A Look Back

In Italy, I took a handful of videos. Each seems to document a moment - to create an extension of my own quiet meditation. I had wanted to share each recorded pause with those who couldn't be there by my side.

Back in the daily thrust of self-check-out lanes and EZPass lanes and passing lanes, my photographs alone seem so extensive. My videos drag on, framing a single heartbeat while the timer skips by minutes.

And so I came to reduce my summer in Italy to a compilation film that lasts less then five minutes. But I like it. Enjoy.

PS: I do not own any part of the Beirut song, "Postcards from Italy" that plays for the duration of the video.

The Makings of Tongues

Cocktails, cocktails, strong and bright

fuel a stormy cloud of teenage girls

from Florida. Drunk

on their fathers' money and

foreigners' mouths

full of utterances they don't

try to understand.

Each phoneme wasted is a decade

of rain, a century of wind

tearing at the mortar

between our few

stones of

dignity.

Snarky side note after cocky quip,

the thin, pasty California boys

tear out the few

tiny stitches

of respectful

cultural interest

left embroidered

on the edge

of a stripe

on the

point

of a

star.

With a few moments' conversation,

a line

bold and sturdy

as the ancient walls

that stand, encircling cities,

separating us

from them

uncrumbles from the blocks

scattered on the ground.

It stands, sturdy as the remnants

that refuse to shiver away from the bustle

of contemporary Rome.

A line

embracing me in appreciation.

Red, flushed with shame,

white, innocent of such crimes,

I float between the green pastures

of this foreign land

and the familiar blue seas

back home.

Non sono Italiana, ma

non sono più sola Americana.

Not My Favorite Day in Rome

My legs are all eaten up by bedbugs.
Some dude spat on me.

Staying positive for my last two days in Rome and in Italy.

But he seriously spat on me.

Protest in the Protestant Graveyard of Testaccio

This Grave
contains all that was Mortal
of a
YOUNG ENGLISH POET
Who
on his Death Bed
in the Bitterness of his Heart
at the malicious Power of his Enemies
Desired
these Words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone
Here Lies One
Whose Name was writ in Water
Feb 24th 1821
-----

At twenty-six, an unrecognized poet trapped in the charming call of Rome, John Keats died unhappy and resentful. At twenty-six, an unrecognized poet trapped in the charming call of Rome, I sat by this nameless grave in deep meditation. At first, I was not quite sure why I was called to meditate on this bench. Maybe it was just the heat. But these similarities gnawed at me in a way, making me wonder why this connection exists. Enemies. Malicious. Bitter. What a way to die. And there is it: no one should live, never mind die, in such a state of misery.

• Keep my heart open to sweetness.
• Remember that my enemies are powerless.
• Better yet, live without enemies.

But if Keats wrote his name in water, his name has been locked in the inescapable cycle and dissemination of water throughout all that lives on all of this earth. Maybe this inscription is not a humble erasure of identity and impact but a subtle implication of permanence and life-force. And there he lies, surrounded by loyal friends and accolades in a graveyard dedicated to foreign artists committed to Rome despite their segregation as non/Catholics. Perhaps Keats died in misery because he /Desired/ so thoroughly the recognition he would not live to see.

• Regard myself with genuine humility.

Plan B

Two months of labor,
Original goals not met.
Cutting my trip short.

Ausies have arrived.
Together, we will sight-see.
Ten days for new goals.

Roma for two days,
Firenze and Siena,
Beah beach beach beach beach...

Feeling Stuck

I keep thinking about why I came here. I came here to learn about chickens, chicken breeding, chicken raising, and all things important in the keeping of chickens. I came here - Italy - to do this because of my familial ties, because I am young and able to flit about the world, because I've never ventured out alone like this before.

Well I haven't learned anything. Okay, I've learned how to efficiently fill a tractor with cow shit and straw. I've learned a few Italian words and phrases. I've learned that this farm is too big for its farmer and this partial-free-range, paradise facade does not excuse the tight and dirty quarters of some animals, the birds' corn-infested diet, or the number of dead animals that get carried to the dumpster every week.

And I've learned that it takes money to venture out like this. I'm not within walking distance of anything, the buses are infrequent, and trains and hostles add up pretty quickly. So much for a cultural experience. The "culture" of one small family is not exactly enough for me to feel connected to my Italian herritage or to the vast and significant history of the nation, or even of Tuscany.

So I suppose I've also learned that I don't have patience for monotony that does not serve anyone. If I had money, I'd forget the educational experience in favor of branching out and seeing this country. But funds are limited. If I thought the animals were better off with my help here, if I stood strong behind this farm's project, if I was learning anything useful about raising birds - even if I could find it in a book at the library - I would have some inkling of duty, of dedication in spite of its Sysiphian form. But I don't feel it.

Bad luck? Bad planning? I must learn this next.

Did Poe Do Chores?

The bells! — ah, the bells!

The little plastic bells!

Hold water for the chickens in their pens

In their pens. —

In their merry little pens—

In the cozy, earthen pens

There are bells, bells, bells —

There are bells!

The bells! — ah, the bells!

The green with algea bells!

How horrible a chore it is to scrub

Yes to scrub—
Yes to rinse and scrub—

With a toilet brush I scrub!

And with dish-pan-hands I rub

All the bells, bells, bells —

All the bells!

Subterranean English-Sick Blues

The best part of my day was bailing poopy mud out of a pond with a bucket until the fancy drainage waterfall worked and a swan dubbed it once more acceptable for swimming. The worst part was relizing that it is impossible to be you when you can't hold a conversation with the people around you and the people you meet. I have come so far from the me of twenty-six, fifteen, even ten years ago - from the shy and introverted girl, so unsure of her voice, of her self. I'm proud of the person I've grown into, proud to be friendly, proud to be funny in any company, proud to be confident enough to be proud of myself. And here I am again, feeling stupid when I'm not understood, and feeling isolated when I don't try.

But I wouldn't call it reverting. The things I've seen and done and felt between the past me and the present are still here, pulsing beneath this limited vocabulary. I'm not really the old me, because that me never lived away from home. That me never danced until sunrise, never half-assed an essay, never threw herself into an essay, never loved a boy. This is really just a reminder of how much I am growing and changing every day - a reminder that this phrase isn't just a proverbial sentiment for greeting cards and yearbook signatures. I'm energized and adventurous enough to jump into a country where I barely speak the language, and I'm almost immediately thrust into a whole new existence where that heartbeat of dancing, regret, passion, and love is only for me. Maybe this is a moment of listening. Maybe this is a moment of trust.



(... she wrote in English on her blog and posted for social network viewing.)

The Anti-Dehydration Shuffle

I've decided that the more beautiful and interesting the landscape of a farm, the more complicated it is to bring fresh water to all the animals. A winding waltz takes me from the cow, goats and sheep, donkeys, and pony to the doves and pheasants, to the main fowl area where my partner changes from a cumbersome green gentleman to a more consistent yellow fellow. From the geese to the bunnies to the chicks to the ducks, we swing and sway and soak my sandals. And all the while, one dog or another nudges my knees and elbows for attention. As if remembering every thirsty fowl weren't pressure enough for attention and love. Tomorrow, I'll try to milk the cow and carry straw instead. My wet feet too constantly remind me of this dizzy dance and its unquestionable necessity. Farmhands are important. That is plural, as in having more than one of them.

It's Hard to Maintain Snarky Self-Commentary When You Feel Quite at Home. But I'll Try.

Today, I tasted the first strawberry of the year.
Vivianno and Giovanna told me to think of my one desire,
and the good fortune of this tiny, delicious fruit -
the size of my thumb nail and sweeter than cane -
would make it come true.

Just-ripened berries.
My greatest desire: granted.

When I return to the United States,
I won't have a job.
Love has not been without ill will or irony
for a long time.
And I have never had money.
Any money.

But I couldn't think of a single wish
in this paradise of biodiversity.

Damn! I should have wished for all the manly specimens
of peacocks, geese, and roosters
to calm their calls,
the persistent "my-arm"
and "honk-honk"
and "cock-a-doodle-doo,"
from the hours of midnight through eight in the morning.

Or, more realistically,
earplugs.

You Can't Take It With You

It's strange, what you end up packing.

Just enough underwear,

Just enough shirts,

Two journals,

Three sticks of sealing wax,

Four spare contact lenses,

And not one electric communication device.

What will I end up missing?

What will I wish I'd left?

Che sarà sarà.

Forty-Seven Hours Before Take-Off, Two Weeks to Italy

Today I awoke

to a thick, draining terror.

Just need to get there.

Ode on a Deuter Pack

Thou still unfill’d-up sack of emptiness,
Thou cavern of zippers and bungee cords,
Sylvan world traveler, who canst thus possess
The lot I need to cross both field and fjord:

What bright green fabric gussies up thy shape
Of charcoal straps or blue rain-shields, or both,
With adjustable hip and shoulder pads,
What air-conditioning mesh preventing sloth?
What side pockets? What map pocket as well?
What loops and clips here? What wild ecstasy?

Ah, happy, happy hiker! cannot feel
Your weight, nor ever bid your Snacks adieu;
For access pockets unwearièd,
From any angle letting hands search through
More happy pack! more happy, happy pack!
For ever large and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever gaping, and for ever slack;
All breathing human camping you’re employ’d.

O torso shape! fair compression! with brede
of name and brand embroider’d on the front,
Through forest branches, over trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost take of pounds the brunt
As doth gravity: Beautiful Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, for other travelers
Than this, a vault for mess kits and toothpaste.
Beauty is pack, pack beauty,—that is all
ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know.

Refusing Resignation to Jane Eyre-dom

I live in a post-Eat, Pray, Love world. A world in which genuine self-exploration, cultural interest, and philosophical revelations are cheapened to Just Another American Tourism. A world in which wanting to escape the near-meaningless hustle and bustle of my life is met with inquiries into personal relationships with pizza. In which immersing myself in a rustic lifestyle evokes images of floppy hats and flouncy skirts. In which challenging myself to find solace in solitude translates to f seeking m - hot, accent required. What if I do enjoy simplicity? What if I do find peace? What if I do have an affair with some sexy, tan thing? Well where's my money? Where's my book deal? Where's my Julia Roberts figure?

You Can't Always Get What You Want

But I did.

The perfect farm -

not a minute too soon

nor a second too late.

Chickens, chickens everywhere

and plenty an egg to eat.

But Mama cooks the meals

and I'll be too tired

from toiling in the Tuscan heat

and I'll be too overwhelmed

by the panoramas and the hot springs

and a whole new sea to jump into.

PS: you can't just go

making international calls

on your wireless device

because it won't work.

Verizon's loss.

They could have charged me out the ass

for that phone call at 11pm/7am.

Instead, I was forced to sign up

for cut rates on the call at 12pm/8pm.

I hope this is not the last

hidden fee

that prevents me from falling

victim to itself.

What It Is

I have not had a passport

since age 16.

I have never traveled without family

or friends on the other end

to pick me up

and whisk me away.

Italy,

here I come.

~

So here's the premise: Having grown up in Rhode Island and schooled in New Hampshire, I drove to Bellingham, Washington to live with a few friends. One year later, I picked up and moved - alone - to Portland, Oregon where I am almost finished with my Master's degree. Now I'm picking up and running off again - but this time I don't know where to. This summer will be spent WWOOFing somewhere in Italy, followed by a desperate search for last-minute employment pretty much anywhere on this continent with snow.

For now, there seems to be a hilarious element to my complete ignorance when it comes to planning world travel. Writing is something close to my heart, but mine's crap unless it's no longer than microfiction. Poetry is my stronger suit. Enter the plog: poetry (or poetry-sized entries) on the trials and triumphs of all-too-innocent wanderlust.