Sunset

A flash of orange brilliance lines the sunset, pushing the sky in a gradient of goldenrod, sea green, aquamarine, and violet, fiercely defying the falling darkness of night.

HOW TO BECOME ROMAN: AN ADVENTURER'S GUIDE

I.
My alarm reads
5:30.

Fourteen hours of
meals that come in boxes
and plastic wrap,
sandpaper seats,
and broom-closet bathrooms.

We would brave far worse
for Rome!


II.
Five minutes to landing.
Please do not leave your seats until the plane has come to a full stop.

Zoe laughs,

as
twig trees with cotton-ball foliage
and
red rooftops

pass beneath us.

The ant-people scurry
outside

our glass prison.

They are pretend.


III.
FIUMICINO
(We say, fee-oo-me-SEE-no).

Concorda?
Yes.

Brisk pace.


IIII.
Italy offers us

two

new languages.

Italian
and

Baby Italian.

We prefer
the latter.

V.
We
       zig 
              zag. 
       Fountains.
Horns!

“Chanel” purses
for
dieci euro.

We are lost
among
bags,
watches,

Italians.


VI.
Zoe has one
week

to see all of
Roma.

We hurry:
Trevi!
Colosseum!
Steps!
Campidoglio!
Vatican!

We break
only for sustenance.


VII.
Up early,
hugs goodbye,
she takes
a cab to Termini to Pisa.
Ciao, Zoe!

No time to mourn: my education as
a Roman
is just beginning.

Deposit,
waiverskeysassignmentsdibshellolast,
sleep.


VIII.
Lisa is in
storytelling
mode.

Aeneas fled Troy during the War of Helen, the woman promised by Venus to Paris.
Remus saw birds first; Romulus saw more birds. Cain and Abel; brother kills brother.
Rome is on the Palatine, one of seven hills! Murderers, outcasts, thieves, exiled, arrive.
Rape of the Sabines: Rome has women and women make peace, and babies; Rome grows.
Grows and grows and grows: Empire. Shrinks and shrinks and shrinks: City.

Déjà vu.


VIIII.
Like a short
History Channel bio.
Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Vespasianus Augustus, Titus Flavius Domitianus, Marcus Cocceius Nerva,
(if you have time even to say their full names)
in dieci minuti.

This morning is
my morning.

Il Colosseo.
I am the tour guide,
they trust
Me.


X.
ItaliaIdea: no Inglese per favore!

Come ti chiami?
Mi chiamo Klaus (we are all Klaus today: NO INGLESE! Oh… Come si dice “sorry”?).
Di dove sei?
Sono Americana.

Buonasera!
Ciao!


XI.
Firenze!
We Americans have labels stapled to our foreheads: Butchers of Words and Languages.
I have always been resentful,
but this time

I must agree.

Firenze!
carries meaning, power, anger, life, passion, Medici!

Florence.
Sigh.

Even the helicopter saints laugh at us.


XII.
Siena makes me sleepy,
like siesta.

Un cappuccino, per favore.
None for me, grazie.

My cappuccino-filled companions
sing songs we brought with us

in our suitcases,

as we skip down
the trodden brick pathway,
with rotten fruit
as mortar.


XIII.
Lunch is six fragola gelato bars and a stracciatella yogurt.


XIIII.
Home is a distant city.

It is
Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, otto, nove,
hours away,
even

by telefono.

Now,

my fifteen minute walk
con iPod
to Balmer

is

un quindici minuti walk
con amici
a Giolitti.


XV.
Let’s go to Giolitti!
Mmm, gelato. I’ll have the usual!
Cocomero- but of course. E mela verde?
Si!

I lead.

Pass the Caffé Biscione on your right,
the ristorante with the American portions on your left,
down il Vittorio Emanuele.
Turn right, leaving the Piazza Navona behind you,
until you reach the Pantheon.

They follow me
down the alleyway,
right at the split,
to gelato heaven.

Cocomero!
It is the flavor of
my new home.
They don’t serve
cocomero

in Seattle.

ROME, RECYCLED

Mindy says my word is stracciatella; Matt says it’s cosi cosi. Neither of their labels feels right. I have a hard time placing myself; I’d like to think as myself as fluid, too dynamic for a label. Perhaps that is only a wish. I speak with Joel- he tells me his word is acqua: water. Instantly, I know it’s not me; I plan too much, think too much. He finds his own path, flows through Rome like a river, constantly moving and too impatient to just wait sometimes.

I plop down into the cushy chair of our kitchen/living room, thinking, as the lazy Roman sunshine filters down through the massive windows. The breeze carries with it memories, words, suggestions. What have I been in the past? I think, during childhood, my word was caution. As I grew up and hormones began kicking wildly, it became infatuation. Slowly, it is becoming independence. But how would I capture this precise moment? What of my word when I’m in Rome, this towering city of constant movement and change? Rome is the city of recycling: not in the Seattleite environmentally conscious sense of the word, but in the dynamic sense. Everything is about reuse here. The ruins of the ancient Theatre of Marcello still house residents in top-story apartments. The Castel Sant’Angelo was a mausoleum, then a fortress, a palace, and a prison. Now, it is a museum. Nothing in Rome is static, so when I’m here, why should I be? Rome begs change, and I respond.

At home, I’m meticulous. I’m an accounting major. I plan my day out: wake up for class at 10, leave at 10:20, and arrive at precisely 10:30. I walk like a New Yorker, eat like a Portlander, and dress like a San Franciscan (the city, not the order of monks). Language is a requirement to fulfill, homework is a necessity rather than a desire, and plans are made to be kept. When I study for tests, I make lists with corresponding indentations and check boxes, and then I cross them off neatly each time I complete a task. Relaxation isn’t in my schedule, or even my vocabulary.

Here, things are different. Everything is an opportunity. Nothing is set. It rains; we dash to the Pantheon. Along the way, we discover the most delicious pizzeria in Rome. We walk to Trastevere for a casual evening dinner, and wind up in the night market below the Ponte Sisto. We seek a path home, get lost, and end up discovering a graffiti lover’s paradise under the bridges of the Tiber. We stay to take pictures for two hours. Everything here is about discovery; there is no place for the rigidity of my check boxes. I find that I enjoy it.

So what am I in Rome? Here, language is a desire rather than a requirement. I want to learn to speak beautifully like the Italians. I even try to speak Italian, the language I have studied for all of sixteen hours, to owners of panino shops; at home, I have trouble speaking Spanish aloud, the language I studied for five years, even when I’m alone. I try figs, a fruit I would find normally consider terrifying. I never mix fruits with meat; at the antipasto party, I try prosciutto e melone, and go back for seconds. I even manage to barter successfully!

I want to learn everything about Rome: her history, architecture, culture, and language. I want to know how she thinks. I want to soak up every bit of Rome that I can, and take a piece of her home with me. The word absorb flashes in my mind, but I dismiss it instantly. It is too passive; it implies that Rome comes to me. My word needs more action, more initiative, and more passion. My word must be alive! Experiment? But no, that sounds too identity-crisis for my tastes. My word is tantalizingly elusive. Despair, taking on that horrendous form of a cherub head with wings that lurks above so many paintings and church facades, flutters mockingly around me. It laughs a sinister giggle. You will never find it. I sink further into the frayed fabric of the seat.

But the cherub head is wrong. The brilliant Roman sun valiantly lends her hand; a single beam of healing light pushes through the glass, vanquishing Despair. I climb the beam of light, floating to the top, where the sun whispers a single word in my ear. It is my word. I hear it, and I know: this is the one. Embrace. I embrace everything about Rome: the food, the language, the people, and the experiences. My word even has an image, an action. If I could literally embrace Rome, I would. Instead, I spend every waking moment metaphysically embracing this beautiful, recycled city. It is my city for only six weeks, and I will soak up every moment of that time, for in Rome, that is what I do; I embrace.

The Lullaby of Priests

SAN MINIATO

The chant is serene and mostly monotone. The acoustics of the church are incredible: the lullaby of the voices in song carries through the marble hallway, pausing only to sweep in a circle around the cylindrical columns throughout the chapel. A mixture of complex and simplistic columns cut into the chapel space, forming retreating rows of gothic archways from my vantage point on the marble staircase.

It is a sweeping tide, the way things travel through crowds of humans. Disease, depression, piety, and love. A row in the bleachers stands up in respect; a row in the back follows suit. A few debate while one on the opposite side stands defiantly. Next to her, a man reluctantly rises, then a women a few seats down. Finally, a row stands. It is a wave, a disease of respect, with perhaps just a dash of piety thrown in for good measure.

The voices meet in unison, each leaping through the air to the conclave at the triangulation point. They reach their destination, forming a whole, and drift together in a hazy cloud.

Now, one voice is soft and broken. He wails in thinly veiled fear, suffering, and supplication. They are like a chorus. And then the rushing tide calms and the audience takes a seat for the main event. He preaches, while the others serve only as a background to enhance his words.

PHOTOGRAPHS

MOSQUITO KISSES

Someone once told me that acne was a smattering of angel kisses. I wonder if mosquito bites count. But what kind of a paradise would produce such strange angels? I look down at the swirls of mosquito bites; the red sprinkles whirl gently, forming patterns on my legs. They bravest ones journey down further; they are rewarded. Apparently, my left big toe is the tastiest; I did not know this, but the signature red swell of mosquito kisses is proof. Not one, nor two, but six marks decorate the tiny patch of skin below my nail. The persistent dots follow my veins back up the curve of my foot, up around my leg, and then they leap. They clutch the folds of my dress and invert: light skin with red dots undergoes a metamorphosis, becoming red cloth with pale dots. I match too perfectly; skin and dress in overwhelming harmony. If nothing else, one would think they would at least have the decency to give my disease a name. It looks like the measles and itches like chicken pox, but it has no label. Mosquito pox?

Red swirls of kisses
claw, dancing dangerously
across tortured skin


HANDSHAKES OF THE SINISTER TYPE

Mindy and I search for a shortcut; we are in a rush! Shall we move with the massive crowd, the tide of (mostly) tourists and (occasionally) natives, as they venture around the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument? The thought is distasteful to both of us. Instead, we dash up the massive staircase to the monument, in search of the golden staircase that might lead us down the other side of the Campidoglio. At the top of the steps, two dark doorways greet us. No time for labored decisions! We choose one and dash inside. It is dark; we read the word “musei”, but also “ingresso gratuito”. Free admission museum? We give it a chance. A dark stranger greets us from behind the desk; his hair is slick from grease and his eyes are greedy. We are about to dash past, but he halts us.

“Where are you from?”

“America?”

“No… originally.” I wonder at this, but it seems simpler to answer than to question.

“China.” The man smiles excitedly.

“I just want you to know that you have beautiful eyes.” Hmm, a little strange, but I let it pass. Mindy and I make another attempt to leave.

“Wait!” he exclaims. By this time, both of us are fairly suspicious, but I worry that he has the power to prevent us from entering the museum, so I pause one last time. He sticks his hand out to shake mine. Politely, I reciprocate, but I quickly realize that his snake-like grasp could be eternal. I pull my hand back gently, and he clutches tighter. We are locked in an underhanded battle. Finally, I manage to wrench wrist back and reclaim my poor hand. Mindy and I smile weakly at the man, and this time he lets us leave.

When strangers greet you
with greasy grins, leering eyes,
keep hands and smiles closed


GIGGLING PRIESTS

Before this trip, I didn’t know priests could giggle. But giggle they can, and giggle they do. An attractive, young priest strolls into the dull, grey courtyard. He looks like a character from an anime film, with his jet black, pointy hair, and his black tailored robes. His anxious companion, donning the same habit, chatters nervously; they are preparing for some event. My highly limited knowledge of Italian prevents me from eavesdropping effectively, but I gather that some sort of initiation ceremony must be lying in wait. A third, nerdy priest with wiry glasses joins them, and the three of them huddle together in a bent triangle, like schoolchildren at recess. The nervous one awkwardly hoists a white embroidered tunic that looks like my grandmother’s tablecloth turned into a maternity sundress over his shoulders, adding it to his ensemble. The effect of the oversized white tunic against the austere black robe forms a strange contrast, like the laughter of the priests against the monotonous concrete. None seem to notice anything irregular, though; they are too caught up in their jests and mirth. Today, the priests are merry.

Giggly priests infect
unpalatable courtyards,
make them vivacious

MADONNA DEI PELLEGRINI

(CARAVAGGIO, 1604-1606)

I knew it was a Caravaggio! The darkness and the form of the figures and the use of the shadows to enhance the light are both clues to the master. Spotlights hidden behind the marble railings illuminate the entire area; push a button to light up Caravaggio’s masterpiece, specifically. Otherwise, the painting lies masked in the shadows. When illuminated, the light glows through the painting as if Caravaggio had used bioluminescent paint. The beam of light highlights the washcloth, the baby, and the mother’s sidelong glance. The Madonna and child might very well be earthly, but their expressions are heavenly. They bask in the light, glowing as if divine, while the figures kneeling in supplication are dirty with their rough clothing and dusty hands.

Caravaggio guides his viewers through the piece using the focus of light and the darkness of shadows. Immediately, my attention is drawn to the face of the Madonna. Her pupils are obscured by seemingly-closed eyelids, and her bent neck points in the direction of the child. He, in turn, looks down upon the two kneeling figures. Each of his outstretched legs point at one of the pilgrims below. Caravaggio has mastered direction; my gaze follows his brushstrokes naturally. The Madonna and the pillar she leans against both stand vertically. She leans slightly, as if to lend herself support and ensure the safety of the baby she carries in her arms, swaddled in a pure white blanket. She stands up, majestically, emphasizing her importance over the tattered visitors below.

Someone puts a coin in the offerte box, and lights up the painting. It is magical; the light actually travels up from the awed gaze of the pilgrims. Following its path with my eyes, I find that the light doesn’t end there; it rises up through the baby and mother, who are both bathed in golden sunshine. There is an effect even more drastic than the enhancement of the luminous paint; the glow of the paint forces the shadows to retreat even further into darkness. The dirt on the feet of the supplicants glimmers in the revealing beam. In the background, a previously invisible patch of torn bricks reveals itself by the glow of the light.

Everything about the Madonna is luminous, but her brightness and posture are the only direct clues to her divinity. Otherwise, she is barefoot and simple, in the plain robes of a commoner. Her halo is a wispy, nearly invisible circle above her head. Later, I learn that Caravaggio scandalized his audiences when he presented this common Madonna. They found her too plain, too earthly. They were unwilling to look beyond her external adornments and surroundings, or they would have discovered her radiance beneath. I wonder if any of Caravaggio’s critics ever took the time to examine the Madonna in the light.

The four figures are enclosed by a frame, which is deliberately and nearly symmetrically cracked near each of its upper corners. The frame’s strange intentional imperfections contribute to the murky effect of the shadows surrounding the Madonna and child. Everything is overcast; the darkness of the shadows, the dust on the palms of the supplicant pilgrims, the torn brick wall, and the broken frame all serve as a contrast to the two holy figures. Caravaggio knew that light and dark are far more effective in creating a masterpiece than any amount of gilding and ornate extravagance. He knew this and he applied this knowledge when he painted Madonna dei Pellegrini, for in this painting, he created a masterpiece.

THE VOICE OF STONES

We walk along a busy street; cars whiz past us, making sounds like brushing a buzzing fly away from your ear. Buzz, buzz, buzz! We ignore them, generating our own excited chatter to cover up the noise of the city. Standing quietly inside churches for long periods of time can have that effect; voices hate to be silenced. The church is behind us. We release our poor, neglected voices into the buzzing Roman air. They complain, strained from their temporary imprisonment. A few girls huddle together and make weekend plans while walking; others giggle while sharing anecdotes.

Several students wonder aloud, asking each other where Shawn might be leading us today. A church, perhaps? Maybe a park? Questions fade as conversations weave through different topics. I ask Mindy if she wants to return to the Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa with me after this activity, to better scrutinize the artwork in the church. She agrees. I smile and we continue walking.

A few students at the front of the group suddenly slow down; the rest of us match their pace to avoid a collision. I glance ahead in search of the source to the commotion. The only visible hints are glimpses of gold and red, which glint in the pounding sunlight. Eventually, our group comes to a complete stop. We spread out along the sidewalk. As the people blocking my view move to either side, I discover the purpose to our visit. The entire wall is lined with plaques of all sorts and sizes. Some look like cheap Chinese restaurant signs, with their attention-hungry red lettering against gold backgrounds. Others look like garden signs, with elegant, vibrantly colored flowers painted around the edges and black, handwritten calligraphy in the center. My eye scans the wall slowly. The plaques all blur together, but one stands out. It isn’t brightly colored or intricately designed. It is a simple marble rectangle, with Times New Roman lettering engraved perfectly into its surface.

In the back corner of my mind, I hear a voice. Everything else is muted. The blurry outline of a figure appears before my eyes. I am entranced; no one else seems to have noticed. Slowly, the silhouette comes into focus. It is a woman. Though young, she looks worn and ragged everywhere but her eyes; they shine through with such fierceness and intensity that I am taken aback. She stares directly at me and begins to speak.

“P. G. R.
F. G. GELA”

I was born Felicita Giudice, named for and destined to have a life of happiness. My parents, three brothers and I lived in Gela, an island town on Sicily. My father was an engraver; he usually carved gravestones. My mother stayed home to take care of us. Every day, my brothers and I would run to the shore and race one another to find the most perfectly preserved seashell, the most beautiful starfish, or even the shiniest pebble. At the end of the day, we would giggle together as we reconvened, comparing our discoveries and electing a winner. I usually won.

One day, as we were out collecting seashells, a heavy wind began blowing through Gela. Every islander knew the sign of a storm when they saw one. Luckily, I had not ventured far from town. As I ran home, a light rain began to fall. When I arrived, my parents hugged me tightly. We waited for my brothers to get home. The wind was getting stronger, the raindrops harder. Minutes later, my two oldest brothers found their way home. Relieved, I gave each one a huge hug. The five of us huddled together in the shelter, waiting for Francesco, our youngest brother. Time dragged by; minutes felt like hours as we stood together. Still, we waited. Finally, when none of us could bear it any longer, my father said he was going out to look for Francesco. We were all in tears; we knew that going out into the storm now meant slim survival chances. I almost begged him not to go, but then I thought of Francesco out alone, wandering in the violent storm. I looked up at my father, who reassured us that he would be back shortly. He nodded at me and left. That was the last time we ever saw him.

The next morning, we carefully ventured out into the devastation. My mother found Francesco huddled under the shelter of a fallen tree. Hugging him tightly, she carried my little brother home. Most of our neighbors were out searching for loved ones as well; we all helped each other. We searched for my father, but there was still no sign of him. While searching along the shore, I stopped to look out at the water, where he must have been taken. I could hardly believe how calm the sea was; her temper tantrum was over, and she slept. Falling on my knees in tears, I asked her how she could be so cruel, how she could tear my family apart, how she could take my kindhearted father, when there were so many others who so little deserved to live. She stared back coldly and selfishly; she was wordless and shameless. The Sea always gets what she wants.
We continued searching for a week, but it was futile. My mother could not stop sobbing and Francesco had fallen ill. He was feverish and delirious at times; at least it seemed so. We asked him questions, but he had not spoken a word since we found him. Meanwhile, my father’s engraving business fell into neglect. My oldest brother blamed himself; my father had always tried to teach him the trade, but my brother was never interested enough. He always came out to play with us instead of learning. Many were lost in the Sea’s fierce storm that day. Their relatives all came to our shop, begging us to engrave the tombstone for a loved one. Sadly, we turned them away. I had watched my father carve many stones, but I did not feel I could do justice to those who were lost in the storm.

We tried to nurse Francesco back to health, but his condition continued to deteriorate. The island hospitals were all busy with survivors of the storm; none of the hospital staff had the time or expertise to help Francesco. One kind nurse told us that my little brother’s voice suffered from trauma, and that we should seek help in Rome. We no longer had a reason to stay on the island, so we took her advice. We packed up all of our belongings, sold the shop to a visiting entrepreneur, and boarded a ship to mainland Italy.

We arrived on the shores and found our way to Rome. Francesco’s health was getting worse. One day, he fell into a deep sleep and we couldn’t wake him. Panicked, we rushed him to a Roman hospital. They told us he was in a coma and it was up to God to save him now. I felt like I would never stop crying, but our family had to be fed. My oldest brother and I went out searching for jobs; my brother apprenticed for a shoemaker, while I ended up working in a small jewelry shop.

Every Sunday, we attended mass at la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa. It was named after St. Francis, my brother Francesco’s patron saint. After every service, I stayed longer to pray for Francesco to get better. I prayed to the Virgin Mary, hoping she might understand the love for a young son. She had the power to plea for Francesco’s life on my family’s behalf. This I knew, and this I trusted in.

Every year, on Francesco’s birthday, we all went out and bought him gifts. We left them around his bedside, ready for when he awoke. Every night, I kneeled beside my little brother’s bed and prayed for him. Three years passed this way. My brothers began to despair; they worked more and visited less. Still, I continued to visit Francesco nightly to pray for him. I knew Mary would not abandon us, not with frail little Francesco still in need of so much help.

One Sunday, a month before Francesco’s eighth birthday, I finished praying for my little brother’s health and stood up from the church pew. I picked up my bag and headed toward the door. Halfway through the aisle, I was stopped by a voice.

“Felicita.” I turned. It was the resident priest. I could not remember a time when I had been in the church without him there.

“Yes, Father?”

“Do not despair. Your prayers will be answered.” He smiled discreetly and nodded before turning back around. A warm, comforting breeze washed through my mortal body, and I knew that he was right. Francesco would be okay.

Two weeks later, I went to visit Francesco as usual. I brought him flowers; his room needed more life. I gave him a light kiss on the forehead before turning around to set the vibrant bouquet on the windowsill. Just as the priest had beckoned me with my back turned, another voice called my name.

“Felicita?” The voice was raspy, though unmistakably young; years of disuse had left a scorched throat. Still, it was recognizeable.

“Francesco?” I wanted to wrap my arms around him in a gigantic, smothering hug, but years of tiptoeing around my frail brother warned me otherwise. Cautiously, I approached him. No, that voice couldn’t be real. My Francesco, awake? But he was! I knew I should run to find my other brothers and my mother, but I was selfish in my elation. I wanted a few more endless minutes with Francesco. He smiled weakly at me, and I smiled back. “Wait here,” I whispered guiltily, and dashed off to collect my family for the joyous reunion.

When Francesco was well again, we spent all of our evenings perfecting engraving together, in honor of our father. Proudly, Francesco announced that he would carry on the Giudice engraving business when he was older. My mother was so elated that she released a river of tears. That night, Francesco and I began carving our father’s tombstone, for when we returned to Gela.

A year later, we came across a beautiful, clean slab of marble. It was too clean, too perfect for any mortal. I told Francesco of a beautiful wall of prayer stones I had seen on my daily walk to la Chiesa di San Francesco a Ripa during the time that he had been sick. We still went to the church for Sunday mass; he told me he remembered the street altar. Right then, we knew what our next engraving would be.

We spent the next month working on the perfect gift to the Virgin. We wanted nothing more than to show her gratitude for answering our prayers. We wanted something simple — something that would show our thanks modestly, for she was never immodest. So we settled upon P. G. R. Per Grazia Ricevuta: For Your Consideration. And to sign our piece: F. G. Gela: a thank you from Felicita Giudice of Gela, but also for her beloved little brother, Francesco Giudice.


Felicita closes her brilliant eyes, draws her hood up, and begins to fade. Her blurry outline becomes a part of the wall; she vanishes into the city air. I am immobilized by her visit. My mind has too much to process; it cannot deal with mundane activities like movement. Around me, the chatter of my classmates grows louder, juxtaposed against the hum of the cars. The brightness of the Roman sun beats back into focus. Felicita is gone, but the plaque, the imprint of her life, remains on the wall. Here on this wall, hers is just one voice among many.

ILLUMINATION AND DARKNESS

GIFT FROM HEAVEN
Chiesa di Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Roma

Light illuminates the chapels, but halls between chapels remain banished in darkness. Windows line the top of the wall. The light pouring in through these openings renders the effect of Heaven shining its divine light down upon the earthly occupants of the church. Indeed, this idea of heaven and earth moving in proximity, in unison, is pervasive. The church floor contains a juxtaposed composition of the reminiscent squares and circles of heaven and earth, respectively. Below the heavenly windows, the walls are bare.

In one niche, darkness prevails; the tiny corner is untouched by daylight. Its turn will come: as the sun rotates, light will be cast upon even the smallest corner. The alcoves wait their turn patiently. For now, they receive only threadbare remnants of light, from moving beams which spotlight different sections of the marble floor.

In one corner, a single ray of light shines on a spot near a lone pillar. Seated in the center of the beam, a young lady looks up in bewilderment; her contact is loose. Deftly, she recovers and drips saline solution into her eye. It is as if planned. She looks up, and the healing light pours into her eye, moving evenly with the drip of the liquid solution. Unaware of the gift she has received, the lady stands up and moves away, out of the powerful light.


SIMPLICITY
Chiesa di San Giovenale, Orvieto

There is no artificial illumination in the church; it seems surreal. However, the blindingly bright day ensures plenty of natural light inside, streaming in through windows and open doorways. The church is simple- it lacks the ornate gilding or overwhelming fresco murals so prevalent elsewhere. The aisles are peaceful and empty. Here, the natural shadow and natural light are in constant competition.

A wide river of light bursts through a circular window overhead, pouring down into the church. As it descends, it bathes a beautiful stone pulpit in astonishing light. The effect is dramatic: the eye is immediately drawn to this marble object that might otherwise remain veiled in obscurity. The light alters the figure, sending a message: the simplistic is not without importance.

The focus of the church is not the faded walls, nor the unadorned ceiling of wooden rafters. There are no distractions to belief. In my mind, I see a priest at the pulpit, preaching to a solemn, devout crowd. He does not work for the attention of his audience. Here merely preaches what he knows, and the audience responds in kind. They already know to listen to him, for he is awash in the golden light.

GRAFFIT'ITALIA

The electrocuted letters are frozen, shocked into eternal paralysis. The words have been sliced open, exposed. They are gigantic, throbbing veins: angry red blood cells burst forth from the confines of the black outlines. They attack with all the patience of a squirming child waiting in line for the restroom. The grey invaders may be minute in stature, but they are formidable as an opponent. Still, the crimson creatures are ravenous in their greed; only the flash of paralyzing lightning prevents the demise of the outnumbered invaders. Time lies stagnant. Now, the invaders will never succeed while the defenders will never return to peace. Victory takes no sides in this war.

Black shadows lurk silently just beneath the open gash. They wait patiently for the moment when the blood cells have finally defeated the intruders- the day the crimson turns grey from sheer exhaustion. Then, it will be their turn. They will bleed out from the depths, droplets of ink escaping into a pool of crystal water, enveloping and contaminating everything in sight. The weakened defenders stand no chance. Predator will become prey when the darkness of night sweeps.

Alas, the patience of the shadows is of no avail. They, too, are immobilized by the vigorous lightning. The flash reveals the true grey of the shadows, which shrink back from the touch of the light. The letters cry out in pain as the sharp lightning bolt cuts into them, searing their flesh and snatching their souls. The lightning smiles wickedly in triumph: it has conquered all! But no, one final competitor plays his hand. It is Time, the ultimate victor. Silently, he nods, and the world freezes. The triumphant lightning is stuck at climax, the moment of violent struggle and just barely unattainable victory. Time has won again.

I stare at this glorious masterpiece: a modern rendering of those crucial moments from mythology once captured so valiantly by the Baroque masters of still movement. It is the modern Bernini: the desperation of Apollo and the despair of Daphne at her moment of transformation are replaced by an explosion of blood cells and grey disease-carriers streaming through the pulsing body of a word, only it is fourfold. Four struggles represented in one composition, three single letters. NTS.

My Holy Grail has two parts: image and message. Now the question begs an answer: how do I find them? How can I capture Kelsea in one set of letters? What image could feel right to me? I see word after word, image after image splayed across the rusty buildings. They say “defaced”, I say “beautified”. This is Italy, with its rich history of art and innovation, often combined. We watch frescoes and sculptures through the ages, marveling at the new techniques, new media, and new styles. Perhaps graffiti is the masterpiece of today. Maybe our descendants will preserve the brilliant art of nighttime and counterculture, touring the ancient graffiti sites and mourning the masterpieces that were eventually painted over or torn down. It is such an integral part of Italy now; I call it graffit’italia. I have found graffiti heaven; now all I have to do is find graffitikelsea.

Stretching across the span of almost three bridges, I discover rows and rows of graffiti. Names and words: some clear, some contorted beyond recognition. Each one was a meticulous effort. Each artist of each piece had a set of letters or images in mind that were worth documenting. I wonder about the names. Were they a representation of the self? Maybe a loved or admired one? What about the words or acronyms? They could be initials or organizations, or perhaps that which I search for: the word that defines the artist, or the artist’s message. I wonder if anyone chooses letters simply for their aesthetic value, with no meaning attached. My personal graffiti will not be that way: it will be representative. It will mean Kelsea, but it will not say “Kelsea”. That I have decided: my arbitrary given name will not be the name I give myself when I finally discover and illustrate my graffiti. It will be a word: a concept, perhaps, or a trait, or maybe even a verb. But it will not be my name.

I wonder about my image. How would I visually represent the letters I choose? Will it be like NTS: lively, tense, and brilliant, like the eruption of blood cells unleashing their rage? Will my letters be twisted like the green octopus legs on the side of the abandoned shack we passed by? I think it’ll have to be at the very edge of madness: it must be readable, but not immediately so. I’ll make the viewer work for my message; it will only be for those who care enough to make the effort, but those who do will be rewarded. My image will be in motion; stagnancy is not my forte, nor my desire.

I love the lightning, captured in its very moment of triumph. I love the stars, transfixed at the height of their brilliance. I love the glimmer of the newest graffiti, the brightest colors and the deepest shading. My graffiti will stand out- it will be somewhat grandiose, but it won’t be a mad explosion of circus colors. It will have a sort of chaotic organization- it might even be a combined amalgam of styles and experimentations. It will have life, passion, energy, ferocity, and possibly even teeth. It will be bathed in reds, blues, and blacks. And so this is my folle vole: not to physically find my message in this graffiti paradise, this graffit’italia, but to garner inspiration from bits and pieces of other people’s personal graffiti and put them together to form my own: my graffitikelsea.

THE DANCERS

The city roars with life. Tonight, Rome is a river, swarming with all sorts of creatures. Some belong to the city, while others traveled thousands of miles to reach this destination. The only similarity between the parts of this mass collection of people is their movement; they are a school of fish. They gather in this conclave of humans, not merely for another Roman night. No, tonight is the night: the Notte Bianca. Our clan of university students looks massive during the daytime; tonight, we are a tiny group of just eleven.

My world lacks scent; I lost my sense of smell on the Capitoline Hill, more accurately named the Anthill tonight. My nose gave away her precious function in disgust; the wind carried it away, the way it carried the odor of thousands of living, breathing, shouting Romans through the crowds. We escaped the lumbering giant climbing up to see the concert; we pushed downward, through the crowd, to escape. Finally, we are here: the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II.

Joel leads, discovering a path around the mass. We follow as he darts through mazes of poles, across a tiny park square with token trees and dilapidated green benches, around the edge of the crowd. We are headed to the Colosseum, to see my beloved site in all its nighttime brilliance. We hear it’s spectacular.

Suddenly, Joel takes off running. Tonight, we are on the buddy system. As any reliable buddy will do, Schuyler takes off after Joel. As a generally responsible person might do, Henry takes off after both of them. Laughing, the rest of us maintain our somewhat-leisurely pace. We know we’ll catch up to them eventually, as always.

We do catch up. The three guys are standing on a hill, which is cut vertically and held up by a concrete retaining wall to line the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II. Joel looks ecstatic; following his gaze, we understand. Below, a small band begins playing. Drums, drums, drums! The beat is alternately light and heavy. It is uplifting and lively. The rhythms are foreign to me; I am too meticulous for this music. It is dancing music, but I have no idea how to begin dancing to it. I would need time to absorb, to think, to familiarize, but this is spontaneous music. Joel has no such qualms; he dives in, dancing to the peculiar beat. Around him, people cheer. My other companions giggle helplessly; I join in the infectious laughter.

Joel dances for an entire song before any of us join him. Cashing in on a bet won earlier, Linda convinces Mitch to join Joel. Mitch tries his best to match Joel’s movement. Joel’s dancing is like an instrument added to the ensemble; he is at perfect pitch. He is impossible to imitate tonight, but Mitch is persistent.

Linda attempts to convince Scott to join the fray, but Scott is adamant. He already seems distressed by his companion participating in the dancing. Unfazed by Scott’s resistance, Linda joins the dancers instead. The three of them make an odd trio: one moves naturally with the beat, one is learning how, and the other does her own dance. I watch them and wish I had the courage to join them. For now, my place is on the sideline, taking a mental video of my three brave companions.

My Notte Bianca wasn’t the Capitoline concert, the glowing Colosseum, the ubiquitous crowd, or the blazing fire troupes. It was three dancers dancing to a beat I could not even begin to understand. Three dancers captured in a moment of enlightenment, taught by music of which I could only hear the surface.

APOLLO E DAFNE

The pristine leaves strike my eye, their forms so delicate,
so fragile behind the visage
of rough travertine and tamed purity.

Her face melts into a mask of despair, of undisguised agony,
pure agony,
her skin soft and smooth with round cheeks like a baby’s.

She is half beauty, half tree, and wholly consumed by desperation.

Even as she leaps forward, she is rooted,
her legs growing scales as the earth grows around her,
snatching her as one of its own
to live and play among the hummingbirds and beds of daisies.

He runs madly,
like the wind is chasing him,
only he is the one chasing the girl who is as elusive as the wind.

Slowly, I stroll around the pinnacle moment trapped in stone,
watching as the scene unfolds before my eyes,
marble figures unaware of their awed audience.

I pause between the two figures, indecision clawing at me
while both characters beg for my sympathy to reside with them,
but I cannot make the choice.

Dafne’s terror makes my heart pound faster
as I nervously twirl my hair into ringlets,
twisting the strands until they are stiff as rope.

My body reels from the shock
of the stabbing pain in Apollo’s heart,
as he watches his love transform.

I turn away at last,
unable to endure the pain of Dafne’s plight and Apollo’s sorrow.

I do not turn back,
until at last Dafne lies in peace,
while Apollo’s heart lies in pieces.

ENTRATA, USCITA

It is like watching someone else’s heaven through glass windows: a dream realized for the rich and lofty, but just out of grasp for us mere mortals. The very shoes sneer at us from their pedestals; we dare not sneak a glimpse of the coats for more than a fleeting moment. Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Miu Miu, Armani, and Louis Vuitton are all in competition. They remain when night falls and the lingering shoppers finally wander back to the comfort of their homes. They stay rooted, and they argue. Gucci boasts an astounding new fall collection; Armani makes a cutting retort about Gucci’s Autumn 2006. Prada is prouder; she refuses to join in the bickering, feigning sleep instead. Vuitton stifles a yawn, while Miu Miu sighs; she misses Paris, but she always does.

In the morning, they fall silent. The words are unnecessary, wasted on the wholly absorbed shoppers who have eyes only for colors and fabrics. We stroll by, under the piercing gaze of swarms of salespeople hovering near fancy glass doors. The Vogue or Elle type of beauty resides here: flaws find no victims on this street. The displays are immaculate; they hardly need the glass barrier, for even the curious would hate to disturb them. We approach Prada Italia, watching our reflection-twins as they take their own cautious steps toward us. We never quite meet them, but they are just inches away. My friend and I watch as my mirror image pulls out her camera to record our visit. Likewise, I document hers: focused stare juxtaposed against the pristine Prada display.

We wave goodbye to our pseudo-twins and carry on. The streets are wide and open; the wind dances between us and around us. Beams of sunlight chase her mischievously, as satyrs chase nymphs, but she merely giggles and dashes playfully out of the way. She learned from Tantalus himself. We smile at her elusive charm as we bask in the trail of light left behind by the pursuit of her ardent suitor. Here, the designer stores are allowed to breathe, to live. They interact as individuals in a collective society. It is no stuffy indoor mall, with lifeless mannequins and artificial lighting. No, it is open air, unsullied, liberated. We wave farewell to Prada, to Vuitton, to Chanel, as we pass by.

We reach a piazza. It is colossal; the characteristic uneven Roman cobblestones surround us like a flowing tide. The stones nudge my toes gently through my faded black ballerina flats. The contours of my feet mesh with the shape of the Roman ground; I float with Rome; I become a part of Rome. In this unshackled space, we drift: around the fountain, with its crystal, aquamarine water and pristine, honeycomb ripples. The Spanish Steps loom ahead: a staircase to the unknown. We cannot see the top, the end. But then, what does it matter? If there ever existed a staircase without a true destination, it would be this one. It is not like the other staircases, which exist solely as a means of transportation. The Steps are the destination.














Our arduous journey up the staircase begins. We halt alternately to take pictures with the vast expanse of marble. The first tier ends, and we spill out onto the sides, for no direct path through the middle exists. Right side or left side? It doesn’t matter, for entrance and exit are immaterial in this staircase. We make a choice and carve our path through walls of lingering tourists. They pause on the steps to capture digital moments, sit on the stony steps, or nourish their parched throats with a few sips of refreshing water, the panacea of dehydrated travelers.

Our ascent continues, and the comforting sun grows harsher and crueler; he is nervous about our impending approach. Our reassurances are to no avail; he continues his cruel assault. My flesh sizzles and darkens at his touch, but I push through the torture and continue up the staircase. I wander across the marble, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the stairs. We never reach the top. We do not need to, for we are already here, where entrata and uscita are nothing more than Italian words.

The Spanish Steps are behind us. A short, leisurely walk leads us to the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Cancezione. The church boasts an alarming size; it is a mass of solemn bricks, which seize us with their collective, judgmental glare. They are fiercely protective of the souls they house within. Cautiously, I nod at them in reassurance before crossing the border into the silence.

The corridor for humans to tread upon is narrow and dimly lit, but we can hardly complain, for the twenty-one of us spread out through the simple hallway, while the ghosts of four thousand Capuchin monks crowd into the tiny chapels with a combined area of just over three times the size of the corridor for the living. They do not complain; they are austere, rigid in their vows and their lifestyles. Even in death, their bones are arranged meticulously. To the Capuchin, it is clear and simple: life and death are inevitable.

The narrow corridor with a single door is a reminder: there is no escape. The layout is simple. The hallway is one straight rectangle. We enter, we pass through, and then the end arrives. When it does, there is nothing to do, nowhere to run. The Capuchin monks didn’t build an escape at the other end. The only door out is the door in.

As we pass each chapel, bones envelop us in their chilling embrace. Femurs form an arch, housing the robed skeleton of a Capuchin monk. Above our heads, vertebrae lanterns cast their eerie glow upon us, the intruders. They predict the end; they are obsessed with the end. They know that the exit is no exit at all; it is another entrance into another life. Thus, they do not have exits. Entrata, Uscita. Here, they are one.

The Elusive Scent of Orvieto

What is a life without smell? This sickness has stolen all scents from me. I mourn, for I cannot smell Orvieto. I can taste the crispness of the light summer air. I can feel the warmth of the sun’s embrace. But I cannot smell the air. I can only imagine.

Killing the Spirit of Rome

We hear so much about the recycling of Rome, how everything has been used and reused (just like my site, the Colosseum). Yet, today our focus is on the preservation of the old. We are careful with the ancients. Who NOW would dare to paint over a fresco, to make the Colosseum into part of a new palace wall? Are we killing the spirit of Rome by preserving instead of reusing?

The Anger of Obelisks

The obelisk speaks! Castor and Pollux are angry; their eyes do not reveal their anger, but they are indeed angry, for what mythological character would want to be intentionally “mistaken” for a mortal leader? The mythological immortals have no need for a mortal façade. But people see as they wish, and alas, the stones cannot speak. They can only sit, fuming in anger.

Nasal Ambush

We are assaulted! It is an ambush on our noses; few smells are as putrid as the odor of old bottles, discarded containers of food, and rancid leaves soaked in years, decades, centuries of filthy water. The fountain trickles continuously, oblivious to the sludge. It directs its attention only on living noses, not the quiet, unassuming stones.

Diseased Castle

The walls have pockmarks from centuries of disease; the Castel Sant’Angelo has measles. The archangel Michael is an insufficient protector against the disease of plunderers, looters: it is a miracle he stands at all.

We are surrounded by weapons, but Christina tells us it is a chapel. Chains and guns flank us: what a strange dichotomy of religion and violence. But this is no dichotomy at all, in a world of religious war. It only seems to be one.

THE STATUE GARDEN

Chiesa di Santi Quattro Coronati

The roofless enclosure is silent and still. Four walls surround the manicured garden in the center, but straight above is fresh, open, unadulterated air. Arches cut into the four walls, giving them breathing space. The arches become niches; each one houses a statue. Most of the statues are posed in mid-thought. Some stare at the fountain in the center of the courtyard, lost in contemplation. Others smile at the beauty surrounding them, while a few scribble furiously in a notebook. These are not the typical Renaissance statues; they are much too well preserved, with an explosion of vibrant colors instead of merely faded remnants of once-vivid fresco paint.

Now they are more than mere painted Renaissance statues; one moves! The Junko (I checked the sign) stands up and paces around the courtyard. Her movement is so realistic; she must be baroque! A Bernini, perhaps? I wonder. Her action is like wildfire; soon, other statues begin to stir. The Henry, seated in a niche wielding a notebook and pen, suddenly gazes up at the fountain with a look of fierce concentration. A thought emerges from his head; it floats up and circles the courtyard before fading into the gentle breeze. The Matthew stands up, revealing his glorious height, and strolls around the courtyard. To my right, The Elice snaps a photograph.

From above, I hear the faintest whirring sound. My gaze turns upward, resting upon a tiny, unremarkable grey animal flapping its wings. As it descends, I recognize it as a pigeon. A pigeon! Those filthy, squalid creatures have no place here. They belong in the blaring artificial lighting of cities, amongst the rumbling traffic of angry drivers slamming their obnoxious car horns. They belong in the slimy green water of abandoned fountains. They do not belong in the unassuming beauty and peaceful solitude of the simple courtyard. The statues stir uneasily; they can sense the impending arrival of the intruder.

The creature flies lower and lower, past the invisible threshold separating the courtyard from the surrounding city. The statues all look up now; unrest moves through the living marble. My eyes follow the pigeon as it moves closer and closer to the grassy floor. I wince as it nears the moment of impact, fearful that it might spread its disease of urbanity to this garden, so beautifully untouched by time. I need not have worried! The garden is enchanted; as soon as the pigeon’s gnarled feet meet the sacred ground, a spark shoots up through the pigeon’s body. It is a piece of healing energy- it transforms the pigeon into a part of the garden. Living and stone breathe the same air here. As the city bird transforms, it sheds its grey husk and fades into white marble. Layers of filth peel away, and the bird’s features are purified, until I find myself face to face with a dove.

I stare in awe, amazed at the power of the secret garden, but something feels strange. Slowly, I tilt my head downward, only to find a tide of liquid marble rising to surround me. I feel as if I should panic, but only calm and serenity settle in my veins, even as I realize that the marble is not rising around me. I am becoming a part of this garden. Soon, I will be The Kelsea. I wonder if my companions have noticed. With one last effort at mobility, my eyes take a sweeping glance around the courtyard, but I see none of my fellow students or my professor. Instead, I find twenty-one other marble figures, frozen in their various poses, and one statue of a dove. One lone dove.

Tell Me a Story

The frescoes tell a story: a king with leprosy, messengers visiting the Pope, a baptism, the Pope is crowned. Today’s art is so much less lively: we capture moments, or indescribable modern art blobs. I suppose some would say it is more lively, since we can tell our own story, but sometimes it is nice to have it explained to us; sometimes it is nice just to read and not write.

Bouncing Water

The water here is puzzling: it bounces! I watch as a droplet descends from an orifice in the stone, falling a straight line down to the transparent green water below. It hits the surface, and it bounces back up. Everything in this cloister is magical, even the droplets of bouncing water.

Life Without Words

What would it take for me to give up my voice? I have morals, beliefs, convictions. I do not drink alcohol, I do not smoke cigarettes, nor use drugs. I do not download songs or movies from the internet, I do not purchase tabloids, and I do not steal. I am not adulterous. Yet, these sacrifices seem trivial, for I still have my voice. I can speak with more than mere expressions. I can tell others how I feel, instead of just showing them. What is life without words?

The Skin of Birds

Why is a feather so beautiful? We do not revel in the fallen skin flakes of our own bodies, in the torn off scabs and little broken strands of hair. We do not love the scales of fish or the spikes of porcupines, but we love the feathers of birds. They are regal in their separation from the source, beautiful in their departure. Unlike our own skin, which disgusts us, the skin of birds is beautiful.

Two-Question Questionnaire

1. What do you most strongly believe in? (Choose one)

____________________________


2. What would you sacrifice for this cause/belief? (Check all that apply)

E___.__ / $___.__
Computer
Car
House
Education
Jewelry
Marriage
Money
Food
Showering
Sex
Arm
Hair
Sight
Medicine
Pictures
Love
Voice
Child
Life

The Lively Twig

The twig moves of its own accord! It is a nondescript twig: two colors but both are natural, both blend. Half black, half tan. It moves steadily but fairly quickly, for something of such a miniscule size. It stumbles over a cigarette butt twenty times its size. It moves, moves, moves until it is out of sight, disappearing into the cracks between the cobblestones we tread upon.

The Wind

DAY
The healing light streams in through an open shutter. Just one, not two, are open, but it is enough. I lie in bed, coughing on the outside and dying on the inside- but some cynics remind us that we are always dying, so I will state that I am dying faster than most at the moment. I despair; it feels as though nothing will ever cure me. Nothing but the light, the beams of golden Roman light, as simple as the white marble remains of today, as ornate as the stuccoed, frescoed décor of old Rome. Today, the healing light has chosen me, and it will not let me slip. Today, I am saved, for Rome embraces me.


NIGHT
The sinister breeze gushes through the open window. It is night, and I hear a low cackle emanating from outside. It is the Wind; she speaks to me in hushed, ominous whispers. She both warns and threatens; she is not the worst out there. I only continue to stare into the mirror: there is no fear there. My features are serene.

Two Perspectives on the World

A Study of Mark and Joel

M: Look at the four pigeons! They're fighting over a crumb.
J: What are you TALKING about? They're sharing!
M: No, look, they're tearing pieces off!
J: No, see, they're working together to pull the piece apart so they can all have some.
M: But the big one is about to tell the rest to back off!
J: No, no, he's teaching them, like "this is how you do it."
M: You're wrong. They're obviously fighting. Look at that!
J: They're helping each other!

Pieces of Siena

We stroll down the path of bricks with rotten fruit as mortar. The picturesque beauty is only enhanced by the presence of my four delightful companions, two of whom (one Matthew and one Erina) merrily belt out their own, disharmonized version of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”

*****

The clap of thunder, the roar of engines, and the wail of sirens cannot compete with this: the sound of utter, absolute Silence. It is ever pervasive, filtering in, through and around us. We are awed. It is a disease; the Silence around us steals our own voices, and we make no attempt to win them back. Instead, we let Silence win, for she so very rarely wins today, and such beauty deserves an occasional victory.

*****

Matt informs us that Rick Steves told him about the dome in the distance. The colossal dome was intended to cover the largest church of its time. Now, it is but a monument to a colossal failure, for that church was never completed. Not even a hundred years later, as Brunelleschi’s Florentine dome completed the unfinished church. We always ask, “Who could live up to such rampant success?” But, the true question is, “Who could live up to such rampant failure?”