It all feels like a big joke, something that, for redeeming qualities must be funny to someone. Someone very far from here though, because its not funny at all to me.
Adult dating. If you haven't experienced it, I would like to let you know, is no fun. Zero fun sir. Once you graduate from college, it all goes to hell. It all changes, and I realized I don't know how to maneuver this, no one taught me too, and everyone in my family and close group of friends is already waving to me, their other hand in someone else's, and I am faking a smile back as I swim through this shit.
I've been on a bit of a streak lately with men, and have been wined and dined and escorted through the halls of art museums with my coat in his arms quite often lately. This should probably be fun. I mean, come on, a parade of handsome men, handing their credit cards to the person behind the counter confidently for the meals, coffees, admission tickets and beers we consume and asking if they can see me again on the way to walking me to the front door. Shit, they are even opening the car doors for me. Its not really that fun though.
I sit in the car as he asks if I am warm enough, do I want him to turn on the seat warmer on the leather seat I am awkwardly sliding around on, and all I can think of is...how the hell can I explain to him that its funny when James attacks me from out of nowhere and grabs my breasts. Or how Abby and I laughed until we cried when she ran into the window on Halloween. Why its okay that sometimes I eat dinner three times. That sometimes when I'm bored, James and I go to Target and try on clothes or wander around the aisles for no reason at all. That sometimes I go to a coffee shop as far away from my house as possible, just to look out the window at the passing cars. That I need my headphones to escape more than anything else in the world. That I would be happy to eat rice and beans for the rest of my life. That I'm a vegetarian who doesn't really give a rip about PETA. That I'm a preschool teacher who has her nipples pierced. That I'm a bit of a hippie and have never smoked pot. That I spent 20 years in the church, but have friends that shot heroine and I have no intentions in trying to stop them. That smoking is gross, but I love the smell of a freshly lit cigarette. That I want to be a mom. That sometimes, I don't. The suburbs make me shaky. That sometimes I have a peanut butter sandwich in the middle of the night. I hate bowling. I barely watch movies. I haven't watched the news for about three years, because I don't want it in my life anymore. Springtime is as close to god as I can understand. I just bought the most makeup as I have ever owned in my life, and I'm sorry, but I think I look perfectly fine without it. I have about a zillion coffee cups in the back of my car. I look like a badass when I am under my ninja mask on my bike, but I am the least cool person on the planet. That I am not impressed by your money. That I am a strong independent women, but I hope to hell that you will kiss me first, and not the other way around. I have bought my last five pairs of shoes at the thrift stores, and prefer it that way. I like eating out of bowls. I want stability in my life with the same passion from which I am scared of it. 9-5 scares me. You even scare me a little because of how you could bring those things to me. Scary movies scare me. Real life dark alleys don't. I hate showering in the morning, it makes me feel weird all day. I always stop that gas pump at an even dollar. Coffee? dark. Toast? light.
And that was only the tip of the iceberg of just me.
What about him? I feel like I don't know a damn thing.
This kind of knowledge, this degree of explanation, this much knowing seems so far from where he is, so far to where he needs to be seems impossible. I watch people I am close to and think its impossible to reach that point that I see the two of them at. Which is ironic, because yes, I have been there before, but it seem so far away right now. Familiarity seems so unlike where I am now. There is so much, I just want to say,"ya know, never mind. I was doing fine, I don't need to bother with this"...and walk off.
But damn it. I didn't. He asked if he could call me again, and I said yes, and with a smile. He asked when I was free next, and I told him. I AM trying. but shit.
Adult dating is way more tricky than it looks like on sitcoms.
Should I call HIM? Will he call me? Do either of us give a shit? Does he really like me, or is he just as confused as me.
He told me I was so cute, he could barely handle it. True? Is that your line? Do I believe you? Should I? Why the hell am I being so cynical?
Oh yes...its all those heartaches, its the fact that I can't count the number of times I have had to bend over and pick up my heart from the cracks in the sidewalk. Maybe he is the same.
Maybe he's not.
I have a pile of numbers in my phone that make me blush remembering the rejection or when the calls stopped, remembering the bear hugs from James. I also know this all boils down to not wanting to try again just to have my heart ripped to pieces for another time, another time I have lost track to count. And I know that is no way to live, I know that is a sad sad answer, and I know that thought won't win, but it does drive a tempting bargain.
Time. yes, we need time. Which is why I am trying to just keep puttering down this road.
But dear lord. Last night, after a fantastic dinner, full of conversation and laughing we went out for a drink, I was standing in front of him, looking up (he's tall) and we are swapping tales, laughing and quite fine, a women staggers up to us. Out of nowhere, and asked if we can help her settle a bet. Are we on a first date?" she prods.
Damn. It was that obvious? I thought we were doing fine. And come on, how long have you been watching us lady? Geeeeez.
One of these guys kissed me, very well, at the side of my car while the snow swirled around us. The other quickly hugged me at the front door and scurried off. One used crossing the street as a excuse to find my hand, the other braved touching my back for a few brief moments over the course of our night out. One told me I was beautiful. One I catch looking at my boobs, but it sorta makes me smile. And its not the one you are thinking. Is the one just more confident than the other, or just more sleezy. Is the second one more respectful? Or less interested?
Yes, I get nervous when either of these men are on their way over to my house to pick me up, but is it because of butterflies upon seeing them, or am I just dreading what weird things could ensue over the next few hours? Shouldn't I know which one is giving me this anxiety? Why am I even talking about this? Its a first or second date. Its a novel situation though, because up until now, dating has been meeting a cute guy at a party, or a friend of a friend and hanging out with him until its unmistakable that something more is there, and at some point you just meld together and begin dating. Now, complete strangers ask if they can buy me dinner, and I think to myself...what are the chances we have anything in common? Or next, that we have some chemistry, and that we want the same kind of relationship, and that its meant to be. I don't even think people have soul mates or that that fate is real, but its hard to believe that you should settle down with someone until you think those things are satisfied, that you are suppose to be with them. I only assume they want to get into my pants, because that's what I have experienced so far. The chances that a man walking down the street could understand me, and want to be with me, seems impossible. Not because I'm not fabulous, because really, I am, but because it just seem like a one in a million.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
airplanes (july 12th)
Being on an airplane is as close as being nowhere as I can think of. You don’t belong to anywhere and you can’t do anything, which is why it’s a place perfect for getting ready. Ready for anything at all. For me, tonight, its getting ready to go back to a place I love, but am trying to leave and people I adore but might need to separate from. Sometimes I don’t know why I am so dead set on leaving, after all, usually when I flick off the light for the evening I am satisfied, happy and thanking my lucky stars for the life I lead. I have a bustling city I can navigate around but the woods waiting for me just outside. I have friends that challenge me and open up worlds I didn’t know existed. I have a job that I don’t mind going to, dare say even like, which in and of itself is much better then many people. My wonderful family is at my fingertips and are inexcusable sources of love and support. Leaving the friends part though, that’s what strikes panic in my heart sometimes. I’m 23 and despite a string of boyfriends I am single right now. I don’t have a high-pressure job and I leave it happily at the door when my shift is over, even if I have chalk on my pants, paint on my arms or kisses still wet on my cheeks. Which means the decisions I make for my life are made entirely for me. Those friends have become the absolute center of my life. I feel at home with them and know that I am accepted, loved appreciated and embraced there. I don’t have to fake my way though a thing, unlike going to my hometown when I keep my mouth shut on social and religious beliefs because starting a fight just isn’t worth it. There are people I see each week that are so unique and interesting, so engaging and stimulating that I can’t imagine I could find anything equal anywhere else.
Maybe that’s what it is. My life is so hopeful and full that it encourages me that there is more waiting around the corner, that I can draw on that strength to kiss it all goodbye. The notion that, “if you thought this was good…darling just wait”.
So what should I do? Take that energy and warm feeling in my heart and use it to pull me through settling in another place? Or should I close my eyes, take a deep breath and enjoy this time when I have the absolute honor of filling my time with these people before they run off and change the world?
I mean these are the people that understand me the best. I feel like I’ve found people that are enough like me to make me feel expressed and normal but different enough to teach me so many things and show me places and experienced that I wouldn’t have unearthed without. How do you give something like that up?
What if I leave and I crash and burn.
What is the likelihood of that? That of course though is the answer inside the question. I’d go because I’m not sure how it will be until I try. Its like the first time I was sent up a rock face in a harness and a dear friend below. I didn’t know if this was something I could do, but no one else could figure out if I could or not but me. I’ll let you in on a secret though. I did. I could, and I’m pretty fucking sure there is a whole lot more I can do too.
So what am I going to do now, about this little battle inside my head. Well, I think that I will wait out the rest of the summer. I will go to the beach, I will keep heroically diving for the volleyball on the beach and I will drink more coffee at the rock climbing cave then I should.
When the trees start turning red and orange and yellow I will give it more thought. Besides, I know more than anyone that I have no idea what is around the corner. Things could be different by the time the snow flies, and I am interested in seeing what those changes could be, and I am open to whatever they bring me. Here, there or somewhere in between is something I need to become alright with.
Monday, November 9, 2009
black lace leggings and the perfect cup of coffee. (some things can't be cheered back)
(sept. 9)
Damn.
Well, here we are. Summer's tune is slowing, lowering and will soon be lulling to the sound of autumn. We made to the end of it again. Once I get used to the clattering of leaves found in that song, the wailing winds and the sudden crack of sticks on the ground I will like this song too, but for now I am hesitant to turn off the song I have been swaying to during the last months.
I am used to it. I am used to slipping into tiny cotton shorts and little tank tops and mounting Bruno for a cruise to work, smacking the windows of cars in the bike lane, a place I consider strictly mine. Rolling into work, sweaty and spending my mornings out on the playground with my preschoolers, stopping in New Orleans for doughnuts on our way to Israel on the old lumber we pretend is a train. I will miss staining my feet with the rays of the sun, leaving curious lines on my feet.
I found myself kicking walls of water in the pouring rain, running down the streets drunk with happy alongside friends I adore. I am accustom to skidding out from a rainstrom and sharing the thoughts and mysteries of life, love and happiness over the glow of a flashlight and between the slurps of freeze-dried foods in a tent. i am used to taking in the north shore from high above on the Superior hiking trail, and the impromptu trips that brought me there. It was a summer of waterfalls, of hidden prairies and caves.
I am used to loud laughter, epic tales and finding people you can be nothing but yourself with.
I am used to dancing.
It was a summer of learning to feel rocks in a new light, for the purpose of climbing them. It was a summer of mounting summits for the purpose of reaching them in the cascades. It was a summer of being alone in airports and mountain passes.
I am used to sitting at the bottom of metal canoes, giggling directions to the strong friends perched at the paddles, and quacking over the waves.
It was a summer of finding the new depths of people. It was a summer of telling them everything and letting the words slip out alongside tears overlooking the shimmering lights of the city over the river. It was a summer of finding endless light in them, and saving the happiness of doing so in my heart. It was also a summer of hearing the rude and abrupt clunk when the depth of people is found to be shallower than you would have expected, and learning how to deal with the discovery, however disappointing it is.
Above all though it was a brilliant time and a beautiful song and if it were up to me I would ask for just one more, an encore of sorts.
Unlike the concerts I saw this summer though, it doesn’t work like that. No matter how excited I am to have more, I can’t. She sung her last for the year, the thing I need to realize though is that I will like you in the fall too. Your laugh will be as sweet and your smile as bright. Besides, I like the autumn too. I like pumpkins and cooking spaghetti squash with brown sugar. I like the glow of bonfires and the way the trees alight themselves of fire with colors of gold and orange and you can watch leaves pirouetting out of trees to be caught by childlike hands. I love scruffy faced men in flannel shirts. Yes, I can used to this too. Soon my ipod will pump Trace Bundy into my ears over the sound of leaves crunching under my feet.
Yesterday I went to the fair with a friend to take it all in on the last day. I saw cows, horses and drank tons of milk. We ate alligator and spun giggling in the midway. That morning I had dug leggings out of my drawer to put on underneath my summer dress and as sad as that makes me, someone told me as I waited for him around the corner, that I looked absolutely lovely dressed the way I was. She told me I looked like a painting, dress blowing in the wind. I just blushed and murmured a thank you. Yes, I am transferring to fall and its going to great.
This is all one giant reminder to myself, and to you too if you need it, that you will like fall too. Remember rosy cheeks in the blowing of the cool wind? Remember hot chocolate between chilly fingers? Remember those bright trees that taunt the now gone colors of the summer flowers that came before them?
Yep, I am starting to remember too.
Meet me for a long walk through the woods? I will bring the thermos. -Corrie
Damn.
Well, here we are. Summer's tune is slowing, lowering and will soon be lulling to the sound of autumn. We made to the end of it again. Once I get used to the clattering of leaves found in that song, the wailing winds and the sudden crack of sticks on the ground I will like this song too, but for now I am hesitant to turn off the song I have been swaying to during the last months.
I am used to it. I am used to slipping into tiny cotton shorts and little tank tops and mounting Bruno for a cruise to work, smacking the windows of cars in the bike lane, a place I consider strictly mine. Rolling into work, sweaty and spending my mornings out on the playground with my preschoolers, stopping in New Orleans for doughnuts on our way to Israel on the old lumber we pretend is a train. I will miss staining my feet with the rays of the sun, leaving curious lines on my feet.
I found myself kicking walls of water in the pouring rain, running down the streets drunk with happy alongside friends I adore. I am accustom to skidding out from a rainstrom and sharing the thoughts and mysteries of life, love and happiness over the glow of a flashlight and between the slurps of freeze-dried foods in a tent. i am used to taking in the north shore from high above on the Superior hiking trail, and the impromptu trips that brought me there. It was a summer of waterfalls, of hidden prairies and caves.
I am used to loud laughter, epic tales and finding people you can be nothing but yourself with.
I am used to dancing.
It was a summer of learning to feel rocks in a new light, for the purpose of climbing them. It was a summer of mounting summits for the purpose of reaching them in the cascades. It was a summer of being alone in airports and mountain passes.
I am used to sitting at the bottom of metal canoes, giggling directions to the strong friends perched at the paddles, and quacking over the waves.
It was a summer of finding the new depths of people. It was a summer of telling them everything and letting the words slip out alongside tears overlooking the shimmering lights of the city over the river. It was a summer of finding endless light in them, and saving the happiness of doing so in my heart. It was also a summer of hearing the rude and abrupt clunk when the depth of people is found to be shallower than you would have expected, and learning how to deal with the discovery, however disappointing it is.
Above all though it was a brilliant time and a beautiful song and if it were up to me I would ask for just one more, an encore of sorts.
Unlike the concerts I saw this summer though, it doesn’t work like that. No matter how excited I am to have more, I can’t. She sung her last for the year, the thing I need to realize though is that I will like you in the fall too. Your laugh will be as sweet and your smile as bright. Besides, I like the autumn too. I like pumpkins and cooking spaghetti squash with brown sugar. I like the glow of bonfires and the way the trees alight themselves of fire with colors of gold and orange and you can watch leaves pirouetting out of trees to be caught by childlike hands. I love scruffy faced men in flannel shirts. Yes, I can used to this too. Soon my ipod will pump Trace Bundy into my ears over the sound of leaves crunching under my feet.
Yesterday I went to the fair with a friend to take it all in on the last day. I saw cows, horses and drank tons of milk. We ate alligator and spun giggling in the midway. That morning I had dug leggings out of my drawer to put on underneath my summer dress and as sad as that makes me, someone told me as I waited for him around the corner, that I looked absolutely lovely dressed the way I was. She told me I looked like a painting, dress blowing in the wind. I just blushed and murmured a thank you. Yes, I am transferring to fall and its going to great.
This is all one giant reminder to myself, and to you too if you need it, that you will like fall too. Remember rosy cheeks in the blowing of the cool wind? Remember hot chocolate between chilly fingers? Remember those bright trees that taunt the now gone colors of the summer flowers that came before them?
Yep, I am starting to remember too.
Meet me for a long walk through the woods? I will bring the thermos. -Corrie
Pirates, Mermaids and the Old Man and the Sea
It's okay. I really wouldn't read this either, but I have a large table in the back of a hotel restaurant and am alone. Lydia and Christina are upstairs snoozing like teenagers do and Dad and Steve are long gone. I heard brash whispers this morning, "Pssst. Steve. Hey Steve..."
"Ya, he replied in a Maryland accent..."Let's go".
I saw him push the blanket over from across the room and heard Dad grabbed his keys. It was about 5am, but the crabs were waiting under the waves.
I tried to sleep longer but ended up just working on some writing and waiting for the contentential breakfast to open, which is why I am here right now. This hotel is full of characters as if to add to the already elaborate characters that seem to make up this town, Westport WA. Literally, a large man with a beard to his chest and a old cap makes his way around the back lawn with his dog, and he walks on a pegleg. After spending the day on the docks pulling in crab cages and smelling the salty air it wasn't a leap to imagine him a salty old seaman full of tales of grandour, and there is no reason to believe he is not. Yesterday I was sitting at the computer in the hotel lobby, researching a kite festival that is going on today and felt a nudge on my arm. Looking over I saw the bulging eyes of a greyhound looking up at me, tail wagging. He looked like a stretched out tiger the way his fur stripped him up and down in shades of grey. Two men marched in carrying a mysterious large strapped case and Steve leaner over and suggested that it contained one of the exquisite kites that would be whipping through the air later on.
Yesterday we grabbed some towels and wandered down a empty road that anti-climactically seemed to lead nowhere, until we heard the constant whoosh of the ocean. The road turned into a sandy path lined with long sea grasses and the hill curved up and over until the whole of the Pacific Ocean was waiting, lapping at the shore. For as far as you could see on each side was beach and behind the sand, dunes of grasses and old fences, falling voluntarily it seemed towards the ever calling water. Blues deep faded from light to dark into the water and mirrored into the sky. I left my sandals at the foot of a smooth stump and coasted down to the water. The sand was smooth and light as silk, warmed in the sun and let me sink deep with each step until I got closer to the water, where it turned into a mosaic of broken shells, sandollars and water-smoothed pebbles in every color. With each rush of the water the jewels rolled with the push up the shore and down again as it retreated with a delicate tinkle and clattering as they hit one another. Again and again.
You could walk to the end of the world it seemed on this beach, and perhaps come back again from the other side, glorious adventures in between. Pirates and mermaids and the old man and the sea. I considered my options and headed towards the end, to see if maybe beyond that hazy cloud there really was something. The water teased me into it more deeply as the tide pulled closer to shore and I soon was wet and felt the little stones and shells skip over my feet as they rocked back and forth with the waves.
I've been to the oceans before and seen the country from both sides, but it never gets old. Staring into the water, wondering if the ocean itself knows the rhythm it is keeping, a method to the swirls of its waves. It seems to, as it pushes you in and out and tempts you further in, or chases you back it with an especially hard splash.
Later that evening we came back to the shore to watch the sun slip underneath the waves. Rounding the corner over the hill to the ocean was breathtaking. For as far as you could see the sky was pink and yellow, orange and purple. The water loyally rushed back and forth, ignoring the brilliant colors and carrying on with its duty. As time and the sun slipped down the colors grew explosive, a grand finale to the day and I watched with great satisfaction that this happens every night, but that night, I was able to see it.
i need you so much closer
(july 11)
They say that everything tastes better when you are camping, and while I believe this to be true, I contend that Ken is just a really good cook because the french toast I had was perfect. Warm, soft and chewy on the inside but crispy and sweet on the outer crust. It took me awhile to get out of my sleeping bag though, regardless of what was waiting for me on the other-side of the metal zipper on the tent. After breakfast the crew plowed up the slope to see Peggy's Pond but I stayed at camp. I was apprehensive about the trek back on my foot and decided to save my energy. While I am sure the trip was worth it, when the troops returned telling us everything was frozen over, I was fine with my decision. We took an easy morning but eventually began disassembling the tents and repacking the bags, listening to Parker sing Bon Iver beyond his headphones. We toured through the snow fields once again on our way out but I know that Lydia and Christina we a bit nervous about crossing the Ridge of Death again and I wondered how far up it was. Sooner than later we approached it and with the same technique as before cross over it. Now aware of what we were doing, it seemed even more threatening than before, especially a certain quick pass that provided no real foot support besides slippery snow and I know, for one, that my hands were crammed into the snow along the wall next too me as hard as they could be. At one point Ken stopped and urged me to twist around as the clouds parted and Mt. Daniel was revealed behind the curtain of clouds that just as suddenly covered him back up. Later, far enough ahead of Parker and Ken but enough behind the rest of the crew, I was alone groping the rocks over the pass and that experience enough was exhilarating, but nerve racking as-well as my imagination ran wild on what could happen. I stopped many times to just stare into the view that was smashing into my face. Crawling up and out of this pass was done quickly because each person was busy concentration on the next step, the next hand hold or next weight shift of the pack, but once we pulled out of it and all met at a clearing on some flat rocks overlooking a stunning view of the mountain lakes and peaks above I heard Ken laugh "its all downhill from here.."
It was too. Besides brief stints in low meadows and a few remaining snow fields we spent the next hours leaning back into our packs, thumping down the rocky path at a hunched over angle and taking big steps down like going down a lopsided staircase. The only thing that was clattering through my mind was "We went UP!!! this?" All afternoon it was a steep steep downward slant, switching back in and out of the woods. Each step down was calculated on my bad ankle as it hopelessly drug behind the other, I even avoided putting my weight on it as I slipped on the ice once and plopped right into the snow on my butt like a little kid.
It was wearing in its own way, coming down. Hard on the joints and the back but with each descent the accomplishment of going up was emphasized, and moments when the trail did flatten out and you went pleasantly along, with the pack snug around your shoulders and waist was a reminder of how satisfying hiking really is.
Slowly, the trees got thicker and we passed over the same streams again and again as the trail's switch-backs urged. The lush ferns reappeared and peering into rocks that water was pouring over revealed mossy carpets over the stones. As the land gradually leveled we knew that we were getting closer to the end. We ran into traffic on the lower level of the trail, and had to step to the side for horses to pass, but the next thing you knew, there was the car, waiting. I was the last one out of the woods, not quite ready to leave and met the group hearing sounds of laughter and excitement. Taking deep breaths and smiling we arranged the packs on the top of the car and one by one, with a sigh of relief eased into the leather seats.
Stopping in town, Steve wasted no time hitting up and espresso drive-up and we all eventually left the parking lot with mochas and treats in hand on the way to the cabin.
We shook what we could from our gear and laid most of it out on the deck to dry and all sprawled out on couches and easy chairs around the home. Upstairs Parker surfed through channels on the TV and I heard Lydia, Christina and Steve laugh at a movie from the basement. We gathered grimy socks, sweaty T-shirts and smelly pants and throw them together into the washing machine and lined the poor boots out on the deck to dry.
Before long we were feasting on pasta and potato soup, sitting around the table, already turing our stories into legends.
I am proud of what we did. What I did. But even more I am proud of my life, of my family and of my friends. That this is what we spend our time doing and we bond over wildflowers and wild cliff passes. I am proud of a dad that takes his beautiful girls into the mountains to see what the world has to offer and know that they can do it. He gushed that we were incredible, eating up the trail and trudging on and on. More though, I am happy that this is my life, that I am given these opportunities.
like a drum, a rhythm, a beat. a heartbeat.
(July 22)
most of the morning his fingers were curled around mine and he could be found within two or three of his toddling steps from mine whenever I walked across the playground like a faithful and unsure puppy. later, he sat on my lap, facing me with the plastic ends of a toy stethescope in his ears looking at me quizzically. i asked him, after a few minutes what he was listening to, what he heard? i expected him to say "your heart" having being told that was what the pretend instrument was used for.
but he looked up, with big brown eyes and told me, ever so confidently...
"your music"
(July 24)
most of you, people i see on a daily or weekly basis have heard my "your music" story and this is because everytime i think of it i still smile and get a little rush of happiness.
that multifaceted part of humans, the heart. the way it is so much, and in so many sometimes opposite ways. i can use my heart to tell you something you need to know, even if i don't want to say it. and it can make me turn around and fix a wrong, a hand up and sometimes a step down. but usually i hope it says things lighter than that. it dances and it sings. it sways and it twirls and in all of that i hope you can't help but hear music. my music.
i don't know what it sounds like, that is something only you perceive. i know that sometimes it snaps at you and startles you. i know that sometimes it creeps up and brushes you from behind but i hope it feels like a warm breeze. i know that sometimes it's too loud, too harsh and too much. i know that it makes mistakes. sometimes it stumbles along the way and sounds very much like it needs more practices, but be patient.
i never expected it to be perfect.
but in that, the heart can do other things too. it pumps hard and fast tearing down the streets at night, it keeps me moving down the river and up the mountain. it pushes me forward, and pulls me through.
my heart can just as well be my music, the way the little boy told me, the only confident words out of his mouth that day. i hope it lingers in the air like a perfect note, hovering and hesitant to land. i hope it hangs with you and brings you only the best.
i hopes its rich and something you'd listen to more than once. i hope its easy to understand and you never have to ask twice.
i hope you hear things here that change faster than the waves and move quicker than the leaves. but i hope that behind that, loyally there is something you will always count on and always expect.
like a drum,
a rhythm,
a beat.
a heartbeat.
my music.
my heart.
most of the morning his fingers were curled around mine and he could be found within two or three of his toddling steps from mine whenever I walked across the playground like a faithful and unsure puppy. later, he sat on my lap, facing me with the plastic ends of a toy stethescope in his ears looking at me quizzically. i asked him, after a few minutes what he was listening to, what he heard? i expected him to say "your heart" having being told that was what the pretend instrument was used for.
but he looked up, with big brown eyes and told me, ever so confidently...
"your music"
(July 24)
most of you, people i see on a daily or weekly basis have heard my "your music" story and this is because everytime i think of it i still smile and get a little rush of happiness.
that multifaceted part of humans, the heart. the way it is so much, and in so many sometimes opposite ways. i can use my heart to tell you something you need to know, even if i don't want to say it. and it can make me turn around and fix a wrong, a hand up and sometimes a step down. but usually i hope it says things lighter than that. it dances and it sings. it sways and it twirls and in all of that i hope you can't help but hear music. my music.
i don't know what it sounds like, that is something only you perceive. i know that sometimes it snaps at you and startles you. i know that sometimes it creeps up and brushes you from behind but i hope it feels like a warm breeze. i know that sometimes it's too loud, too harsh and too much. i know that it makes mistakes. sometimes it stumbles along the way and sounds very much like it needs more practices, but be patient.
i never expected it to be perfect.
but in that, the heart can do other things too. it pumps hard and fast tearing down the streets at night, it keeps me moving down the river and up the mountain. it pushes me forward, and pulls me through.
my heart can just as well be my music, the way the little boy told me, the only confident words out of his mouth that day. i hope it lingers in the air like a perfect note, hovering and hesitant to land. i hope it hangs with you and brings you only the best.
i hopes its rich and something you'd listen to more than once. i hope its easy to understand and you never have to ask twice.
i hope you hear things here that change faster than the waves and move quicker than the leaves. but i hope that behind that, loyally there is something you will always count on and always expect.
like a drum,
a rhythm,
a beat.
a heartbeat.
my music.
my heart.
getting greedy (july 26th)
At first it sounded like a distant waterfall, who's deafening sound was muffled by the scores of trees surrounding it, but if that had been true, why then would it be getting louder? And perhaps more intriguing, why was the smile on Nate's face getting bigger and his eyes more twinkling? I turned around in the kayak, hearing the sound of the pelting rain falling and upsetting the thick woods that were above the gorge of the river. Like pencil streaks the water was coming, hard and fast, and like a approaching wave it was rolling onto the river, and the once calm water was rippling with the force of the drops which were thick and full. The line of rain came rolling towards us, in a progression as distinct as a line being drawn in the sand, or an army taking over a field.
Like the radio slowly being cranked up, the rain flushed over us and like a wave, telling us that it didn't care that we were getting wet. That it was its turn, it was coming through and we would have to agree.
And all we could do was smile, laugh and getting very very wet.
We coasted down the water of the river and we paddled amongst the dancing drops on the surface for a little while until the cloud had its say and relinquished our attention back to the calm of the day and passed us without looking back.
It was as close to magic as you will find on a beautiful Saturday afternoon on the river. In fact, it probably was the best definition of magic you'll ever find, and the best use of a Saturday on the river you'll ever have.
Like the radio slowly being cranked up, the rain flushed over us and like a wave, telling us that it didn't care that we were getting wet. That it was its turn, it was coming through and we would have to agree.
And all we could do was smile, laugh and getting very very wet.
We coasted down the water of the river and we paddled amongst the dancing drops on the surface for a little while until the cloud had its say and relinquished our attention back to the calm of the day and passed us without looking back.
It was as close to magic as you will find on a beautiful Saturday afternoon on the river. In fact, it probably was the best definition of magic you'll ever find, and the best use of a Saturday on the river you'll ever have.
Isaiah's eagles
We had pulled off the road and parked the car. Our doors clicked in unison as we hustled down the path, anxious not only to get out of the car but to see just what it was on the other edge of the cliff.
Dad had a pretty good idea. A tall, gushing, foaming waterfall slipped past the trees and crashed below, somewhere in the mist rushing back up.
It was the kind of thing where i couldn't actually hear him talking as we got closer.
Gazing into the blue clear honest sky i saw a black line, lazing along the currents he was finding up there. Up and down and side to side and back again the hawk hung in the air, letting anyone watch.
I took my eyes back to the water, memorized like we all are at its movement and after a few minutes, satisfied i let them rise again to see if the hawk was still around.
that is, until he met me midway instead.
its not often you get to look a large bird of prey in the eyes, as he scans the earth below, but there he was. soaring at my side. no, not near my shoulder but close enough where i just might have been able to touch those shimmery wings if i outstretched my fingers to their very tips and hoped a little extra. being that high up, i was in his world more than he mine.
the ground froze me to it, as if to prevent me from disturbing this bird. but i stared. completely humbled. it was like seeing a puppet on a string, hanging, perfect in the sky. except there was nothing keeping it up. the wind whipped under his belly and over his wings. light and clear as the air he was in.
and in an instant, as if spooked by my wonder, he dove and was gone.
gone at least from sight, but there is a big black hawk i still think of that flies in the cascades.
Dad had a pretty good idea. A tall, gushing, foaming waterfall slipped past the trees and crashed below, somewhere in the mist rushing back up.
It was the kind of thing where i couldn't actually hear him talking as we got closer.
Gazing into the blue clear honest sky i saw a black line, lazing along the currents he was finding up there. Up and down and side to side and back again the hawk hung in the air, letting anyone watch.
I took my eyes back to the water, memorized like we all are at its movement and after a few minutes, satisfied i let them rise again to see if the hawk was still around.
that is, until he met me midway instead.
its not often you get to look a large bird of prey in the eyes, as he scans the earth below, but there he was. soaring at my side. no, not near my shoulder but close enough where i just might have been able to touch those shimmery wings if i outstretched my fingers to their very tips and hoped a little extra. being that high up, i was in his world more than he mine.
the ground froze me to it, as if to prevent me from disturbing this bird. but i stared. completely humbled. it was like seeing a puppet on a string, hanging, perfect in the sky. except there was nothing keeping it up. the wind whipped under his belly and over his wings. light and clear as the air he was in.
and in an instant, as if spooked by my wonder, he dove and was gone.
gone at least from sight, but there is a big black hawk i still think of that flies in the cascades.
Monday, May 11, 2009
as she deserves to be remembered
This morning I set off with my camera. I have decided to bring it along with me more often these days, because from what I can tell, I may soon be leaving. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let my loud music fade off. I got to the point, about six months ago that I can't get lost here, even if I try. I got to the point where all roads lead to home.
Maybe its not such a big city after all. I had stopped to take some shots of tulips in a road-median on Stinson and later received a call from my cousin wondering if it was me he had seen.
Minneapolis sways and groans and lets us all have her. In a matter of minutes you can go from crusty young bikers dressed in skinny jeans and short brimmed hats to business men yelling into their earpieces. Cruise a few more blocks and you will find half dazed women pushing babies in strollers and if you stick around you might run into your aunt, or forth grade teacher. Bikes whiz by like birds. I have danced in the streets with Mayan decedents and knocked on doors which have been opened by refugees who woke at dawn to cook goat for me and my family and entertain us late into the evening. Minneapolis is a rare retrieve, where Minnesota's infrastructure flourishes. Como zoo swells each summer with immigrants from Laos celebrating the summer days away.
The roads taught me to swerve quickly from parked cars and avoid their lazily opened doors, on my bike, but also the ecstasy of flying downtown in the dark of the night the cool breeze escalated by my speed with the buildings glowing behind me. Last week I stumbled, drunk with happiness not booze from Picosa after salsa dancing with strangers for hours onto the banks of the Mississippi and saw the skyline just blocks away beaming onto the water and thought "damn, is she sexy", and smiled as I climbed into my car to head home. Shit. I was already there.
She is too. Very sexy indeed. You can roll over the 35W bridge and breath her in, or crane your neck flying down 10th avenue and watch her glisten at you, the river doubling her beauty. In 7corners you will loose track of the number of theaters, and in uptown I dare you to go into a franchise store. The Greenway will bring you straight through the city and back to the lakes and if you want, you can probably draft behind a perfect stranger.
Another evening we rolled through the park and saw an enormous screen playing an old movie, with the city, across the Stone-arch bridge, gleaming behind. We smiled and pedaled on, for we had places to be.
Waiting on a bridge taking in the view over Hiawatha a smiling young man approached us one night and with laughs traded a cigarette for a beer.
One semester, I chatted with the same man, at the same time, for three weeks both of us shivering into our coats as we waited for our bus transfers downtown outside the central library to haul us home after our night classes at the U. He initially wanted to bum a smoke off of me, but since I don't, he ended up bumming a conversation instead.
Minneapolis is a great place. I know this. Alright fine, I probably don’t really know this. If I leave I will probably finally appreciate the liberal policies, the warm people, even if I never do come to appreciate the cold air.
At least, right now, I can remember her. As she deserves.
Maybe its not such a big city after all. I had stopped to take some shots of tulips in a road-median on Stinson and later received a call from my cousin wondering if it was me he had seen.
Minneapolis sways and groans and lets us all have her. In a matter of minutes you can go from crusty young bikers dressed in skinny jeans and short brimmed hats to business men yelling into their earpieces. Cruise a few more blocks and you will find half dazed women pushing babies in strollers and if you stick around you might run into your aunt, or forth grade teacher. Bikes whiz by like birds. I have danced in the streets with Mayan decedents and knocked on doors which have been opened by refugees who woke at dawn to cook goat for me and my family and entertain us late into the evening. Minneapolis is a rare retrieve, where Minnesota's infrastructure flourishes. Como zoo swells each summer with immigrants from Laos celebrating the summer days away.
The roads taught me to swerve quickly from parked cars and avoid their lazily opened doors, on my bike, but also the ecstasy of flying downtown in the dark of the night the cool breeze escalated by my speed with the buildings glowing behind me. Last week I stumbled, drunk with happiness not booze from Picosa after salsa dancing with strangers for hours onto the banks of the Mississippi and saw the skyline just blocks away beaming onto the water and thought "damn, is she sexy", and smiled as I climbed into my car to head home. Shit. I was already there.
She is too. Very sexy indeed. You can roll over the 35W bridge and breath her in, or crane your neck flying down 10th avenue and watch her glisten at you, the river doubling her beauty. In 7corners you will loose track of the number of theaters, and in uptown I dare you to go into a franchise store. The Greenway will bring you straight through the city and back to the lakes and if you want, you can probably draft behind a perfect stranger.
Another evening we rolled through the park and saw an enormous screen playing an old movie, with the city, across the Stone-arch bridge, gleaming behind. We smiled and pedaled on, for we had places to be.
Waiting on a bridge taking in the view over Hiawatha a smiling young man approached us one night and with laughs traded a cigarette for a beer.
One semester, I chatted with the same man, at the same time, for three weeks both of us shivering into our coats as we waited for our bus transfers downtown outside the central library to haul us home after our night classes at the U. He initially wanted to bum a smoke off of me, but since I don't, he ended up bumming a conversation instead.
Minneapolis is a great place. I know this. Alright fine, I probably don’t really know this. If I leave I will probably finally appreciate the liberal policies, the warm people, even if I never do come to appreciate the cold air.
At least, right now, I can remember her. As she deserves.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
save the sanctity of marriage?
This afternoon I saw some friends add themselves on facebook as "becoming a fan" of Protecting Marriage, one man and one women. Really guys? Come on.
And as you may have expected....I got a little upset. Its may not be the reasons you thought of though. I can be okay with an individual hoping that marriage is saved for one and one women. I personally do not believe such and am comfortable and happy to say that I think love and commitment is found in all forms, yet I want to respect people's religions and beliefs and experiences enough not to react to their opinion. The problems is that losing the sanctity of marriage did indeed happen, but not when two men or two women got married legally. It was gone far and away long before that. When we listlessly (yet loyally) watched shows that auctioned off a "marriage" to young women for a handsome millionaire. That left it at the ground with a chunk taken out and a crack on the bottom. When our paparazzi follows celebrities here and there with cameras on trips couples take and fill their every moments with video cameras. And we happily watch and browse the magazines in line at the grocery store. We lost a bunch then too. When Craigslist has a section for "casual encounters", where people can get together and married men and women not openly admit they are married but that they are seeking to fulfill their sex drives with some who can be discrete. And that they might pay that person's rent for it. The fact that those posts get responses. Yeah, I'm just going to say we didn't have much left after that.
I make me disappointed to see a culture that doesn't acknowledge that these are some of the things that push our divorce rate so high, these are the reasons that marriages somethings mean nothing. I would like to get married someday. And more importantly, I would like that marriage to be faithful to the end of my days. Harm and threats from society at making this happen have nothing to do with whether or not my gay friends are legally allowed to do that too.
And as you may have expected....I got a little upset. Its may not be the reasons you thought of though. I can be okay with an individual hoping that marriage is saved for one and one women. I personally do not believe such and am comfortable and happy to say that I think love and commitment is found in all forms, yet I want to respect people's religions and beliefs and experiences enough not to react to their opinion. The problems is that losing the sanctity of marriage did indeed happen, but not when two men or two women got married legally. It was gone far and away long before that. When we listlessly (yet loyally) watched shows that auctioned off a "marriage" to young women for a handsome millionaire. That left it at the ground with a chunk taken out and a crack on the bottom. When our paparazzi follows celebrities here and there with cameras on trips couples take and fill their every moments with video cameras. And we happily watch and browse the magazines in line at the grocery store. We lost a bunch then too. When Craigslist has a section for "casual encounters", where people can get together and married men and women not openly admit they are married but that they are seeking to fulfill their sex drives with some who can be discrete. And that they might pay that person's rent for it. The fact that those posts get responses. Yeah, I'm just going to say we didn't have much left after that.
I make me disappointed to see a culture that doesn't acknowledge that these are some of the things that push our divorce rate so high, these are the reasons that marriages somethings mean nothing. I would like to get married someday. And more importantly, I would like that marriage to be faithful to the end of my days. Harm and threats from society at making this happen have nothing to do with whether or not my gay friends are legally allowed to do that too.
Monday, April 6, 2009
crack the shutters
Its hard to drive I learned tonight, when you are crying. Things get a bit blurry. At the same time though, its hard to stay in your room when you're crying, so I had decided to take my chances. I drove all the way to the airport, without directions except for following the leaps in my stomach of past trips. I circled the terminal three times, peering over the side of the car when the ramp got to its highest point, trying to identify buildings to use as landmarks. I was looking to try and find a place to watch the planes take-off. Somewhere that would rattle my heart and slap my imagination back into working order. I have yelled at my mind so much these past weeks, the way it rolls back and forth between where I am, where I want to be and where I am not. Plans that fill up my soul, but empty my wallet, and more frightening, the opposite. The best bet looked like some of the old buildings of Fort Snelling, althogh I knew there was almost no chance that I would be able to stretch out on the outskirts of an old Military Base without being escorted off the premises in handcuffs. I tore around corners and made mental maps of the places that looked like they could work, but every turn had angry signs urging me to leave. I finally listened when the signs turned into a cop car, and left, somewhat defeated, somewhat giggling to myself. As I climbed back into Minneapolis' skyline, like the arms of an old friend I began the next search for a equally good place to go, somewhere perhaps I could find on my bike. I drove through old parking lots so full of potholes, there wasn't much else besides, and down abandoned roads that made me wonder if cars were even allowed on them.
I don't know what to do with my life, so it seems, I have begun wanting to look for places to hide. Well, actually, I have plenty of fantastic ideas of what to do with my life, but sometimes, as much as I wish it wasn't true, things are out of your control, and I have been driving myself into the ground the last month making myself accept this. I can't control what jobs are available, nor who will hire me. If I could always just rely on the big ideas my mind can produce, I wouldn't even spare enough time to write this. I'd be too busy a top camels in Jordon, or chasing down paintings and men gorgeous enough to be put in them in Italy. I'd be behind the lens of a camera somewhere in Brazil or on a boat going to a monastery in France. I think that this is the reason I have been so upset lately, I know I can't go and buy tickets to these places, but I have put so much pressure on myself to create the life and make the choices that will let me do that someday that I am caving under the depression that it isn't happening now. I want so bad to make a life that keeps the top of the TV cold and tires of my bike hot that I have a hard time forgiving myself for this intermission and downtime. My heart wants the next great adventure, but my somehow more logical and sensible mind won't release the reigns, even if its nipping at the bit.
I'm scared that when I tell myself that I am just waiting for the right time to leave, I will accidentally let time go by and find myself wiping my kids noses and paying a mortgage while I wonder where my passport went and why my hiking boots still look so new. Some people are scared of going skydiving, being alone in the woods, hearing loud noises and finding themselves in a strange place. I am scared of not.
I'm writing this to convince myself that its ok to take a deep breath. Its okay to be somewhere longer than you thought. Its ok to become familiar and know where you are when you open your eyes in the morning. There are lots of good things about it. Like a "usual" at the cafe down the block and having memorized the drink special at a favorite bar.
I'm scared because this is usually the time when people turn into real adults. Many of my friends are getting married, getting jobs and getting comfortable. I feel like the next few stretches will determine if I will zig or zag.
But the whole world is such an enormous book, that I am not ready to stick a bookmark in and let the crease become permanent. I want to see whats on the next page, the next chapter. I guess right now I am looking up the words so that I can continue through, understanding better and being ready for more. I'll find that place to hide soon, and curl up with this absolutely wonderful book.
I don't know what to do with my life, so it seems, I have begun wanting to look for places to hide. Well, actually, I have plenty of fantastic ideas of what to do with my life, but sometimes, as much as I wish it wasn't true, things are out of your control, and I have been driving myself into the ground the last month making myself accept this. I can't control what jobs are available, nor who will hire me. If I could always just rely on the big ideas my mind can produce, I wouldn't even spare enough time to write this. I'd be too busy a top camels in Jordon, or chasing down paintings and men gorgeous enough to be put in them in Italy. I'd be behind the lens of a camera somewhere in Brazil or on a boat going to a monastery in France. I think that this is the reason I have been so upset lately, I know I can't go and buy tickets to these places, but I have put so much pressure on myself to create the life and make the choices that will let me do that someday that I am caving under the depression that it isn't happening now. I want so bad to make a life that keeps the top of the TV cold and tires of my bike hot that I have a hard time forgiving myself for this intermission and downtime. My heart wants the next great adventure, but my somehow more logical and sensible mind won't release the reigns, even if its nipping at the bit.
I'm scared that when I tell myself that I am just waiting for the right time to leave, I will accidentally let time go by and find myself wiping my kids noses and paying a mortgage while I wonder where my passport went and why my hiking boots still look so new. Some people are scared of going skydiving, being alone in the woods, hearing loud noises and finding themselves in a strange place. I am scared of not.
I'm writing this to convince myself that its ok to take a deep breath. Its okay to be somewhere longer than you thought. Its ok to become familiar and know where you are when you open your eyes in the morning. There are lots of good things about it. Like a "usual" at the cafe down the block and having memorized the drink special at a favorite bar.
I'm scared because this is usually the time when people turn into real adults. Many of my friends are getting married, getting jobs and getting comfortable. I feel like the next few stretches will determine if I will zig or zag.
But the whole world is such an enormous book, that I am not ready to stick a bookmark in and let the crease become permanent. I want to see whats on the next page, the next chapter. I guess right now I am looking up the words so that I can continue through, understanding better and being ready for more. I'll find that place to hide soon, and curl up with this absolutely wonderful book.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
One fine day...
I don't remember the exact instance of finding it, but that summer a mother bluebird had laid a nest of eggs in the bluebird house behind our house we were constantly chasing swallows out of. For weeks the little eggs sat, and i checked them almost everyday for progress. One afternoon, as the yellow bus chugged away down our dirt road i peered into the nest and saw a small crack in one of the eggs, and then, as i was looking as close as my eyes could, it moved. Now this, this was exciting. I tore into the house to tell mom the news, and after the course of the afternoon, one by one tiny, wet pathetic birds emerged from those tiny beautiful eggs. We weren't allowed to look for more than about a minute or so at a time, because we weren't suppose to scare off the bluebird parents, as eager to see their young as we were. Over the next few weeks, each time i opened the lid of the box, the birds grew bigger and more demanding. Aaron showed me how if you whistled they would think it was a parent and instinctively open their beaks for food. Before long they had grown their feathers and chubby and bright-eyed they barely fit in their tiny home. And one fine day, one was gone, and later that afternoon, another. By nightfall, they had all learned to fly.
I can only hope so much for you too.
I can only hope so much for you too.
services at 9 and 10:30
I don't think I believe in god. There. I said it. The last five years of wanderings around the world, and more thoroughly around my head have brought me here. But you saw it right there, I don't think I believe in god, which isn't a no, but it isn't a yes either. I have done what every other person worth their weight does and made my decision. I have taken everything I have seen, and everything i have heard, what I have tasted in my mind and felt with my heart, heard through my fingers and laid them all out. I have picked them up, turned them over and looked for anything that would make them tell me something. I've gone back and forth and back again. I have looked at them sideways and upsidedown. I have rearranged them and hoped to myself that I found them that way.
It seems to me that people who have to deal with adversity and take on more than most usually go one of two directions. I have medical files that will make your head spin. God is a rock and foundation of their lives, assuring their existence and whispering that it will make sense, that every unfair thing will come around...He shall never give you more than you can bear....To me, god is their coping device. Their beer, their pot, their one hit wonder.
I was never into vices.
The other choice feels better to me. Its just you and me kid. We get what we get and we don't throw a fit. Life is so painful and unmanagable it will make you cry hot tears of agony, but before you know it, its summer and you just pulled up on your bike. Its quiet in the woods and noisy in the city. You kisssed that handsome stranger or laughed through the night into your pillow with your best friend. And when it finally comes around to you taking your last breath we all hope you are thinking of the latter set.
As far as I can see, things happen, we make choices and deal with them and as soon as we have it on its way, things happen again. This goes on for a handful of decades and soon we find ourselves with grey hair and failing livers and we eventually decide to go. That's all there is, atleast on the first level. Everyday is another set of time to make those choices in, it will flip and turn and soon become another. If you let it, soon, it can be spinning pretty fast. I'm not telling you there is nothing after someone stops breathing, but I don't know how much that promise enlists the efforts of putting the puzzle and riddle of our lives together. As far as I am concerned, I'm not going to be able to know anyway. If some mythical port of knowledge has some sort of twisted script for my life, I would probably feel a bit resentful at the choices they scribbled in, but laugh at all the fun I have so far gotten away with.
Church is nice though. Seeing the same people each week, styrafoam cups of weak coffee and three year old girls in twirling skirts running past on your way out from the bathroom. The well rehearsed routine of rising with the worship pastor as the guitar begins on those same predictable chords. If I didnt love to sing as much as I do, I wouldnt have made it as far as I did in church to begin with. A well sung harmony to Silent Night, as the candles flicker in the breath of the congragation. That's enough to make anyone feel good. An accapella benediction at the end of the service. I grew up in a household full of hymnals and an out of tune piano. For awhile there were as many guitars as easychairs, and cds spilled off endtables like coffee. The music portion of the service always entised me enough to stay through the sermon, however upset it always made me, because I knew that he was just a man, telling us what he thought, deep down I knew I didnt have to believe him.
Do I miss going to church? Yes. I miss the bustle of the morning. I miss Dad waiting in the car for mom to put on her lipstick. I miss my heals clincking across the hardwood in our kitchen. I miss scurrying inside and making our way to the balcony as the music spills into the foyer. Yes, I miss church. I dont miss theology and religion. I don't miss the guilt, the regulations and rules. I don't miss the confusion and the questions being answered in a half hour sermon that were too large for the entire building. I don't miss people turning a deaf ear to the injustice in the bible, or the questions they didnt have answers for. I don't miss the ignorance, or the silly bliss that when along with it.
I read a book not long ago. It was a light hearted memoir of a girl growing up in a small town, but it had one more reflective chapter. Every Sunday her family went through the bases and off to church, except her father who would tinker in the garage instead. One week, the ecentric child asked her dad "why he wasnt a christian?" He answered, cooly, "who had told her that?" "He didnt go to church", she said. Within minutes they were in the truck, flying down a dirt road, until he pulled up to an old campsite outside town.
"Where-ever two or more are gathered".....he began. "Two or more what? Trees?" he suggested. "Bugs?" "That's silly", she told him. But he didnt hear her...because his eyes were on the heavens.
I could maybe be that dad someday. I could maybe figure out enough of god to understand what he needs from me, and what i need from him. I want something less epic. Something that can make sense and still leave me time to blaze down a trail on my bike, or chase camels in the East. I want something wider and more neutral. Since god is so hard to understand i can not participate with one that condemns people for something that isnt understandable in the first place. As counterintuitive as it seems with the need for an absolute truth part of me still believes that i can be right, and so can you. But i won't ever find him behind those stained glass doors, no matter how pretty they are. Its not as though someone in the church ever really did me wrong, but im not sure anyone really did me right either. I took classes in college to learn things I believe i should have known when i was 8. History, society, politics of the bible, they really would have done me more good than giraffes smilling as they stuck their heads out the top of the ark.
I want to know that its ok that i pressed pause. I am unwilling to smile along in church if i don't understand it. I am not comfortabe with communion, and revivals when i don't agree. I am many things i never was suppose to be, I party, I drink, I curse like a salior. I lost track of the number of people I have madeout with. I hit it pretty hard some nights. But I am not a liar. I am not a faker. And I am not going to go until my insides and outsides agree. If i ever go at all.
It seems to me that people who have to deal with adversity and take on more than most usually go one of two directions. I have medical files that will make your head spin. God is a rock and foundation of their lives, assuring their existence and whispering that it will make sense, that every unfair thing will come around...He shall never give you more than you can bear....To me, god is their coping device. Their beer, their pot, their one hit wonder.
I was never into vices.
The other choice feels better to me. Its just you and me kid. We get what we get and we don't throw a fit. Life is so painful and unmanagable it will make you cry hot tears of agony, but before you know it, its summer and you just pulled up on your bike. Its quiet in the woods and noisy in the city. You kisssed that handsome stranger or laughed through the night into your pillow with your best friend. And when it finally comes around to you taking your last breath we all hope you are thinking of the latter set.
As far as I can see, things happen, we make choices and deal with them and as soon as we have it on its way, things happen again. This goes on for a handful of decades and soon we find ourselves with grey hair and failing livers and we eventually decide to go. That's all there is, atleast on the first level. Everyday is another set of time to make those choices in, it will flip and turn and soon become another. If you let it, soon, it can be spinning pretty fast. I'm not telling you there is nothing after someone stops breathing, but I don't know how much that promise enlists the efforts of putting the puzzle and riddle of our lives together. As far as I am concerned, I'm not going to be able to know anyway. If some mythical port of knowledge has some sort of twisted script for my life, I would probably feel a bit resentful at the choices they scribbled in, but laugh at all the fun I have so far gotten away with.
Church is nice though. Seeing the same people each week, styrafoam cups of weak coffee and three year old girls in twirling skirts running past on your way out from the bathroom. The well rehearsed routine of rising with the worship pastor as the guitar begins on those same predictable chords. If I didnt love to sing as much as I do, I wouldnt have made it as far as I did in church to begin with. A well sung harmony to Silent Night, as the candles flicker in the breath of the congragation. That's enough to make anyone feel good. An accapella benediction at the end of the service. I grew up in a household full of hymnals and an out of tune piano. For awhile there were as many guitars as easychairs, and cds spilled off endtables like coffee. The music portion of the service always entised me enough to stay through the sermon, however upset it always made me, because I knew that he was just a man, telling us what he thought, deep down I knew I didnt have to believe him.
Do I miss going to church? Yes. I miss the bustle of the morning. I miss Dad waiting in the car for mom to put on her lipstick. I miss my heals clincking across the hardwood in our kitchen. I miss scurrying inside and making our way to the balcony as the music spills into the foyer. Yes, I miss church. I dont miss theology and religion. I don't miss the guilt, the regulations and rules. I don't miss the confusion and the questions being answered in a half hour sermon that were too large for the entire building. I don't miss people turning a deaf ear to the injustice in the bible, or the questions they didnt have answers for. I don't miss the ignorance, or the silly bliss that when along with it.
I read a book not long ago. It was a light hearted memoir of a girl growing up in a small town, but it had one more reflective chapter. Every Sunday her family went through the bases and off to church, except her father who would tinker in the garage instead. One week, the ecentric child asked her dad "why he wasnt a christian?" He answered, cooly, "who had told her that?" "He didnt go to church", she said. Within minutes they were in the truck, flying down a dirt road, until he pulled up to an old campsite outside town.
"Where-ever two or more are gathered".....he began. "Two or more what? Trees?" he suggested. "Bugs?" "That's silly", she told him. But he didnt hear her...because his eyes were on the heavens.
I could maybe be that dad someday. I could maybe figure out enough of god to understand what he needs from me, and what i need from him. I want something less epic. Something that can make sense and still leave me time to blaze down a trail on my bike, or chase camels in the East. I want something wider and more neutral. Since god is so hard to understand i can not participate with one that condemns people for something that isnt understandable in the first place. As counterintuitive as it seems with the need for an absolute truth part of me still believes that i can be right, and so can you. But i won't ever find him behind those stained glass doors, no matter how pretty they are. Its not as though someone in the church ever really did me wrong, but im not sure anyone really did me right either. I took classes in college to learn things I believe i should have known when i was 8. History, society, politics of the bible, they really would have done me more good than giraffes smilling as they stuck their heads out the top of the ark.
I want to know that its ok that i pressed pause. I am unwilling to smile along in church if i don't understand it. I am not comfortabe with communion, and revivals when i don't agree. I am many things i never was suppose to be, I party, I drink, I curse like a salior. I lost track of the number of people I have madeout with. I hit it pretty hard some nights. But I am not a liar. I am not a faker. And I am not going to go until my insides and outsides agree. If i ever go at all.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
the president elect (11.04.08) 1:58am
There were squeals of joy when the Midwest section of the country’s polls closed. The colors swept across the map on the screen like a fan, or the sun from morning to night. We searched the screen, looking for Minnesota like an old friend until finally James called out. It was there. We had done it. Minnesota had turned blue, and much to our joyous surprise so had its neighboring states, clustered together whispering with a secret. Soon we were all on our feet, clapping and screaming, a rush of excitement and proud achievement evident on the TV screen. The door burst open, the downstairs neighbor Jackie had heard our commotion and come up to yell along too. Phone’s rang, Claire and James began jumping on the couch and I found myself yelling into the phone to my roommate Steph whose congratulating words were drown out by the cheers behind her all the way in Pennsylvania.
And all of this just because things had gone well in the Midwest. It wasn’t long before our conversation drifted to stories and side subjects though. As we kept an eye on the TV eventually we realized that it wouldn’t be long until the polls in the West would be closing and once scanning the screen we realized that those were the only states whose land had stayed grey so far, that we were almost there. It wouldn’t be long until we knew who would be the next President of the United States. As the timer on the TV clicked down I scooted closer to Claire on the couch and grabbed her hand. James yelled our remaining seconds. Like a whirlwind the remaining states’ results slammed into the glass of the TV. Blue blue blue….. Another round of yells and hollers met the ceiling and we shook with excitement. Through the open window the neighbor’s joyous sentiments mixed with our yells and met in the air outside the window. Through the jumping we didn’t realize what the TV said right away, but at one point I saw the words we had dreamed about for months, even years.
BREAKING NEWS: BARACK OBAMA PRESIDENT ELECT – CNN PROJECTION
Once we saw this, the celebration of Midwest’s victory seemed as mild as a passive high-five. Tears were shed, yells went out like confetti and I made incoherent phone calls to friends who met my yells with ones of their own. Whiskey was shot. The TV screen scanned the crown gathered at Grant Park in Chicago, where Obama would be speaking and the thousands and thousands of supports gathered danced in the street. Some shock with excitement and others hollered with the zeal of a child. The look in the eyes of the citizens gathered in that park held joy so pure you only see it a few times in your life. A blurry image of a town in Kenya, where Obama’s father lived showed supports celebrating kicking up dust with the news. When the newscast broke to the church Martin Luther King Jr.’s daughter ministers at her joyful reaction to the news was indiscernible over the singing that was going on in the background.
We sat through John Mccain’s speech politely and dismissed it as soon as if was over. Gushing to one another we waited for the unbelievable moment in which Obama would take the stage and address the crowd. We all cuddled in on the couch and I grasped Jame’s knees across my lap to listen. And on he walked, proud and true. Everything we wanted. And everything we needed. Michelle and their girls held his hands and waved at the camera looking beautiful. The crowd was exploding. When he finally hushed the crowd he gave us a speech of a new kind. It was strong and beautiful. Elegant but sobering. This was it. We did it. We got what we wanted, and now was our time. Our time to take our problems and fix them, find a new angle and make a new way. With focus we listened and agreed. Once we finally turned the TV off we gushed to one another our excitement and disbelief. After parting for the evening I set off on my bike to make my way back home. Watching the skyline was exciting, the renewal of hope that good things can and do happen. When I got to my room back at the K-house I began settling in for the evening, I had just grabbed my towels and was headed to the bathroom to shower when I heard the unmistakable uprising of a crowd. Decided this was something I needed to see I threw my slippers on and was expecting to wave and watch a few drunken supporters who were drumming up excitement out on the streets. It was instead however a few hundred students chanting their joyful glee at our new president elect. I waved them on, yelling my support until a few beckoned me across the street. The delight was contagious apparently because someone told me that the crowd had just gathered spontaniously. We took our eagerness around Dinky town and down University until we finally, with found farewells dispersed at the dorms, about a mile away. I was offered a ride home by the group who had motioned me across the street in the first place and we swapped stories and gleefully cooed our good fortune. Wished each other well I jumped out of their car and re entered my building.
The next morning I learned from a coworker that there had been dancing in the streets in the Cedar Riverside neighborhood, one known for Somali immigrants, and in good form she had joined in. The news told me Harlem had taken to the streets as well. Time Square was awake with light and noise and crowds of cheering. Across the nation we had decided that staying inside wasn’t good enough. That our joy had been a bit too large for that.
A few days later two men ready to give their lives to kill Barack Obama had been attained. I heard from my mom that students at my younger sisters school had flung racial slurs onto their facebook status’ and that Barack Obama was considered the anti-Christ by much more than a few of people reported by a vicious email that floated through cyberspace.
Yet as serious and frightening as these threats are, I told my mom a few days later in the kitchen, after she reported the way some of my more conservative relatives felt about him with a heavy heart that we had time on our side. This next administration will not bring rainbows, butterflies and perfect world peace. Puppies will not skip through meadows of daisies. Give it time. I believe that (President) Obama will do a great job. I believe that it was more than a young man with a handsome face and a good speaking voice that light the nation on fire. There was a real and un-dismissible reason that so many millions of people marched to the polls. It wasn’t just a fad that so many hard working people donated their hard earned money to his campaign. It was certainly more than media excitement that brought thousands of regular people to become team leaders, precinct captains and give up their Saturdays to sit and make calls. We are smarted than that, we can’t be fooled just by bandwagon politics and platitudes like HOPE.
These things are real, and I am confident that when January rolls around this will be something we will proudly tell our grandchildren about.
And all of this just because things had gone well in the Midwest. It wasn’t long before our conversation drifted to stories and side subjects though. As we kept an eye on the TV eventually we realized that it wouldn’t be long until the polls in the West would be closing and once scanning the screen we realized that those were the only states whose land had stayed grey so far, that we were almost there. It wouldn’t be long until we knew who would be the next President of the United States. As the timer on the TV clicked down I scooted closer to Claire on the couch and grabbed her hand. James yelled our remaining seconds. Like a whirlwind the remaining states’ results slammed into the glass of the TV. Blue blue blue….. Another round of yells and hollers met the ceiling and we shook with excitement. Through the open window the neighbor’s joyous sentiments mixed with our yells and met in the air outside the window. Through the jumping we didn’t realize what the TV said right away, but at one point I saw the words we had dreamed about for months, even years.
BREAKING NEWS: BARACK OBAMA PRESIDENT ELECT – CNN PROJECTION
Once we saw this, the celebration of Midwest’s victory seemed as mild as a passive high-five. Tears were shed, yells went out like confetti and I made incoherent phone calls to friends who met my yells with ones of their own. Whiskey was shot. The TV screen scanned the crown gathered at Grant Park in Chicago, where Obama would be speaking and the thousands and thousands of supports gathered danced in the street. Some shock with excitement and others hollered with the zeal of a child. The look in the eyes of the citizens gathered in that park held joy so pure you only see it a few times in your life. A blurry image of a town in Kenya, where Obama’s father lived showed supports celebrating kicking up dust with the news. When the newscast broke to the church Martin Luther King Jr.’s daughter ministers at her joyful reaction to the news was indiscernible over the singing that was going on in the background.
We sat through John Mccain’s speech politely and dismissed it as soon as if was over. Gushing to one another we waited for the unbelievable moment in which Obama would take the stage and address the crowd. We all cuddled in on the couch and I grasped Jame’s knees across my lap to listen. And on he walked, proud and true. Everything we wanted. And everything we needed. Michelle and their girls held his hands and waved at the camera looking beautiful. The crowd was exploding. When he finally hushed the crowd he gave us a speech of a new kind. It was strong and beautiful. Elegant but sobering. This was it. We did it. We got what we wanted, and now was our time. Our time to take our problems and fix them, find a new angle and make a new way. With focus we listened and agreed. Once we finally turned the TV off we gushed to one another our excitement and disbelief. After parting for the evening I set off on my bike to make my way back home. Watching the skyline was exciting, the renewal of hope that good things can and do happen. When I got to my room back at the K-house I began settling in for the evening, I had just grabbed my towels and was headed to the bathroom to shower when I heard the unmistakable uprising of a crowd. Decided this was something I needed to see I threw my slippers on and was expecting to wave and watch a few drunken supporters who were drumming up excitement out on the streets. It was instead however a few hundred students chanting their joyful glee at our new president elect. I waved them on, yelling my support until a few beckoned me across the street. The delight was contagious apparently because someone told me that the crowd had just gathered spontaniously. We took our eagerness around Dinky town and down University until we finally, with found farewells dispersed at the dorms, about a mile away. I was offered a ride home by the group who had motioned me across the street in the first place and we swapped stories and gleefully cooed our good fortune. Wished each other well I jumped out of their car and re entered my building.
The next morning I learned from a coworker that there had been dancing in the streets in the Cedar Riverside neighborhood, one known for Somali immigrants, and in good form she had joined in. The news told me Harlem had taken to the streets as well. Time Square was awake with light and noise and crowds of cheering. Across the nation we had decided that staying inside wasn’t good enough. That our joy had been a bit too large for that.
A few days later two men ready to give their lives to kill Barack Obama had been attained. I heard from my mom that students at my younger sisters school had flung racial slurs onto their facebook status’ and that Barack Obama was considered the anti-Christ by much more than a few of people reported by a vicious email that floated through cyberspace.
Yet as serious and frightening as these threats are, I told my mom a few days later in the kitchen, after she reported the way some of my more conservative relatives felt about him with a heavy heart that we had time on our side. This next administration will not bring rainbows, butterflies and perfect world peace. Puppies will not skip through meadows of daisies. Give it time. I believe that (President) Obama will do a great job. I believe that it was more than a young man with a handsome face and a good speaking voice that light the nation on fire. There was a real and un-dismissible reason that so many millions of people marched to the polls. It wasn’t just a fad that so many hard working people donated their hard earned money to his campaign. It was certainly more than media excitement that brought thousands of regular people to become team leaders, precinct captains and give up their Saturdays to sit and make calls. We are smarted than that, we can’t be fooled just by bandwagon politics and platitudes like HOPE.
These things are real, and I am confident that when January rolls around this will be something we will proudly tell our grandchildren about.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
10 men, 6 oxen, and 8 days (12.06.07)
If the ten powerful men who knocked down the center door, for his height exceded the limits of the building he was created in,began moving the colossal piece this afternoon, if they hitched the oxen and worked throughout the night by the time my feet land on American soil, David, small boy turned ironically into a giant by Michelangelo, would stand proudly arriving in Piazza Signoria glaring towards the South, at Rome. At the Medici family, just daring them to return.
I will be out of the country this time next week, high in the air and on my way back to you.
And while i have paced myself, and i have journaled and been aware of the passing days...I have no idea how this happened. It seemed yesterday i was staring wideyed at the Cathedral and unsure at the busstops. I still stare up at the Duomo when i pass her and smile to myself, but by the time i get to the bustop i usually am swept away with the music of my ipod and end upleaning against 500 year old buildings waiting for my turn to push onto it. I know the cashier at the grocery store, and Giovanni and i exchange smiles and morning greetings when i pass his resturant on the way to school. When i get a sandwhich, my sentence is finished for me, and the ''pomedora e mozzarella panino'' is probably half finished. I shout over the bells that clang each hour instead of stiffling conversations to hear them. I could get anywhere in the city with my eyes closed, save that i would easily trip over loose cobblestone on the way.
It seemed just a bit ago that i swam in the sea and hiked the amalfi coast. That first trip seems lifetimes ago now. I remember the days i saw my classmates and polietly said hello. As i pummeled JP from behind when i meet him at the duomo before the Inter game, it proved our great leaps in familiarity between CAPA members.
The general awe from student to professor has also faded, proved by Ian writting that his professor Frank was the word for ''monkey'' in Italian when he wrote the forgotten trivia on his quiz, taught by Frank's wife. And Frank's echoing laughter in the Galleria Acedamia when he hasseled Ian about it the next morning in art history showed the casual relaxed enviroment of school here.
Sunday i meet JP, Avery and Leah anxiously for the game. I stepped onto the bus with my new Fiorentina scarf loosly wrapped around my neck. Glancing around the bus i noticed other swatches of purple on everyone from young fiesty teens to old men and women. An elderly man on a bus passed with a purple and white fiorentina banner sailing behind him, tied to the end of the bike. Purple flags fell from windows along the way, and holloring and cheers from passing groups of young men expressed out excitment for the match later that afternoon. Game days bring pride out of the woodwork and nods to and from fellow supportes on the bus felt like an acceptance from the city. Both JP and I were atleast twenty minutes early, and insistent on calling the missing members the moment the clock struck noon, our decided time to meet. On the way, we stopped for Kababs..fantastic sandwiches similar to Gyros and through sloppy mouthfuls JP and i gushed over world cup moments, favorite and dispised players and generally exuded excitment. We arrived at the stadio early and paced the vendors, both food and gear, and picked our way through the Viola newspaper for news.
After a moment of silence for the Fiorentine's coach, whose wife had passed away the day before, the whistle blew and the game began. I'd like to point out that during this moment of silence, it truely was silent. You could hear a pindrop. The entire sold out stadio, and i sadly sigh to think of the hollors and jeers that likely would have found the silence back in America. The respect was refresing.
Unfortunatly, we lost, but fought a good battle. We were, after all playing Inter-Milan a powerhouse of a team. In the second half, JP and I excitedly whispered to eachother, trying to hid our urging from the passionate Florence fans, that we really wanted Inter-Milan to put Marco Materazzi in. He is a very aggresive, very skilled player we had seen during the cup, and whats more was the recipient of the headbutt from Zidane. Finally, in held breath we saw him remove his warmup jersey and take a spot near the center line waiting to be gestured on by the ref. While the crowd loudly sneered their displeasure...JP and I were triumphant, happy to see him play in person.
After the game Steph and i wandered the steets back to our apartment, and as Sunday came to an end we both expressed our enormous disbelief that this trip was so soon coming to an end and we were about to face our last week of classes, followed only by one of finals.
This week has been relativly quiet. Monday brough class, and my only unusal diversion of the day was a long walk across the Arno, nothing even that out of the ordinary.
I woke up Tuesday to experience my 22nd birthday. I recieved a great deal of wellwishing by ppl passing in the hallway and my facebook wall swelled with birthday greetings aswell. I was even able to talk to my brother Seth as we found that both were on facebook, and i scurried off to call him early in the morning.
I walked into CAPA tuesday evening for my late afternoon class, and saw that the mail had arrived in my absence from school since that morning. Every last letter in the S-U section had my name scribbled on it. The enormous pile of letters and cards i harvested from the shelf brought raised eyebrows from everyone. Clearly a record! I enjoyed opening each one and savored their kind words and birthday wishes. I returned to my email to find similar posts and felt even more loved. That evening i went out with friends to dinner. I took the delibrate step of being photographed in front of the cathedral to record the beautiful conditions this birthday came to me with.
Wednsday too was full of normality of class and Florecnce life. Art history took me climactically to the Galleria Acedemia to see the famous David, which i have viewed on several other occasions under my own efforts. He did not, as he never will, disapoint.
I have some christmas shopping to finish up and hope to be done before the last week starts as its not something i want to be focused on in my last days here. That will probably take up my afternoon. This evening I will attend the CAPA student organized Christmas party that was advertised with a hand made sign on the bulletinboard, with the skill of a 2nd grader. Its appearence brought laughs as it is tenderly adherded with tape and created with scraps of colored paper and disregarded textbook covers.
I have tomorrow off, where i am sure to complete any shopping i dont this afternoon. The weekend sprawls before me with no real plans. Any loose ends i will tie up and sights unseen with be experienced. I may even -gasp- start to pack, its unbelivable that such efforts are actually now appropriate.
Anyway, this is likely the last i will write. I will be found in that red house in Chisago on December 15th, giving an excruciatingly long slideshow of my thousands of pictures surrounded by family and friends...and probably extremly shellshocked...something that might be lessened by christmas cookies.
I hope this finds you well. This experience is leaving me never better.
Arrividercci, Molto Amore -Corrie
I will be out of the country this time next week, high in the air and on my way back to you.
And while i have paced myself, and i have journaled and been aware of the passing days...I have no idea how this happened. It seemed yesterday i was staring wideyed at the Cathedral and unsure at the busstops. I still stare up at the Duomo when i pass her and smile to myself, but by the time i get to the bustop i usually am swept away with the music of my ipod and end upleaning against 500 year old buildings waiting for my turn to push onto it. I know the cashier at the grocery store, and Giovanni and i exchange smiles and morning greetings when i pass his resturant on the way to school. When i get a sandwhich, my sentence is finished for me, and the ''pomedora e mozzarella panino'' is probably half finished. I shout over the bells that clang each hour instead of stiffling conversations to hear them. I could get anywhere in the city with my eyes closed, save that i would easily trip over loose cobblestone on the way.
It seemed just a bit ago that i swam in the sea and hiked the amalfi coast. That first trip seems lifetimes ago now. I remember the days i saw my classmates and polietly said hello. As i pummeled JP from behind when i meet him at the duomo before the Inter game, it proved our great leaps in familiarity between CAPA members.
The general awe from student to professor has also faded, proved by Ian writting that his professor Frank was the word for ''monkey'' in Italian when he wrote the forgotten trivia on his quiz, taught by Frank's wife. And Frank's echoing laughter in the Galleria Acedamia when he hasseled Ian about it the next morning in art history showed the casual relaxed enviroment of school here.
Sunday i meet JP, Avery and Leah anxiously for the game. I stepped onto the bus with my new Fiorentina scarf loosly wrapped around my neck. Glancing around the bus i noticed other swatches of purple on everyone from young fiesty teens to old men and women. An elderly man on a bus passed with a purple and white fiorentina banner sailing behind him, tied to the end of the bike. Purple flags fell from windows along the way, and holloring and cheers from passing groups of young men expressed out excitment for the match later that afternoon. Game days bring pride out of the woodwork and nods to and from fellow supportes on the bus felt like an acceptance from the city. Both JP and I were atleast twenty minutes early, and insistent on calling the missing members the moment the clock struck noon, our decided time to meet. On the way, we stopped for Kababs..fantastic sandwiches similar to Gyros and through sloppy mouthfuls JP and i gushed over world cup moments, favorite and dispised players and generally exuded excitment. We arrived at the stadio early and paced the vendors, both food and gear, and picked our way through the Viola newspaper for news.
After a moment of silence for the Fiorentine's coach, whose wife had passed away the day before, the whistle blew and the game began. I'd like to point out that during this moment of silence, it truely was silent. You could hear a pindrop. The entire sold out stadio, and i sadly sigh to think of the hollors and jeers that likely would have found the silence back in America. The respect was refresing.
Unfortunatly, we lost, but fought a good battle. We were, after all playing Inter-Milan a powerhouse of a team. In the second half, JP and I excitedly whispered to eachother, trying to hid our urging from the passionate Florence fans, that we really wanted Inter-Milan to put Marco Materazzi in. He is a very aggresive, very skilled player we had seen during the cup, and whats more was the recipient of the headbutt from Zidane. Finally, in held breath we saw him remove his warmup jersey and take a spot near the center line waiting to be gestured on by the ref. While the crowd loudly sneered their displeasure...JP and I were triumphant, happy to see him play in person.
After the game Steph and i wandered the steets back to our apartment, and as Sunday came to an end we both expressed our enormous disbelief that this trip was so soon coming to an end and we were about to face our last week of classes, followed only by one of finals.
This week has been relativly quiet. Monday brough class, and my only unusal diversion of the day was a long walk across the Arno, nothing even that out of the ordinary.
I woke up Tuesday to experience my 22nd birthday. I recieved a great deal of wellwishing by ppl passing in the hallway and my facebook wall swelled with birthday greetings aswell. I was even able to talk to my brother Seth as we found that both were on facebook, and i scurried off to call him early in the morning.
I walked into CAPA tuesday evening for my late afternoon class, and saw that the mail had arrived in my absence from school since that morning. Every last letter in the S-U section had my name scribbled on it. The enormous pile of letters and cards i harvested from the shelf brought raised eyebrows from everyone. Clearly a record! I enjoyed opening each one and savored their kind words and birthday wishes. I returned to my email to find similar posts and felt even more loved. That evening i went out with friends to dinner. I took the delibrate step of being photographed in front of the cathedral to record the beautiful conditions this birthday came to me with.
Wednsday too was full of normality of class and Florecnce life. Art history took me climactically to the Galleria Acedemia to see the famous David, which i have viewed on several other occasions under my own efforts. He did not, as he never will, disapoint.
I have some christmas shopping to finish up and hope to be done before the last week starts as its not something i want to be focused on in my last days here. That will probably take up my afternoon. This evening I will attend the CAPA student organized Christmas party that was advertised with a hand made sign on the bulletinboard, with the skill of a 2nd grader. Its appearence brought laughs as it is tenderly adherded with tape and created with scraps of colored paper and disregarded textbook covers.
I have tomorrow off, where i am sure to complete any shopping i dont this afternoon. The weekend sprawls before me with no real plans. Any loose ends i will tie up and sights unseen with be experienced. I may even -gasp- start to pack, its unbelivable that such efforts are actually now appropriate.
Anyway, this is likely the last i will write. I will be found in that red house in Chisago on December 15th, giving an excruciatingly long slideshow of my thousands of pictures surrounded by family and friends...and probably extremly shellshocked...something that might be lessened by christmas cookies.
I hope this finds you well. This experience is leaving me never better.
Arrividercci, Molto Amore -Corrie
distressed over pizza (11.29.07)
well what do you know? here i am, writting on thursday...wonders never cease. The perks i suppose to doing this more often is that i dont have to strain my brain so much in remembering what i did in the days before, because of course there are less of them.
On monday my roomate Leah's mom flew in and we spent the evening out at a small resturant just to the side of the Duomo, and because of my meal there, i have started to have a very unique but very real concern. how can i eat pizza again back home? quite frankly, the average pizza in america is nearly terrible when i compare it to the stuff i have eaten here, and especially monday night. The crust is firebaked and the cheese is incredible. its not really the same food even. so, this brings me to the concerning issue of finding somewhere...ANYwhere in the states in which i can find something akin to the delight...and how i am going to avoid eating the american mockery of such a dish. i guess the fact that i have written an entire paragraph on it...should if it doesnt...show you the severity of this issue. mmmmmmmmmm. i think i will dream of that pizza for months. for my 22nd birthday this coming tuesday i have decided to make that the resturant of my choice for the evening.
Before any of that nonsese however, i spent the evening in the fine art studio at the (drumroll please) CAPA art show! Everyone's portfolios and final projects were displayed all around the building. and let me tell you....it was inspirational! ok. it was not. it was amusing and i think that the chocolate covered cookies someone brought was the highlight of my artistic experience there. it did however display how far we as CAPA students have all come. While during the first weeks we didnt know what to make of one another...now, as we begin to close the trip, everyone knows everyone and goodnatured hasseling and jokes echoed through the building. that i suppose however is to be expected.
On tuesday night Holly, Steph and i strolled off down the river in search of the xmas market we were adviced to visit. (that is after i attained my ticket to the Inter-Milan vs. Florence futbol game on Suday...yes. You read that right...INTER!) We meandered the city until we found the old train station illiminated with strings and strings of xmas lights ablaze. We paid the enterance fee to the dark building and upon opening the doors were welcomed to nothingless than a winter wonderland. Holly was nothing less than squealing with delight. It was more or less a glorified craft fair with vendors from all over. I failed to buy anything, as most of the decor stubbornly insisted on saying ''merry christmas'' instead of my desired ''buon natale'', but it was a good diversion. We even tried to sing along to jinglebells in italian..which by the way, didnt go very well and we conceeded back to english soon.
Wednsday for art history we meet at Pza. Signoria in front of the copy of Mich.'s David and proceeded to enter the Uffizi. Frank explained the strange adn complex concepts behind the famous ''Primavera'' by Botticelli, which (as it would be) was on the wall in front of us. The birth of Venus slightly to our left. Yup. this is Italy.
That evening i treaked to the Opera house once again to view an Opera. ''La Forza del Destino''. The lights dimed and the arms of the violinists raised in unison. Watching the pit from above was extremly impressive, the way the bows of the instruments dance together and the violent spuratic waving of the aged conductor. After the overturn the velvet curtain opened. For the next 3hours i have scarcly any clue what was going on...and at intermission i was the only person of our group of nearly 20 who stayed to watch the concluding half. Dispite my ignorance, i had a fantastic time. Giggling to myself at one point even as i watched the large overweight dark haired man dressed in elebortate costume bealting his part to the full house. An Opera in Florence, Italy. An there i was, stumbling over the words and eyes dancing back and forth over the action of the performers. I would like to watch another back home in America sometime...perhaps find one even in English. When the house let out i followed the crowds out the doors and down the staircase to the chandelier light lobby, and walked all the way across town back to my apartment. It was past midnight when i arrived, and after making dinner i fell into bed.
This wkend will be a quiet one. Steph and LIbby have packed their bags and once their last class lets out this evening they will board a bus to Interlochen. Leah and her mom are leaving for Rome in the morning, and then the apartment will be mine, something i am actualy very much looking forward to. I have shopping to do this wkend, xmas is on its way of course, and apparantly the dismal exchange rate just switched slightly to my favor and i must capitalize on it. Sunday, i will meet JP and a few tagalongs for the Inter game. We have been hasseling eachother all week in anticipation for such a big game. it will be great, and i am considering attending the event a birthday gift to myself....that along with those gorgeous italian leather boots in the shop window i keep passing.
ciao! -corrie
On monday my roomate Leah's mom flew in and we spent the evening out at a small resturant just to the side of the Duomo, and because of my meal there, i have started to have a very unique but very real concern. how can i eat pizza again back home? quite frankly, the average pizza in america is nearly terrible when i compare it to the stuff i have eaten here, and especially monday night. The crust is firebaked and the cheese is incredible. its not really the same food even. so, this brings me to the concerning issue of finding somewhere...ANYwhere in the states in which i can find something akin to the delight...and how i am going to avoid eating the american mockery of such a dish. i guess the fact that i have written an entire paragraph on it...should if it doesnt...show you the severity of this issue. mmmmmmmmmm. i think i will dream of that pizza for months. for my 22nd birthday this coming tuesday i have decided to make that the resturant of my choice for the evening.
Before any of that nonsese however, i spent the evening in the fine art studio at the (drumroll please) CAPA art show! Everyone's portfolios and final projects were displayed all around the building. and let me tell you....it was inspirational! ok. it was not. it was amusing and i think that the chocolate covered cookies someone brought was the highlight of my artistic experience there. it did however display how far we as CAPA students have all come. While during the first weeks we didnt know what to make of one another...now, as we begin to close the trip, everyone knows everyone and goodnatured hasseling and jokes echoed through the building. that i suppose however is to be expected.
On tuesday night Holly, Steph and i strolled off down the river in search of the xmas market we were adviced to visit. (that is after i attained my ticket to the Inter-Milan vs. Florence futbol game on Suday...yes. You read that right...INTER!) We meandered the city until we found the old train station illiminated with strings and strings of xmas lights ablaze. We paid the enterance fee to the dark building and upon opening the doors were welcomed to nothingless than a winter wonderland. Holly was nothing less than squealing with delight. It was more or less a glorified craft fair with vendors from all over. I failed to buy anything, as most of the decor stubbornly insisted on saying ''merry christmas'' instead of my desired ''buon natale'', but it was a good diversion. We even tried to sing along to jinglebells in italian..which by the way, didnt go very well and we conceeded back to english soon.
Wednsday for art history we meet at Pza. Signoria in front of the copy of Mich.'s David and proceeded to enter the Uffizi. Frank explained the strange adn complex concepts behind the famous ''Primavera'' by Botticelli, which (as it would be) was on the wall in front of us. The birth of Venus slightly to our left. Yup. this is Italy.
That evening i treaked to the Opera house once again to view an Opera. ''La Forza del Destino''. The lights dimed and the arms of the violinists raised in unison. Watching the pit from above was extremly impressive, the way the bows of the instruments dance together and the violent spuratic waving of the aged conductor. After the overturn the velvet curtain opened. For the next 3hours i have scarcly any clue what was going on...and at intermission i was the only person of our group of nearly 20 who stayed to watch the concluding half. Dispite my ignorance, i had a fantastic time. Giggling to myself at one point even as i watched the large overweight dark haired man dressed in elebortate costume bealting his part to the full house. An Opera in Florence, Italy. An there i was, stumbling over the words and eyes dancing back and forth over the action of the performers. I would like to watch another back home in America sometime...perhaps find one even in English. When the house let out i followed the crowds out the doors and down the staircase to the chandelier light lobby, and walked all the way across town back to my apartment. It was past midnight when i arrived, and after making dinner i fell into bed.
This wkend will be a quiet one. Steph and LIbby have packed their bags and once their last class lets out this evening they will board a bus to Interlochen. Leah and her mom are leaving for Rome in the morning, and then the apartment will be mine, something i am actualy very much looking forward to. I have shopping to do this wkend, xmas is on its way of course, and apparantly the dismal exchange rate just switched slightly to my favor and i must capitalize on it. Sunday, i will meet JP and a few tagalongs for the Inter game. We have been hasseling eachother all week in anticipation for such a big game. it will be great, and i am considering attending the event a birthday gift to myself....that along with those gorgeous italian leather boots in the shop window i keep passing.
ciao! -corrie
olive branches in the beak of a dove (11.25.07)
Its been awhile, and unfortunatly...i just keep saying that. But time moves fast, and i have had to run along with her.
I left you last on Nov. 12, here we are on Nov. 25 and tomorrow the number on my countdown to the days until i re-enter the United States will begin with a 1, no longer even in the twenties. As you may imagine so much has happened since last i wrote and so i will hesitate no longer. ehh ummm *clear throat*
On the evening of the 12th i could be found sprinting to the grocery store with Steph in a last ditch effort to complete a project the following morning for my Italian life and culture class. We were required to bring a italian dish to the potluck the following morning at 10:30am. Once we flung through the doors, we discovered the inevitable problem that, well, we have learned some Italian while here, things like ''baking soda'' and ''almond extract'' were not exactly on our vocab list...so we decided to succumb to the problem and wake the following morning. Bright and early we were in the kitchen clanging away making biscotti. Since we never did find many of the ingrediants they ended up turing out like any typical cookie. That is after the entire batch slide off the cooking sheet while in the oven because it didnt fit. By any means however, they were good, and since we are in Italy and the classes are more relaxed that i have ever experiened we took the warning of our instructor ''just try, unless you poison me i usually give everyone A's'' to heart and continued to class.
The next afternoon for class we hiked to the oldest theatre in Florence and I was pleasantly suprised at how little of the translation I needed from our instructor as the women showing us around explained the history. We viewed the old visiting royals boxes and explored the bowels of teh building and the large crank that would elevate the ballroom floor for dances.
That evening Steph's mom ''Momma Misko'' flew in. I spent the evening being treating to dinner at a resturant, laughing and hearing stories about Steph that had her trying to hid behind the bread basket in embarrassment. Oh moms. To think that i had heard it all over Steph and I's late night discussions. Unfortunatly, Momma Miskos luggage was lost and she had more than her fair share of troubles attaining it again, which she didnt do so until the day before she left. Poor thing left Italy a little less then impressed, but had a admirable good attitude about the entire thing.
I returned to the Uffizi the next afternoon after my lone class of the day was over. She is quite a treasure, and held paintings that even i had forgotten she contained. Caravaggios and Durers especially. I wandered the halls for hours and returned to the city streets around dinner time. Walking through the doorway back home i suddenly remembered that John was coming over soon. Upon arrival we he unwrapped his guitar from its black case and the proceeding hours melted away as he and i gave our best shots to song after song. While i sing because i enjoy it, not necassarily because i am accomplished at it...John's case is very different. Not only very profficint on the guitar but i am pretty sure i could have continued to hear him sing for days without tiring. His enthusiasm and knowledge of music reminded me dearly of nights back home doing the same, gathered around a guitar or piano with friends. He left with my roomates for drinks that evening, and i awoke in the wee hours of the morning to the sound of pancakes cooking and John's voice wafting into the hallway. Peeking in the door i was greeted by warm smiles from all, a little abashed at waking me, but spent the next hour singing along, between bites of pancake and we all eventually departed for the evening comically and sterotypically depressed about love...the inevitable topic of all songs sung at such a time.
On Friday afternoon i meet up with some students from my art history class to view Masoccios famous frescos in the Branccuci chapel for extra credit. As they were on my ''must see'' list anyway i was more than happy to recieve credit for them. Miraculious surving after a fire that swept the entire church they encapsule many energizing and revolutionary tactics and changes in art, and i was quite impressed.
The next morning, Saturday, i trekked to the train station to meet most everyone in my drawing class, and our beloved professor, for our trip to Venice.
She is amazing!
Imagine flooding the streets of a local city, and then pretending that it is suppose to be taht way. The first thingi was struck with was the size the city. She is a fullfledged metropolis, and has vast boundaries. Upon arrival, after checking into the hotel we boarded the bus, which was a boat, that pulls up to various docks along the grand canal instead of street curbs for stops until we arrived at the Biennale of Art, a show that takes place every few years. Held in a large park, each pavillion holds different countires, and by and large i was very impressed with this modern exhibit. I wandered the vastness of it with a friend, and eventually everyone met up to ferry back into the heart of the city for dinner. We took an appertivo with Raph and her favorite place andthen slpit into groups pending on what ethnic dish one wanted to eat for dinner. I choose Mexican for a change and helped navagate the extremly confusing streets, over bridges and around turns, making sure not to misjudge the streets and fall into the water, a very real possiblity. We arrived finally. As it would happen in Italy, i never actually recievd my food...which ended up being fine becasue Italian Mexican is not actually very good and eating off the plates of friends left me not having to pay for it. We wandered back, caught a bus....err boat..back to the hotel next and I went to bed after dishing with the girls i was sharing a room with late into the night.
The next morning, we took the same bus back the the art show, and Holly and I took a more rushed approach because the shops of Venice were calling our names. Leaving after a few hours we spent the rest of the day ducking into almost every conceiveable store (seemed that way atleast). We (impressivly) made it back to the meeting place in time, after stopping for crepese, through the very strange streets of the city. You cant ever look around, because there are not open places and feel very much like you are in a large maze, broken up by streams of water...which yes, do have gondalas floating down at almost every occassion.
Venice is an increadibly beautiful city. Bizzare and unique and if any of you ever find yourself in Italy, please stop and see her.
Back in Florence for the next week of classes was a little stressful as i actually had academic work to do. My final project for art was due and aswell as an art history test to be typed. That class, by the way, continues to delight me, as we either meet at various places through the city and listen as Frank enthusiastically give lectures or we meet at CAPA for a short introduction and wait until he stops, smiles, his eyes twinke and abruptly claps his hands and instructs us to ''grap your coats...lets go'' and we literally have to nearly run and chase him to the site. And as a bonus...he is quite handsome (heeeheehee), as well, actually every member of the CAPA staff seems to be. That afternoon, for our last drawing class we toured a lithography school and shop. Raph had attended it for training years before and after meeting at the office of the school in a gorgeous room, wall to wall with built in book shelfs barely able to hold their namesake and a sparkling chandiler in the center of the room, along with prints and art covering all concevable space along the walls, we recieved and introdction to the hsitory of the art of lithography and the first of its kind school we were now in. Those such as Picasso had been through its doors. Next we followed Raph through ever winding streets to a small family run lithography printing shop. We were welcomed by artists hands covered in ink, and strong acidic fumes of the medium. That along with smiles of course. The giant machines that create the art take up half the room or more and look as if from another time. That however is not the case, as plate were being run through them even as we stood around touring the place. Leaving, we progressed to one last stop, another section of the school, were we found students intensly bent over their work. Raph, leaned over and whispered to us..''finals'' and we smiled..knowing the feeling. We watched them work for a few minutes, and listened to Raph joke with old professors.
I spent the following evening decidedly at home working on my art final. I had decided to do a three part seris on David...one of Michelangeos, one of Dontellos and one of Berninis. I was quite pleased with the results, especially my detail of DOnetellos, the one of which i completed listening to John play, as he came over once again that evening.
The next night, i meet about 2-3rds of the CAPA group at a resturant that Raph descibes as her second home. ''eating here is like eating at home'' she says. We had previously arranged (during a classtime, i believe, that we went there to eat brunch instead of work..of course) to have thanksgiving dinner cooked for us. We gave the chef (who cooks also at one of the most renouned places in the city) an American Thanksgiving menu earlier and were all gathering to count our blessings and primarily to devour some incredible food. The cuisine, as it rarily does, did not disapoint. He abosoluty nailed the dishes..our turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, roasted potatos and pumpkin pie were better than anything i've had at home. (sorry mom!) We had blueberry sauce instead as cranberries are rather hard (near impossible) to come by in italy, but i rather enjoyed the new idea. Stuffed with food and warm with wine, after hours around the table we all departed ways, bid farewll, gushed our praises to the chef and headed home.
The day of thanksgiving was just another however for me. I woke early to finish my art history test, and spent the afternoon shoe shopping (reminder...i am in italy after all). The store we found was having an incredible sale..no really..they were...and i am not going to admit as to how many shoes i have added to my collection. I even returned the next day to purchase more. oh dear.
On Saturday i awoke at 4:30am to meet Avery at the train station where we were going back to Rome. unfinished business. I felt it would be silly to leave the country before finding myself under the sistine chapel and through a seris of unfortunate events the last trip did not allow me to enter the Borghese museum which contains my favorite pieces of art i have yet found. We took the MET to the Vatican and stood in the evergrowing line of people who gather to get in a see this chapel we have all heard so much about. In order to see her, you travel through the Vatican museums and end under the famous ceiling. On the way there is much to see. Egyptian mummys and ancient treasures. In the courtyrad there are sculptures that are not only very impressive but also very esteemed in the art world. The memory card on my camera will prove as evidence that i was impressed. Still, there is an air in the museums...we are all there for one thing. Obligatorily we travel from room to room and glance the pieces up and down, but are waiting for that one place. On the way however, I was happy to remember that the museum contains Rapheals ''school of Athens'' a large fresco ripe in symbolism and competed at the height of the Ren. But like pilgrams on a journey, the sway of the crowds continue to the Sistien chapel with determination and intent. We are lead like a flock through hallways and up and down stairs, a maze to the treasure. I paused only once to examine some Dali paintings hanging, ignored, to the side of the pathway. Rejoining the moving crowd however, there was only one thing i wanted to see. Curling around a bend, i finally did. Through a plain and low doorway. Walking into the room, it was everything and nothing i expected. The ceiling is high, and the room is plain. A large cavernous space, with nothing around. A large rectangular space, with hundreds of people looking up. Mouths gaping.
Let me tell you. She is gorgous.
The last judgment screaming from one side. The prophets warning from each side. The creation of the earth calm at one end. The expulsion from paradise. and in the center of it all, i managed my way through them all to stand right there, at the very middle of the room and stared at those fingers...from god to man. And i will admit to you that i got a little chocked up. Coming to Italy was not easy and a lot of bad things happened when i was trying to leave and i have given things up because of it. But there i was. In the Sistine Chapel..and its all worth it.
I meet Avery outside, and we both just sorta nodded and sat down on the curb, fishing food from our bags for lunch.
As if it wasnt enough we trekked next to the Borghese museum, a famous place of Boroque art, and a high conncentration of Bernini pieces. I had to prebook our tickets and after waiting for the time slot, i stood in line waiting to be let up to the top floor to see paintings such as Rapheal's Desposition. After hovering the canvasses for about a halfhour i made my way down the stars to large part of the museum. The marble sculptures of Berninis that meet me were stunning. The Rape of the women (of which place i dont remember) was complete with the mans fingers on the thigh of the women he is grabbing and carrying away intenting her fleshy body, her angry hands pulling at his face pull his eye askew and all in marble. The realism is stunning. I however charged around the rooms, unwilling to examine any of them until i found David. And finally, i did. I approched his body from the right side and walked slowly until i was directly in front of him. His eyes looked much past me, his mouth tense as he flings his arm around to project the sling. The armour of Sauls, lies disrearded behind him. For quite a long time i circled him, eating every curve and finding every angle. And finally i bid him farwell and left.
And as the joke we have aquired, John no longer has to pick me up and carry me onto the plane, kicking and screaming...beacuse i saw David. And now its okay for me to go home.
We went briefly to the Trevi fountain and Pantheon again in our left over time until the train home, and arrived back in Florence around 11pm Sat. night.
Today, i went grocery shopping, and ran into the fleamarket i had gone to a month ago, as its held only on the last Sunday of the month. A whole month ago i bough that dangly necklace. Its pretty mindblowing how long ago that was, and how little i feel it. There was a marathon today throughout the city. I watched the runners on my way home from the store, most of them holloring to the spectators, laughter bounding up to the sky with their passing jokes and good natured ribbing from fans and loved ones in the crowed. A pirate ran by. And a man wearing a mask.
Oh the Italians. -Corrie
I left you last on Nov. 12, here we are on Nov. 25 and tomorrow the number on my countdown to the days until i re-enter the United States will begin with a 1, no longer even in the twenties. As you may imagine so much has happened since last i wrote and so i will hesitate no longer. ehh ummm *clear throat*
On the evening of the 12th i could be found sprinting to the grocery store with Steph in a last ditch effort to complete a project the following morning for my Italian life and culture class. We were required to bring a italian dish to the potluck the following morning at 10:30am. Once we flung through the doors, we discovered the inevitable problem that, well, we have learned some Italian while here, things like ''baking soda'' and ''almond extract'' were not exactly on our vocab list...so we decided to succumb to the problem and wake the following morning. Bright and early we were in the kitchen clanging away making biscotti. Since we never did find many of the ingrediants they ended up turing out like any typical cookie. That is after the entire batch slide off the cooking sheet while in the oven because it didnt fit. By any means however, they were good, and since we are in Italy and the classes are more relaxed that i have ever experiened we took the warning of our instructor ''just try, unless you poison me i usually give everyone A's'' to heart and continued to class.
The next afternoon for class we hiked to the oldest theatre in Florence and I was pleasantly suprised at how little of the translation I needed from our instructor as the women showing us around explained the history. We viewed the old visiting royals boxes and explored the bowels of teh building and the large crank that would elevate the ballroom floor for dances.
That evening Steph's mom ''Momma Misko'' flew in. I spent the evening being treating to dinner at a resturant, laughing and hearing stories about Steph that had her trying to hid behind the bread basket in embarrassment. Oh moms. To think that i had heard it all over Steph and I's late night discussions. Unfortunatly, Momma Miskos luggage was lost and she had more than her fair share of troubles attaining it again, which she didnt do so until the day before she left. Poor thing left Italy a little less then impressed, but had a admirable good attitude about the entire thing.
I returned to the Uffizi the next afternoon after my lone class of the day was over. She is quite a treasure, and held paintings that even i had forgotten she contained. Caravaggios and Durers especially. I wandered the halls for hours and returned to the city streets around dinner time. Walking through the doorway back home i suddenly remembered that John was coming over soon. Upon arrival we he unwrapped his guitar from its black case and the proceeding hours melted away as he and i gave our best shots to song after song. While i sing because i enjoy it, not necassarily because i am accomplished at it...John's case is very different. Not only very profficint on the guitar but i am pretty sure i could have continued to hear him sing for days without tiring. His enthusiasm and knowledge of music reminded me dearly of nights back home doing the same, gathered around a guitar or piano with friends. He left with my roomates for drinks that evening, and i awoke in the wee hours of the morning to the sound of pancakes cooking and John's voice wafting into the hallway. Peeking in the door i was greeted by warm smiles from all, a little abashed at waking me, but spent the next hour singing along, between bites of pancake and we all eventually departed for the evening comically and sterotypically depressed about love...the inevitable topic of all songs sung at such a time.
On Friday afternoon i meet up with some students from my art history class to view Masoccios famous frescos in the Branccuci chapel for extra credit. As they were on my ''must see'' list anyway i was more than happy to recieve credit for them. Miraculious surving after a fire that swept the entire church they encapsule many energizing and revolutionary tactics and changes in art, and i was quite impressed.
The next morning, Saturday, i trekked to the train station to meet most everyone in my drawing class, and our beloved professor, for our trip to Venice.
She is amazing!
Imagine flooding the streets of a local city, and then pretending that it is suppose to be taht way. The first thingi was struck with was the size the city. She is a fullfledged metropolis, and has vast boundaries. Upon arrival, after checking into the hotel we boarded the bus, which was a boat, that pulls up to various docks along the grand canal instead of street curbs for stops until we arrived at the Biennale of Art, a show that takes place every few years. Held in a large park, each pavillion holds different countires, and by and large i was very impressed with this modern exhibit. I wandered the vastness of it with a friend, and eventually everyone met up to ferry back into the heart of the city for dinner. We took an appertivo with Raph and her favorite place andthen slpit into groups pending on what ethnic dish one wanted to eat for dinner. I choose Mexican for a change and helped navagate the extremly confusing streets, over bridges and around turns, making sure not to misjudge the streets and fall into the water, a very real possiblity. We arrived finally. As it would happen in Italy, i never actually recievd my food...which ended up being fine becasue Italian Mexican is not actually very good and eating off the plates of friends left me not having to pay for it. We wandered back, caught a bus....err boat..back to the hotel next and I went to bed after dishing with the girls i was sharing a room with late into the night.
The next morning, we took the same bus back the the art show, and Holly and I took a more rushed approach because the shops of Venice were calling our names. Leaving after a few hours we spent the rest of the day ducking into almost every conceiveable store (seemed that way atleast). We (impressivly) made it back to the meeting place in time, after stopping for crepese, through the very strange streets of the city. You cant ever look around, because there are not open places and feel very much like you are in a large maze, broken up by streams of water...which yes, do have gondalas floating down at almost every occassion.
Venice is an increadibly beautiful city. Bizzare and unique and if any of you ever find yourself in Italy, please stop and see her.
Back in Florence for the next week of classes was a little stressful as i actually had academic work to do. My final project for art was due and aswell as an art history test to be typed. That class, by the way, continues to delight me, as we either meet at various places through the city and listen as Frank enthusiastically give lectures or we meet at CAPA for a short introduction and wait until he stops, smiles, his eyes twinke and abruptly claps his hands and instructs us to ''grap your coats...lets go'' and we literally have to nearly run and chase him to the site. And as a bonus...he is quite handsome (heeeheehee), as well, actually every member of the CAPA staff seems to be. That afternoon, for our last drawing class we toured a lithography school and shop. Raph had attended it for training years before and after meeting at the office of the school in a gorgeous room, wall to wall with built in book shelfs barely able to hold their namesake and a sparkling chandiler in the center of the room, along with prints and art covering all concevable space along the walls, we recieved and introdction to the hsitory of the art of lithography and the first of its kind school we were now in. Those such as Picasso had been through its doors. Next we followed Raph through ever winding streets to a small family run lithography printing shop. We were welcomed by artists hands covered in ink, and strong acidic fumes of the medium. That along with smiles of course. The giant machines that create the art take up half the room or more and look as if from another time. That however is not the case, as plate were being run through them even as we stood around touring the place. Leaving, we progressed to one last stop, another section of the school, were we found students intensly bent over their work. Raph, leaned over and whispered to us..''finals'' and we smiled..knowing the feeling. We watched them work for a few minutes, and listened to Raph joke with old professors.
I spent the following evening decidedly at home working on my art final. I had decided to do a three part seris on David...one of Michelangeos, one of Dontellos and one of Berninis. I was quite pleased with the results, especially my detail of DOnetellos, the one of which i completed listening to John play, as he came over once again that evening.
The next night, i meet about 2-3rds of the CAPA group at a resturant that Raph descibes as her second home. ''eating here is like eating at home'' she says. We had previously arranged (during a classtime, i believe, that we went there to eat brunch instead of work..of course) to have thanksgiving dinner cooked for us. We gave the chef (who cooks also at one of the most renouned places in the city) an American Thanksgiving menu earlier and were all gathering to count our blessings and primarily to devour some incredible food. The cuisine, as it rarily does, did not disapoint. He abosoluty nailed the dishes..our turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, roasted potatos and pumpkin pie were better than anything i've had at home. (sorry mom!) We had blueberry sauce instead as cranberries are rather hard (near impossible) to come by in italy, but i rather enjoyed the new idea. Stuffed with food and warm with wine, after hours around the table we all departed ways, bid farewll, gushed our praises to the chef and headed home.
The day of thanksgiving was just another however for me. I woke early to finish my art history test, and spent the afternoon shoe shopping (reminder...i am in italy after all). The store we found was having an incredible sale..no really..they were...and i am not going to admit as to how many shoes i have added to my collection. I even returned the next day to purchase more. oh dear.
On Saturday i awoke at 4:30am to meet Avery at the train station where we were going back to Rome. unfinished business. I felt it would be silly to leave the country before finding myself under the sistine chapel and through a seris of unfortunate events the last trip did not allow me to enter the Borghese museum which contains my favorite pieces of art i have yet found. We took the MET to the Vatican and stood in the evergrowing line of people who gather to get in a see this chapel we have all heard so much about. In order to see her, you travel through the Vatican museums and end under the famous ceiling. On the way there is much to see. Egyptian mummys and ancient treasures. In the courtyrad there are sculptures that are not only very impressive but also very esteemed in the art world. The memory card on my camera will prove as evidence that i was impressed. Still, there is an air in the museums...we are all there for one thing. Obligatorily we travel from room to room and glance the pieces up and down, but are waiting for that one place. On the way however, I was happy to remember that the museum contains Rapheals ''school of Athens'' a large fresco ripe in symbolism and competed at the height of the Ren. But like pilgrams on a journey, the sway of the crowds continue to the Sistien chapel with determination and intent. We are lead like a flock through hallways and up and down stairs, a maze to the treasure. I paused only once to examine some Dali paintings hanging, ignored, to the side of the pathway. Rejoining the moving crowd however, there was only one thing i wanted to see. Curling around a bend, i finally did. Through a plain and low doorway. Walking into the room, it was everything and nothing i expected. The ceiling is high, and the room is plain. A large cavernous space, with nothing around. A large rectangular space, with hundreds of people looking up. Mouths gaping.
Let me tell you. She is gorgous.
The last judgment screaming from one side. The prophets warning from each side. The creation of the earth calm at one end. The expulsion from paradise. and in the center of it all, i managed my way through them all to stand right there, at the very middle of the room and stared at those fingers...from god to man. And i will admit to you that i got a little chocked up. Coming to Italy was not easy and a lot of bad things happened when i was trying to leave and i have given things up because of it. But there i was. In the Sistine Chapel..and its all worth it.
I meet Avery outside, and we both just sorta nodded and sat down on the curb, fishing food from our bags for lunch.
As if it wasnt enough we trekked next to the Borghese museum, a famous place of Boroque art, and a high conncentration of Bernini pieces. I had to prebook our tickets and after waiting for the time slot, i stood in line waiting to be let up to the top floor to see paintings such as Rapheal's Desposition. After hovering the canvasses for about a halfhour i made my way down the stars to large part of the museum. The marble sculptures of Berninis that meet me were stunning. The Rape of the women (of which place i dont remember) was complete with the mans fingers on the thigh of the women he is grabbing and carrying away intenting her fleshy body, her angry hands pulling at his face pull his eye askew and all in marble. The realism is stunning. I however charged around the rooms, unwilling to examine any of them until i found David. And finally, i did. I approched his body from the right side and walked slowly until i was directly in front of him. His eyes looked much past me, his mouth tense as he flings his arm around to project the sling. The armour of Sauls, lies disrearded behind him. For quite a long time i circled him, eating every curve and finding every angle. And finally i bid him farwell and left.
And as the joke we have aquired, John no longer has to pick me up and carry me onto the plane, kicking and screaming...beacuse i saw David. And now its okay for me to go home.
We went briefly to the Trevi fountain and Pantheon again in our left over time until the train home, and arrived back in Florence around 11pm Sat. night.
Today, i went grocery shopping, and ran into the fleamarket i had gone to a month ago, as its held only on the last Sunday of the month. A whole month ago i bough that dangly necklace. Its pretty mindblowing how long ago that was, and how little i feel it. There was a marathon today throughout the city. I watched the runners on my way home from the store, most of them holloring to the spectators, laughter bounding up to the sky with their passing jokes and good natured ribbing from fans and loved ones in the crowed. A pirate ran by. And a man wearing a mask.
Oh the Italians. -Corrie
Romulus (11.12.07)
Well, i might as well face the facts. It seems that these are not going to be able to be produce in a organized and steady fashion. My plans are no more solid than water, and as i commented to Steph one afternoon...-you know, i thought to myself as i crawled out of bed this morning, i have no idea what will have happened by the time i get back-. This last week and a half have been no exception, and perhaps the rule.
I told you last i was going to Bologna and the Uffizi. Neither of those things happened that weekend. Because of the gorgeous fall weather, Avery and I postponed Bologna and returned to San Gimignano a small midieval town that we visited early this semester. I know i have professed this about many things already but the view was breathtaking. We found a path that circled the town on a well worn walking path. Along the way we saw Italian countryside, quiltlike and in colors varing each section of the rainbow as the foliage of the grapes and other matter of harvest turned in the autumn season. Flocks of grazing birds flew up from bushes periodically and roosters crowed their approval. Occasionally the banter of villiagers rose too into the air. We could see clear to Rome it seemed, if not for the hills that wrapped around us in a protective barrier and near affectionate embrace. Leaving was almost physically painful. In my mind i know i will return to sitting in the dirt overlooking the fields showered in sunshine and seeing the view, littered with modest homes, hundreds of times. There is no camera on earth equipped or photographer skilled to capture and bring home that part of the world that i saw and that i have stored in my mind. Smelling the golden leaves and feeling the cool fall breeze as the birds chirped and the wind whistled by are all things, even if an artist could, that would be left out.
The week began as it always does with me grumpy and irritated. Mondays are not my thing here is Italy. They are hard enough back home when memories of sleeping in, relaxing with friends and having some time for yourself bring you back to the weekend, but are found to be only worse when experiences as i described above have been occuping your previous days. However, assurance from Steph and far too many espressos and hot chocolate than i am willing to admit brought me through.
I arrived to drawing class on Wed. and my teacher was found with an undeniable twinkle in her eyes. We were, apparently, going somewhere magical. We followed Raphella through the winding streets we have grown so accustom until we found a door. It was not unlike the thousand others that close off rooms here in Florence. Oversized, ornate and atleast 10 feet tall. With a quiet knock, we entered. Magical was indeed the perfect descriptor. We entered a large studio, its cavernous room broken only by scattered Roman pillars. On the walls hung paintings, with only inches in between covering the whole of the vast walls. Room after room. Tables shoved to sides of the buildings were covered with paints, jars of murky water and brushes scattered around like confetti. A jester hat was flung over shelf. Canon in D wafted through the building. Butterfly wings were pitched on a hook like a disreguarded coat, soon to be returned to. Myself, along witht the other students stepped slowling, in awe around the room, necks cranned, mouths gapping as Raphella watched knowingly. Soon, an old women, distinquished and wearing a large fur wrap swung around the corned, greating us with warm smiles. We bid her hello and she and my professor flung into conversation. Within a few moments, appeared the master of the studio. An old man, dressed in a coat over a sweatervest came around the corned with a smile comparable to the sun. Over the past few years he had been battling throat cancer which has left him with a failed voice. His smile and bright eyes however did their share of communication, with the aid of his loyal wife who could, as only couples who have been together for decades can, understand the little of his voice that was left. His outstreached arms beckond that we follow him around as he explained some of his paintings. Some he has been working on for years that he takes out only on certain days each year to continue, others that he completes in a matter of a few hours. We were lead into his study to see photos of him years ago, revealing a handsome young artist at shows and galleries. He warmly encouraged us to sign his guest book, and write a message. To our absolute delight he invited all of us back to watch how him in action after we asked so many questions about his creation process. Our gushing thanks only made him blush and warmly shake our hands as we left the studio. It is worthy to note also that the original owner of the studio was a famous Renissance artist Giambologna whose work, the Rape of the Sabine Woman dating 1538 resides in the crowning Piazza Signoria here in Florence under guard. His presence is engraved on the archway to a room in the building.
By friday some delightful and unexpected plans had materialized and a friend of mine, Zil, from my freshman year of college who had been backpacking Eastern Europe for two months swung through Florence. We meet with a long embrace in the train station and showing her around the city brought the pride i have accumulated from the city to the surface. We saw David, and hit all of the major Plazzas. Hearing of her adventures were facinating and having a familar face was refreshing. We reminiced and laughed late into the night about the nonsense that went on freshman year. Before she left we also went to the world famous Uffizi Gallery. The superbowl of arthistory. The mecca of it all. Walking through the first seris of rooms alone, i kid you not, brought me past atleast 10 foundational pieces that each and every art history student know like the back of their hands. Each worth millions of dollars. Its our Elvis and the Beatles. Mozart and Beethovan. These are works i have been learning about from the moment i first sat down in an art history class, pieces that have been reference by artists countless times since their creation. We then continued to weaved our way through Botticellis, Carivaggios. Durers, Michelangelos, Rapheals. It was incredible.
By Saturday, I was on a train to Rome. The eternal city. The Cupulti Mundi...capital of the world. Like Michelangelos David...lore and myths creep out of every crack in the streets. Pagan stories. Biblical stories. Each convinced of its own truth and own validity, and each vouching for its place. We headed first to St. Peters Basillica and i meanderd my way through the tombs of the popes, including the first Pope, the apostle Peter and famous in present day, the late John Paul. In the church, i was nothing short of speechless. Michelangelos Pieta held the attention of the spectators as firmly as Modonna in the piece holds her dead sons body across her lap. Michelangelos pride in signing it, the only piece he ever did inscripe his name on, is understandable. The piece is gorgeous. I felt a bit like a dumbstruck child as i made my way through the enormous cathedral, which can hold i learned over 60,000 people. Each wall, each corner, everywhere is covered with decor as if someone splashed the walls and instead of dripping water, majestic sculptors and stunning paintings remained. There is nothing like Rome i have found. nothing. The Pantheon holds Rapheal, and at night i was dwarfted by its size and spendor. I tossed a coin over my shoulder at the Trevi fountain amonst the tumbling water. By Sunday when we made it to the Colosseum, *began in 72 BC*! i was exhausted from walking through the city and its enormous boundaries, but taking her in refreshed my vigor. If you have never been to Rome, imagine this. The ruins lie right within the city. Across the street is a met station. A busy highway, stoplights and crosswalks pass no more than 50yards from its historic walls. It was the center of the city, so it makes sense that Rome herself would have to work around here. You could see Corinthian pillars, abandoned by their corresponding walls from right outside a car window. They force you to remember. Dispite the modernity of the city and its noisy distractions you can not help but be transported back to the rich past. Its ingenious inventions and progress. Its oppresion. Its power. Gladiators. The arch of Titus, built as a trubute to overpowering the Hebrews. These are both bible stories and pagan myths brought to life. I hiked up a hill and found a church, with chains below rumored to have held the apostoles Peter and Paul.
Earlier that day Avery and I had trekked to the St. Domitilla catacombs. They sprawl 11 miles and contain over 150000 graves! They served as cheap burial grounds for the first christains that dispite the culture of cremation didnt want to abandon their bodies as they were convinced the second coming could be as close as the next day. To explain the concept better consider this...the word translates into *sleeping place*. These people were convinced that their bodys placment there was very temporary, but they have laid there now for over 1600 years. Tunneling through we found shelves where bodies were places, now removed by graverobbers and the like. If you look closly and walk slowly you will find christain icons such as the ichthus or simple doves holding olive leaves in their beaks. Olive leaves such as the trees that thrive along the countryside right outdoors. It is however somewhat of a myth that these places were secret and to avoid persecution. They are vast, and holding the bodies of thousands of nonembolmbed bodies simply wrapped in cloth can not be well veiled. Seeing such sights and being in such a place in history was mindblowing and an essential part of examing myself and my place in it all.
The other evening i walked to the Duomo, here in Florence to quickly visit a shop. Night had fallen and i was accompanied by only my ipod. I tredged the familar path without much thought, until i reached the portion of the route in which i pass The Galleria Acedemia, holding so greedily Michelangelos David. And amongst shouting Coke ads from shop windows and gadgets for sale from vendors on the street, from the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision i saw him standing there. Quietly. Like he has been for over the past 500 years. Usually the doors to the exit are closed, but that night, in an effort perhaps on rushing the visitors from the gallery, they remained open. And i couldnt help but smile to myself. I just saw David. On my way to the store. Life is pretty incredible.
I have had some streaching moments in the past weeks. It has been a long time. Yet eachday i feel more at home here and my normal life fades further, and ironically, each day brings me closer to America. The tugging from both sides is exhausting. Still, i make an effort to take each day here to the fullest. When i return i will find a way of making peace with it all. This weekend I am traveling to Venice to see an art show and take in the city. Perhaps one day in the weekend after that i will return to Rome as there are things i didnt have time to get to, and refuse to leave Italy without. I hope this finds you all well!
Corrie
I told you last i was going to Bologna and the Uffizi. Neither of those things happened that weekend. Because of the gorgeous fall weather, Avery and I postponed Bologna and returned to San Gimignano a small midieval town that we visited early this semester. I know i have professed this about many things already but the view was breathtaking. We found a path that circled the town on a well worn walking path. Along the way we saw Italian countryside, quiltlike and in colors varing each section of the rainbow as the foliage of the grapes and other matter of harvest turned in the autumn season. Flocks of grazing birds flew up from bushes periodically and roosters crowed their approval. Occasionally the banter of villiagers rose too into the air. We could see clear to Rome it seemed, if not for the hills that wrapped around us in a protective barrier and near affectionate embrace. Leaving was almost physically painful. In my mind i know i will return to sitting in the dirt overlooking the fields showered in sunshine and seeing the view, littered with modest homes, hundreds of times. There is no camera on earth equipped or photographer skilled to capture and bring home that part of the world that i saw and that i have stored in my mind. Smelling the golden leaves and feeling the cool fall breeze as the birds chirped and the wind whistled by are all things, even if an artist could, that would be left out.
The week began as it always does with me grumpy and irritated. Mondays are not my thing here is Italy. They are hard enough back home when memories of sleeping in, relaxing with friends and having some time for yourself bring you back to the weekend, but are found to be only worse when experiences as i described above have been occuping your previous days. However, assurance from Steph and far too many espressos and hot chocolate than i am willing to admit brought me through.
I arrived to drawing class on Wed. and my teacher was found with an undeniable twinkle in her eyes. We were, apparently, going somewhere magical. We followed Raphella through the winding streets we have grown so accustom until we found a door. It was not unlike the thousand others that close off rooms here in Florence. Oversized, ornate and atleast 10 feet tall. With a quiet knock, we entered. Magical was indeed the perfect descriptor. We entered a large studio, its cavernous room broken only by scattered Roman pillars. On the walls hung paintings, with only inches in between covering the whole of the vast walls. Room after room. Tables shoved to sides of the buildings were covered with paints, jars of murky water and brushes scattered around like confetti. A jester hat was flung over shelf. Canon in D wafted through the building. Butterfly wings were pitched on a hook like a disreguarded coat, soon to be returned to. Myself, along witht the other students stepped slowling, in awe around the room, necks cranned, mouths gapping as Raphella watched knowingly. Soon, an old women, distinquished and wearing a large fur wrap swung around the corned, greating us with warm smiles. We bid her hello and she and my professor flung into conversation. Within a few moments, appeared the master of the studio. An old man, dressed in a coat over a sweatervest came around the corned with a smile comparable to the sun. Over the past few years he had been battling throat cancer which has left him with a failed voice. His smile and bright eyes however did their share of communication, with the aid of his loyal wife who could, as only couples who have been together for decades can, understand the little of his voice that was left. His outstreached arms beckond that we follow him around as he explained some of his paintings. Some he has been working on for years that he takes out only on certain days each year to continue, others that he completes in a matter of a few hours. We were lead into his study to see photos of him years ago, revealing a handsome young artist at shows and galleries. He warmly encouraged us to sign his guest book, and write a message. To our absolute delight he invited all of us back to watch how him in action after we asked so many questions about his creation process. Our gushing thanks only made him blush and warmly shake our hands as we left the studio. It is worthy to note also that the original owner of the studio was a famous Renissance artist Giambologna whose work, the Rape of the Sabine Woman dating 1538 resides in the crowning Piazza Signoria here in Florence under guard. His presence is engraved on the archway to a room in the building.
By friday some delightful and unexpected plans had materialized and a friend of mine, Zil, from my freshman year of college who had been backpacking Eastern Europe for two months swung through Florence. We meet with a long embrace in the train station and showing her around the city brought the pride i have accumulated from the city to the surface. We saw David, and hit all of the major Plazzas. Hearing of her adventures were facinating and having a familar face was refreshing. We reminiced and laughed late into the night about the nonsense that went on freshman year. Before she left we also went to the world famous Uffizi Gallery. The superbowl of arthistory. The mecca of it all. Walking through the first seris of rooms alone, i kid you not, brought me past atleast 10 foundational pieces that each and every art history student know like the back of their hands. Each worth millions of dollars. Its our Elvis and the Beatles. Mozart and Beethovan. These are works i have been learning about from the moment i first sat down in an art history class, pieces that have been reference by artists countless times since their creation. We then continued to weaved our way through Botticellis, Carivaggios. Durers, Michelangelos, Rapheals. It was incredible.
By Saturday, I was on a train to Rome. The eternal city. The Cupulti Mundi...capital of the world. Like Michelangelos David...lore and myths creep out of every crack in the streets. Pagan stories. Biblical stories. Each convinced of its own truth and own validity, and each vouching for its place. We headed first to St. Peters Basillica and i meanderd my way through the tombs of the popes, including the first Pope, the apostle Peter and famous in present day, the late John Paul. In the church, i was nothing short of speechless. Michelangelos Pieta held the attention of the spectators as firmly as Modonna in the piece holds her dead sons body across her lap. Michelangelos pride in signing it, the only piece he ever did inscripe his name on, is understandable. The piece is gorgeous. I felt a bit like a dumbstruck child as i made my way through the enormous cathedral, which can hold i learned over 60,000 people. Each wall, each corner, everywhere is covered with decor as if someone splashed the walls and instead of dripping water, majestic sculptors and stunning paintings remained. There is nothing like Rome i have found. nothing. The Pantheon holds Rapheal, and at night i was dwarfted by its size and spendor. I tossed a coin over my shoulder at the Trevi fountain amonst the tumbling water. By Sunday when we made it to the Colosseum, *began in 72 BC*! i was exhausted from walking through the city and its enormous boundaries, but taking her in refreshed my vigor. If you have never been to Rome, imagine this. The ruins lie right within the city. Across the street is a met station. A busy highway, stoplights and crosswalks pass no more than 50yards from its historic walls. It was the center of the city, so it makes sense that Rome herself would have to work around here. You could see Corinthian pillars, abandoned by their corresponding walls from right outside a car window. They force you to remember. Dispite the modernity of the city and its noisy distractions you can not help but be transported back to the rich past. Its ingenious inventions and progress. Its oppresion. Its power. Gladiators. The arch of Titus, built as a trubute to overpowering the Hebrews. These are both bible stories and pagan myths brought to life. I hiked up a hill and found a church, with chains below rumored to have held the apostoles Peter and Paul.
Earlier that day Avery and I had trekked to the St. Domitilla catacombs. They sprawl 11 miles and contain over 150000 graves! They served as cheap burial grounds for the first christains that dispite the culture of cremation didnt want to abandon their bodies as they were convinced the second coming could be as close as the next day. To explain the concept better consider this...the word translates into *sleeping place*. These people were convinced that their bodys placment there was very temporary, but they have laid there now for over 1600 years. Tunneling through we found shelves where bodies were places, now removed by graverobbers and the like. If you look closly and walk slowly you will find christain icons such as the ichthus or simple doves holding olive leaves in their beaks. Olive leaves such as the trees that thrive along the countryside right outdoors. It is however somewhat of a myth that these places were secret and to avoid persecution. They are vast, and holding the bodies of thousands of nonembolmbed bodies simply wrapped in cloth can not be well veiled. Seeing such sights and being in such a place in history was mindblowing and an essential part of examing myself and my place in it all.
The other evening i walked to the Duomo, here in Florence to quickly visit a shop. Night had fallen and i was accompanied by only my ipod. I tredged the familar path without much thought, until i reached the portion of the route in which i pass The Galleria Acedemia, holding so greedily Michelangelos David. And amongst shouting Coke ads from shop windows and gadgets for sale from vendors on the street, from the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision i saw him standing there. Quietly. Like he has been for over the past 500 years. Usually the doors to the exit are closed, but that night, in an effort perhaps on rushing the visitors from the gallery, they remained open. And i couldnt help but smile to myself. I just saw David. On my way to the store. Life is pretty incredible.
I have had some streaching moments in the past weeks. It has been a long time. Yet eachday i feel more at home here and my normal life fades further, and ironically, each day brings me closer to America. The tugging from both sides is exhausting. Still, i make an effort to take each day here to the fullest. When i return i will find a way of making peace with it all. This weekend I am traveling to Venice to see an art show and take in the city. Perhaps one day in the weekend after that i will return to Rome as there are things i didnt have time to get to, and refuse to leave Italy without. I hope this finds you all well!
Corrie
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