Only When Necessary
For today, I offer this photo of the 13th century Franciscan monastery, Convento delle Celle, which is only a short car ride from Castiglion Fiorentino.
With apologies to St. Francis:
“Speak the Dharma at all times, and when necessary, use words.”
(The proper quote from St. Francis is: “Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.”)
This Makes Me Happy
This is a photo of the craziest coffee maker I’ve ever seen…which appeared one day in the window of one of the shops in Castiglion Fiorentino. I love this little shop, although I never went in — partly because it seemed to be closed most of the time, but also because what need did I have to go in? I was already happy just looking at the window!
Here’s a quote that also make me happy, from The Italians, by Luigi Barzini:
“The Italians know that everything in their country is..imbued with their spirit. They know that there is no need, really, to distinguish or to choose between the smile on the face of a cameriere (waiter) or Donatello’s San Giorgio..They are all works of art, the Great Art of Being Happy and of making other people happy, an art which embraces and inspires all others in Italy, the only art worth learning, but which can never be really mastered, the art of inhabiting the earth.”
This is What I Know About Wanting
This is a photo I took during the Medieval Festival that started the first night I arrived in Castiglion Fiorentino.
And this is what I wrote the first week in response to the prompt: “Write about wanting something.”
(Note: The following is a work of fiction. This doesn’t mean it’s not true. Just that it’s not strictly autobiographical.)
This is what I know about wanting: it is painful. It is painful to feel the lack of something. And it is delusional to think that getting the something you want will relieve that pain. It won’t. There will be a moment, an instant, of pleasure in the getting, but then there will be the wanting of more. The wanting to keep what has been gotten. The wanting that turns into the fear of losing what one has. There is pain in that fear. And then sooner or later, the additional pain of the actual losing. Because sooner or later — and usually sooner than later — you will lose what you had. At the very least, it will become other than what it was. What was exciting becomes boring. What was new becomes old. What was interesting becomes tedious. Inevitably, what was wanted becomes something other than that. And then there is the wanting to get rid of it. The wanting of something new to replace what is now old, and so again, and on and on, there is still more wanting…and there is pain in that.
I wanted her to want me.
I wanted her hands in my hair and her mouth on my neck. I wanted the weight of her body. The salt. And the sweat.
And I got it. I got it all.
The heat and the musk and the teeth and the rest.
It was sweet.
But sweet like honey on the edge of a razor.
There is no resting there.
Only danger.
And wanting.
And the pain that comes with that.
I Am From…
Here is a photo of my favorite spot, in my favorite cafe, in my now-favorite town in Tuscany (Castiglion Fiorentino). And here’s what I wrote, in this favorite place, in response to the prompt: “I am from…..”
I am from here. That’s not exactly, literally true, but it feels true. I feel I belong here. Isn’t that what we mean when we say where we’re from? But I’m also from “home.” By which I mean that I am from my past. But where is my past? How far is it from here? And where did it come from?
We are stardust, they say. We are carbon and arsenic and gold. We are earth.
And air.
And water.
And fire.
These, I am from. And to these I will return.
But who is this “I”?
A word, written on paper.
A thought, born in the mind?
Yes.
And no.
Because surely I am more.
What is a word? What is a thought?
Are these, too, made of stardust?
What about dreams? Where do they come from?
If the stars could dream, would they dream about us?
Does the moon dream of water?
Does the sun dream of air?
What is gravity, after all, but the longing of dust for stones?
And what about poetry?
Isn’t it poetry that sings the songs of our dreams?
What wakes us up?
Not the pull of the earth.
Or the call of the stars.
It’s the questions we ask.
And the light that this brings.
Visible and Invisible
One of the first things I did after arriving in the sweet little “city” of Castiglion Fiorentino was to buy an Italian copy of Invisible Cities (Le Citta’ Invisibili), by Italo Calvino, which, as I’ve said many times, is my go-to book when it comes to travel.
And one of the second things I did was to draw what I saw.
Here’s my drawing of the Municipal Building in the main piazza.
And here’s my transition of the Calvino quote at the bottom of the page: “Cities are a combination of many things: memory, desire, language; cities are the place of exchange, as is explained in all the books on the history of economy, but these exchanges are not only the exchange of commerce, these exchanges are also of words, desires and remember-ings.”
(click to enlarge)
Perfectly Imperfect
Of course it’s not perfect. There are mosquitos, for one thing. And the toilet paper is scratchy. And you can forget about ice. But I love being in Italy. I love the food, of course. And the scenery. I love the light and the art and everything else that all the millions of tourists also love about Italy…..even though I don’t love the tourists…which, of course, is part of being a tourist!
What can you do.
Here’s where I stayed.
Here’s my room.
Here’s the neighborhood.
Here’s the the view.
Being. Hearing.
Here is a photo taken at Le Santucce, the former convent in Castiglion Fiorentino, where the writing workshops were held. And here is a sample of the writing I did on the balcony there, in response to this prompt: “Be where you are and write what you notice.”
The ringing of bells.
The swoosh and roar, pause, then buzz of unseen traffic.
Birds.
A crescendo, now, of tires-on-pavement.
Insects.
More bells.
Motorcycle.
And now a racket of birds.
Insects: whine, snap, whiz, crackle.
Then more of the swoosh and swipe of cars on the road. And behind it all: birds.
The sputter of another motor.
More birds again: coo-ing and who-ing.
A cat appears. Soundless.
Then the sizzle of cicadas.
And now the buzz of my own blood as it sings behind my ears.
All these sounds, rising and falling, pausing, overlapping, punctuated one with another. And then a wash of sounds, points of sound — a dog barks, someone shouts somewhere in the hills — then the droning continues, rises again, some kind of machinery starts up, then desists, a sputter, then bird song — a bee startles by — traffic noise takes the foreground, then shifts — sotto voce.
There is a high whine in the distance.
Metal-on-metal, then wood-striking-metal.
More birds.
Staccato of woodpecker.
Finches — soprano — insistent, triumphant at first, then alarmed.
Wrens scolding one another.
Something metallic shifts. A percussive exchange.
Cookware.
Teacups and saucers.
A coda of train in the distance.
Then the chorus again: woodpecker and truck-rush, motorcycle, warble and tweeting, clicks, footsteps (canvas on stone), a car honks, that motor again (closer this time)…buzzing and humming, growling, then puttering, idling, then high and angry, then silent.
But the silence is never silent.
Or haven’t you heard?
Slowing Coming Back
I’m back from my 3-week stay in Italy. Well, I’m not entirely back, because at lunch today I forgot for a minute that I don’t drink the kind of coffee that comes after a meal, in a mug, with desert, and is constantly being “warmed up.” I had to change my order, because I’d automatically said yes to the coffee….then remembered that it’s the I’m-in-Italy Jan that drinks coffee after a meal. Espresso, hot, with a full packet of sugar. It’s the I’m-in-America Jan that doesn’t touch the stuff. Unless it comes iced, in a tall glass, with LOTS of milk.
Little by little, the I’m-in-Italy Jan is fading away and the I’m-in-America Jan is taking shape. That’s a good thing, because after all, I am in America. But I can’t help feeling that it’s a bit of a loss.
This is the pain that comes from trying to hold on. It’s not necessary, I know. But it’s an old habit, with lots of momentum, so it’s hard to break.
But little by little….
(photo from my table at one of the cafes I recently frequented)
Facendo Niente
(Doing Nothing)
As I mentioned here and here, I’ll be in Italy for the next 3 weeks (staying at Le Santucce in Castiglion Florentino), doing some writing, speaking some Italian, spending some time doing nothing with friends. I get back late on June 22, but probably won’t be ready to blog again for a couple of days, so check back again around June 26.
I leave tomorrow. So for today, I’m doing my pre-travel ritual, which includes browsing through my all-time favorite travel guide, Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino. I offer you this selection:
Cities & Eyes 2
It is the mood of the beholder which gives the city of Zemrude its form. If you go by whistling, your nose a-tilt behind the whistle, you will know it from below: window sills, flapping curtains, fountains. If you walk along hanging your head, your nails dug into the palms of your hands, your gaze will be held on the ground, in the gutters, the manhole covers, the fish scales, wastepaper. You cannot say that one aspect of the city is truer than the other, but you hear of the upper Zemrude chiefly from those who remember it, as they sink into the lower Zemrude, following every day the same stretches of street and finding again each morning the ill-humor of the day before, encrusted at the foot of the walls. For everyone, sooner or later, the day comes when we bring our gaze down along the drainpipes and we can no longer detach it from the cobblestones. The reverse is not impossible, but it is more rare: and so we continue walking through Zemrude’s streets with eyes now digging into the cellars, the foundations, the wells.
A Writer is Someone Who Writes
I leave the day after tomorrow to participate in a series of writing groups (in Tuscany!), organized by my friend Cary Tennis. He leads these groups (and writes along with us) using the structure outlined by Pat Schneider in Writing Alone and with Others.
The format is simple…we write in groups, we write from prompts….but it’s the mind-set that makes the process so powerful:
#1. Everyone has a strong, unique voice.
#2. Everyone is born with creative genius.
#3. Writing as an art form belongs to all people, regardless of economic class or educational level.
#4. The teaching of craft can be done without damage to a writer’s original voice or artistic self-esteem.
#5. A writer is someone who writes.
From there, the writer’s task is to experiment, observe, remember, imagine, practice and be patient. We do all this with the goal to sound more and more like ourself.
***
Andiamo!