion. At the same time, she’s a deadly serious soul. When she decides to do something, consider it already done. She even uses the word “magical” and means it.

Missing you already, friends. Vi voglio bene (ritornate vivi, ascolta?).

live it up for life club!

We are so very proud to declare it officially up and running.

(and a buon compleanno to Kimberly, too!)

read

The Thief Lord.

some things don't make much sense at all

A few days ago, I went to the grocery store. No big deal, just a quick run for my I-miss-you fix of cottage cheese and a pear. Except that the quick run turned into a twenty minute ordeal, seventeen of which I spent standing in line.

Because, you see, Italians don’t really do the whole practical thing. Sure, we’ll have a supermarket. But heaven forbid we open more than three cash registers. The hundred people (I am not making this up) waiting in line? Not a problem. They’re only blocking the fish bar, the wine aisle, and the chocolate racks. And it’s not like we really need Gismo there to open that fourth cash register-he’s perfectly fine to just sit there playing origami with discarded receipts.

Also, if they have cottage cheese today, don’t expect it to be there tomorrow. An exciting place, il supermercato. Always new, always changing. Handy for the ADD in you, a problem when you’ve come to count on things like, oh, MILK.

goodnight room

Goodnight three walls, goodnight painted rafters.
Goodnight dim lamps and midnight laughter.
Goodnight faulty stair on the way to my bed,
goodnight to the pigeons tip-tapping over my head.

Goodnight garlics, goodnight watercolours.
Goodnight little desk and never-warm showers.
Goodnight to dear Schizzo, escaped out the door,
goodnight Babò Franco, asleep with a snore.

Goodnight tall tower against the full moon;
goodnight Siena, goodnight room.

ten minutes

With a week full of finals and our last days in Siena just one goodbye after another, it's a good thing this prompt landed on this week. I had ten minutes to throw it together--and that's about all I had to spare, too. An old brochure from Bath, my favorite turquoise scrap, my favorite dollar store glitter--I just grabbed what was in front of me and went with it, worrying more about just how much I can cram into my suitcase.

But it turned out a rather lovely little testament to what I'm feeling now: a romantic wistfulness for the past amidst a hovering hope for the future. I can hardly wait to be with my family again, to be headed toward home. But I also find myself surprisingly grateful that, as you know, all roads lead to Rome.

mordersi della lingua

Two weeks ago I read an Italo Calvino story about a man named Palomar who decided that too many people speak before thinking (this is true). So, to make up for this tactless world, Palomar begins to think through his conversations a minimum of three times before a single word slips through his mouth. If, after three "bites of the language," his thoughts aren't worth verbalising, he doesn't say them at all. Sometimes, Palomar doesn't speak for months.

I know how he feels.

At lunch today, I was reflecting on the fact that I don't really actually speak Italian. I mean, I can get by---the important things, like shopping and gelato, aren't a problem---but if anyone's looking for a serious conversation out of me, they're going to have to wait a while. In the meantime, a quick list of some rather fabulous Italian phrases, in case you're looking for something than the usual ciao and grazie:

Neanche per sogno! ::: No way!

Cosa fai di bello? ::: What are you up to?

Sapevo! ::: I knew it!

Mi va ::: literally "it goes me," but slang for I like it. A little more fun than mi piace.

Che schifo! ::: ew, gross! useful when there's calamari on the menu.

Boh ::: a verbal shrug, filler.

Un sacco di ___ ::: fill in the blank with whatever you'd like, and it means you've got heaps of it, as in Ho un sacco di compiti di fare (I've got heaps of homework to do).

And, if all else fails, repetition is key. String together a few bene and you could get away with anything.

what is art, anyway?

I don't much feel like posting today. School's out and Italy's nearly over and when you're this sentimental it's probably best not to write about it.

So I will send you here, which covers the other half of today's emotions, and then here, because there's nothing like a game of cricket to rouse your spirits (and my dad gets the credit for pointing me that way in the first place).

singing in the lifeboats

[even seafood has a silver lining]

LOW: calamari for dinner.
HIGH: watching Kimberly attempt to eat it.

LOW: writing an article about petty theft in Napoli for my Italian class.
HIGH: realising that, after today, I'll never have to do such a thing again.

LOW: our last Life Club meeting in Siena.
HIGH: finishing it off with a two hour Deep Discussion about Knowing, Doing, Being and Becoming.

LOW: our favorite gelato shop closing for the winter season.
HIGH: a free cone of marscapone, caffè, + fior di latte.

LOW: eight days left.
HIGH: dear friends for keeps.

paving paradise

You know that tired old phrase, time flies? Well, it does. Today we said ciao without the ci vediamo to Humanities 201--and Alessandro.

Oh, where to begin? We loved him the moment he first sprinted into the library, shirt too short and curly hair every which-way. Then he started talking and we loved him even more. Today, he shivered about the cold because he was "dressed like a summer tree", then wished us a "good comeback to America." This from the man unafraid to single out cities as "adorable" and sport a purple sweater.

He's guided us through Ancient Greece and into Renaissance Italy with a million dozen detours in between, and I don't think I'm really ready to give him up quite yet. Oh, you guys! Let's reminisce about

THE STATE OF OUR WHITEBOARD ON ANY GIVEN DAY:

rose

HORACE

Petrarch

carpe diem

(now you try to connect the dots)

A FEW FABULOUS PHRASES FROM VARIOUS AFTERNOONS:

"Hmm, yes. I would like to make a parentheses here."

"Did that answer your curiousity?"

"We're really running through history here."

"This is a very pregnant title."

THE WORD THAT WE'LL USE THE REST OF OUR LIVES:

changement

Today is the first day I've started to miss what I have and oh dear, I'm getting all nostalgic already. Not a good sign for a girl who tends to hold to the past with fierce fondness. But boy, what a lovely living these past months have been. And with Alessandro? All the better.

what a world of solemn thought their monody compels

I wake up to bells, I fall asleep to bells. I write to bells and art to bells and walk to bells day in day out day in day out. Every hour, the bell. Every half hour, the bell. Sometimes, a bell just because. Oh, it's 4:19? Goodness, we should celebrate. Somebody, quick. Ring the bell!

Who is working all these bells, in all these churches, all over the city?

Occassionally, I wish they would disappear. Let me sleep, let me think, let me walk without your accompanying beat. Most often I appreciate their spontaneous song, glad to have something to mark a moment. But sometimes, I catch them swinging. Through a school window, the space between buildings, the curve of a cobblestone road. It is the heavy swing of metal weight to a ragtime beat, rocking with an energy far too young for their ancient hinges.

These are the moments that tend to fill me up, that swell with a sudden emotion I can't quite identify. I am at once full of the joy of living, of being caught in a minute of clanging revelry, and then fraught with a sense of loss, feeling the past slip away with the marked hour. Catching the bells as they toll makes me think, makes me want to figure it all out. Today, I feel like I got a little bit closer to the truth.

I love November 11th. I've talked about it before. But it becomes all the sweeter when you find yourself so far from home, coming to know better the country you left behind. Away from America, I miss my library card, city blocks, and drinking fountains. Silly things like my Converse shoes or Costco salsa. But I have also come to understand a missing for something greater, for the sense of freedom and possibility I didn't really know we have.

When the bells swing, I feel joy for that same freedom. We are alive, we are learning, we are so lucky. I am in Italy because of life choices I was able to make freely, because of parents who believe in this growing and expanding, because of a university that wanted to give me this opportunity. And then I feel a solemnity amidst these chimes. They have rung for centuries now, across decades of human suffering and sadness and turmoil. I am in Italy because of the men who made the choice to serve, because of the generations who trusted in this freedom to grow and become, because of a country who fights for what they believe. And for that, the bells can ring absolutely any time they'd like.

(five o'eight, and all's well)

the deep charity of winter air

Mornings here are white now, the world trapped in fog like swaddling clothes. The air is wet, chilled, suspended between a frozen night and a new day's warmth. These dark medieval buildings rise from the smoke like phantoms, and the cobblestones are slick with cold. Gone are the bright sunrises, the early colors of Tuscany. We returned from a fall in Florence to find that winter's arrived in Siena---and, surprisingly, I love it.

This could have to do with the fact that I don't need to worry about that pesky frozen snow stuff. That this is Italy's version of winter, not the usual freeze-out in the Rocky Mountains. But I am also loving how full of life these dead mornings are, how strangely envigorating. The fog makes you imagine, all lines blurred and the world left to your creativity. The cold makes you remember, warm with thoughts of home and family, nights so near in the future full of cozy fires and favorite mugs of spicy teas. And the grey skies make you think of color, replacing this muddy palette with your favorite sorts of hues.

And it certainly helps that the season comes with scarves, and boots, and twinkle lights. I'm rather looking forward to falling in love with it all over again. In the meantime, my friends, it's time to stock up.

notes from the boboli

(with apologies; i haven't written poetry for far too long)

Here, from the top of the world,
I can see it all.
I am alive
I am aware
I am omnipotent,
a piece of my past
suspended in this present
by the light of the future.

And how expressively they put it,
these slanting rays of sun.
Holding desperately to this moment
we will never have again
while capturing,
in haloed hair,
the very self we long for.

That is the complication
of such a sunset;
in it you see
a chance at everything
you imagine you might become
and in it
you see
the death
of another day.

here is where the birds sing, here is where the sky is blue

I ran off to Florence this weekend, naively believing

that if the hostel says they have wi-fi,

then the hostel will have wi-fi.

(Oh, silly E, what a laugh.)

So I'm still posting this under Saturday,

because I don't think I really failed at NaBloPoMo, not yet.

into the fevered eyes of the six suddenly ravenous vampires

Act I, Scene I Porta San Marco

A group of girls await their bus in a small park space just outside of Siena, Italy. All tend toward the sunlight on this cold morning, but for two girls, taking care to stand just inside the darkest shadow. . .

LAUREN: Hello, everyone.

EVERYONE: (a little weirded out by her formality) Um, hey.

CAILEY: Do you guys ever have that thing, where your skin feels bruised and all sensitive when you touch it? My foot's killing me, and I don't know what's wrong.

LAUREN: That is really weird, I have no idea.

ELIZABETH: Really? For someone with two graduate degrees in medicine, that should be easy.

SHARLIE: Wait, what's going on? Who are you?

LAUREN: Will you--

ELIZABETH: Yes.

LAUREN: But won't she---

ELIZABETH: Nope.

SHARLIE: Um, right. Hey, where's Kimberly?

LAUREN: Strange, she should be here by--

ELIZABETH: Don't worry about it. She'll be here in the next eleven seconds.

SHARLIE: Oh, I get it! You're magic eight balls. Right? You're totally magic eight balls.

LAUREN: (steps onto bus with a roll of the eyes as ELIZABETH laughs behind her. She leads the little group to the very back row, where they sit well away from all the others and watch them with disdain.) Hey, Can I see what's in your bag? (her arm touches SHARLIE's)Oh, sorry. My skin's a bit cold.

CAILEY: Your skin's cold? (laughing) What? I've never heard anyone use that apology before.

SHARLIE: So Cailey had this dream last night, that Alessandro gave Sydney a "J" in Humanities. You know, like worse than an "F".

CAILEY: Well, I'm worried about grades, okay? Not everybody can get an A.

ELIZABETH: That's true. You're getting an A-.

SHARLIE: Wait a minute, are you precog? Can you see the future? You guys, this is weird. You're being weird. Like you're not human.

LAUREN: (shrugs)

KIMBERLY: This is either going to be really fun, or really annoying.

ELIZABETH: Both. Sharlie will find it funny all day long, while you'll find us obnoxious within the next fifteen minutes. Either way, it will all culminate in catastrophe at the Piazza dei Priori.

SHARLIE: AH! You're Alice! You're vampires! Oh, you're vampires! Am I right, am I right?

LAUREN: I can't believe it took you this long. (pops a cracker into her mouth. ELIZABETH looks at her, skeptical) What? Gotta keep up appearances. Even if it does taste like cardboard.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Who knew vampires could be such fun?---a good part of our morning was given to the game: ripping gummy bears to pieces when we felt hungry, using our super-secret superpowers to communicate when necessary, and pretending that the cold didn't affect us in the least. And the weather couldn't have been more helpful.

The sky darkened as the bus wound its way up to Volterra, clouds threatening rain. We arrived in the Piazza just as the bell struck one, an hour too late to have saved Edward. We set immediately to picture taking, our best vampire faces aided with a few pretzel fangs, reenacting a few key moments from the New Moon drama. Along an alley wall fans have left their undying love and devotion to Stephenie Meyer's universe, despite the fact that she has her setting all wrong. No alley near enough for Bella to have pushed Edward out of the sun. No sewer cover nearly big enough to fit a few dozen humans through. You guys, there's not even a fountain. No fountain. As if Meyer's writing needed one more thing to make it so much more the failure.

By the time we reached San Gimignano, the rain was falling in earnest. The cobblestone streets were slick with water, and though we took refuge in a church for a good half hour, eventually we had to face the weather. We wandered, arms linked against the storm, through several leather stores and finally up to the WORLD CHAMPION GELATERIA (this is a true story), where I had the most divine coconut ice cream in the history of all ice cream eating, alongside a rather beautifully tart mixed berries and completely unreal pear. Outside, the city was dark, the towers black against the clouds. We walked back to the bus happy, with British accents we were to keep up the entire hour's ride home (much to Alessandro's amusement, I'll have you know. What a love, that one.).

From Alice Cullen to Hermione Granger in a day. Couldn't possibly ask for more.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

Act V, Scene III San Gimignano

ELIZABETH: Oi, it's a bit nippy, you know. Wish I had a jumper.

LAUREN: I'm finkin' the same fing; a brolly would be nice too, eh?

SHARLIE: Jolly good, alert the corgies!

(or something like that)

mood swing, anyone?

Today I feel like jumping. Up and down and around and around and over and under and all over this town. That last sentence was actually not intended to rhyme in any way. That is how ridiculously joyous I feel.

I can't exactly pinpoint why. But I am feeling the influence of everything around me: the Prague door my mum sent me via email this morning. Dreaming about old friends and new, pulled together in a bizarre car chase through an Americanised Tuscany. Feeling that same Evviva! for all the CHANGE my lovely fellow bloggers are writing about. Being a vampire for today's trip to Volterra.

Last night we talked about letters, and robots, and the Nuova Vita that we feel so close, so near. They say Europe changes you--of course, I'm also swept up into this crazy week of emotions as well--and I'm a little surprised that I so agree. I feel ready to start over again, that I understand more of who I am and who I can become. I feel so full of friendships and family and just . . . well, so much happy.

And I think that's cause for a little jumping about.

needle in the haaaaaay

This day last year we dragged a fire pit around to the driveway at Meringue and burnt our fears and failures in the flames. There was caramel corn, and cider. I wore a yellow sweater and Elder M came with a British accent and A didn't drive away until the 5th was long over.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day! Only I am in Italy and today Jacq is Soeur Roberts and the world has spun another year of shattering change and growth. Today seems more a time for reflection than revelry, and Kate Walsh, so far, has been excellent company. Oh! The past. So complex, so heartbreakingly human. So very many memories we hold onto, never to have again.

It's a darn good thing I'm so sure of the future.

I don't know who started it. But there we were, dinner over, only homework awaiting us upstairs, and there was the magic eight ball. Problem solved. Life solved.

Because now we know that Kendis will be married by January 2010 (sicuramente si). Alyssa will find the love of her life in Italy (senz'alcun dubbio). Lauren will just have to ask later about serving a mission. With Luigia in on the fun, there's a visit to America coming, too (è proprio cosi). Only Schizzo has to stay behind (oh yes, she asked).

And no matter how grey the day, a bit of love and laughter (plus a prayer or two) will turn it all around.

today is a really rather quite sad sort of day

This morning I walked to school in the rain (this is not the sad part), thinking about the influence of the printing press on the modern world until I reached the classroom and found the room abuzz. Transfers are in—and we’re losing Anziano Welch to Rome.

Which shouldn’t be so completely world-changing, seeing as these things happen all the time on missions (note to self: work on your fear of sudden change). But as our Branch President, we truly believed he’d be in Siena for his last five months, and most certainly for our last two weeks here (selfish, much?). The news is only hours old and I’m still caught up in memories as if he’s already gone.

Then Peter has to go around philosophizing about dead baby bird paintings, as if we weren’t beat up enough. And at the end of his lecture he took stabs at our own art attempts, offering his “advice” for our final projects. Mostly this means one of three things: try again, push it further, or start over completely. With two weeks left, that’s a little depressing, too.

In the meantime, I was already feeling un po’ triste because Elder Garfield wrote me yesterday, wondering if I were still well/alive. Turns out not a single one of my four letters has reached him, which is also the case over in Brazil, where Elder M hasn’t received any word from me since Portsmouth. How my letters can reach the deep jungles of Africa and not north Atlanta is beyond me.

At this point, it’s so entirely sad that I’m almost devoid of any emotional reaction.

So now Lauren sits in the grey light of an open window, strumming the blues while Sharlie so obediently scribbles out the improv lyrics at her side, lyrics that probably do a better job of capturing today’s spirit than these paragraphs ever could:

Woke up today and life didn’t seem too bad but
Birds are dead
Aliens look like balls of string
Bad grades
I’m so confused and hurt
I know the ABCs
PETER!!He’s a tyrant
I’m sad because I’m flying
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

You see? It’s enough to make anyone cry.

this is what I know about the mafia

Last week I had a little history lesson in Italian, after attempting to delineate the various characteristics of the North and South of Italy. I actually did well enough, earning points for important dates (1861) and names (Garibaldi)—but lost everything when it came to the Mafia.

“You don’t know anything about the Mafia?!” Muzzi exclaimed.

I half-laughed. Of all Italy’s attractions, this wasn’t of any particular importance to me. Caravaggio, or Cosa Nostra? Pontormo or Palermo? Easy enough—but Muzzi was looking horrified. “Erm. . .no,” I stammered under her gaze. “Not really. I mean, what there is in movies and television, sure. But it doesn’t really interest me.”

Wrong answer.

“Doesn’t interest you?! Elizabetta. This is Italian history. This is a very major problem for Italy today. This is a stereotype that must be eradicated. How does this not interest you?”

By this point she was practically banging her fists on the table. Which is how I came to write a one-page report on Italy’s most infamous men of organized crime. And now I know that

:: the original Sicilian Cosa Nostra is now made up of about one hundred families, or cosche, who each rule and defend their own territories in all sorts of violent and illegal ways.

:: no one actually knows where the term “mafia” comes from, though the most fun (and most widely discredited) tells a tale of Sicilian rebels attacking with the cry Morta alla Francia, Italia anela and then adopting the acronym ever after.

and

::once retired or having earned senior status, Mafiosi are called Capo di Capi Re, which literally translated means King Boss of Bosses. I find this a lot more funny than it probably actually is.

At any rate, Muzzi and I had a nice little chat this morning about her southern neighbors, after which we took a good while discussing What Should Be Done. And while we never came to any solid sort of conclusion, I did learn that numero verde means it's a toll-free number. Ten years from now, that is what I will remember from this exercise.

fear

hey look! an art card post without an art card!




[insert photo here]

Friday I trick-or-treated as Contemporary Art or, more specifically, Untitled (portrait of the artist in a point of turmoil as she questions her relationship to practicality while trying for truth) Mixed Media, 2008. Wore some high chroma color, stuck a few spiraling sticks in my sideways hair. Super fun. And with a garlic at my side? Unbeatable. But for the title’s part, actually true.

My greatest fear is that I have not/am not/will not live this life fully. That I will take days for granted, that I will forget to be grateful. I am afraid I can’t live up to the person I know I can be—because (oh, dear Brooke!) my comfort would prefer for me to be numb/and avoid the impending birth of who I was born to become.

I don’t think I will overcome this fear anytime soon. And I think many of us deal with the exact same anxiety. But I do know there are moments, spare seconds, where it evaporates, momentarily replaced by an otherworldly joy. You remember who you are, and you love who you are. You are in the right place, doing the right thing. And that, right there, is worth all the worry of any day.

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*ps:::last month's art cards have all been filed on their respective Sundays; clickety-click the colored pencils in the sidebar if you are so inclined.

here we go

November is oh-so-good for a lot of reasons. The bonfires of Guy Fawkes day. The quiet contemplation of the eleventh.The Thanksgiving rush of family and friends.

Also, National Blog Posting Month.

Back with more tomorrow (and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that . . .).