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!