ITALY
so i came back, in almost one piece. I fractured my ankle in
Amsterdam. Because I fell. Because
i got dizzy and fainted. Because i was hardly eating or sleeping, because
i was toughing it out and saving my money, cuz i was po'. Ok, now that we got
that out of the way so nobody has to bother asking me about it... Besides that
i had a blast. Cortona was dreamy, heavenly, like the home that was always
apart of me but i never knew. Tuscany,
a land of simple pleasures, dark mountains and fruitful valleys. Between Florence
and Umbria we traveled
through the cities of the golden culture, resting on the tops of hills
among the heavens their walls come to life with characters of a world in the
collective imaginations of every citizen and his ancestors. It's enough to make
anyone believe, even for the slightest moment, that god is indeed staring right
at you through those piercing eyes. Firenze, the flower
in the heartland, beauty and capitalism mixed into one, The streets crowded
with merchant tents, every corner someone calling out like he knows everything
about you and yes you really do want to buy this even though you say you don't.
Sometimes whole sidewalks were lined with them, and throwing even the slightest
and unknowing glance in their direction is like throwing a rock at them with a
note saying "I 'm really dying to be throwing money at you". But I don’t
care cuz they’re just immigrants who need to make a living too, and there are
enough rich tourists there to help them. Roma, Napoli, Prague,
Paris, it's all the same. But
Firenze, which has the most (I think), is the birthplace of capitalism, as
our art history professor explained, the city of merchants who played the
catalyst for the renaissance, so people come there perhaps thinking they can be
the next Medici's. It puts capitalism in a different perspective, we're used to
American corporate capitalism, but this is capitalism at its rawest. It
seems more equal, maybe because they're all on the same level, selling the same
thing. And you don't even need a lot of money to start, just find a cardboard
box or a blanket to put on the sidewalk. But it also seems like they're not
making a lot of money, especially if there's someone ten ft away from you
selling the same exact thing.,and you are in the shadow of the towering old wealth of a conquering civilization. I always see them being passed by, alone except
for their fellow immigrant whom they talk to in some other language. Anyway,
what we learned about the Renaissance puts capitalism in a new perspective too. It was more than a bunch of groovy cats
saying, "hey man, like we should give more money to the arts cuz they're
so cool and build pretty things, and maybe learn more about the rest of the
world cuz it's really neat", although the rise of humanism did play a
great part in education and the appreciation of art. There was laicization of the
church (more incorporation of religion into the lives of lay people and secular
groups assuming religious responsibility) which lead to the rise of the need of
the church’s material culture (i.e. chapels, alters, alter pieces, crosses,
statues), which lead to competition between organizations and families for the
best art work to prove they were better citizens, which was due to the melting
divisions between the classes because more and more people were rising up on
the social hierarchy from their money making merchant business, which
ultimately ended medieval feudalism. But money alone couldn’t prove you weren’t
low class anymore, you needed etiquette, manners, fancy clothes, a collection
of intellectual books, and art: religious art, non-religious art, wall and
ceiling paintings, miniature statues, portraits, medals, tombs, lots of art to
show off to all your elite friends and prove that you are some high class shit.
And not just any art, but good art, which was better than everyone else's, the
newest styles by the newest artists, realistic, grandeur,
awe-inspiring and full of subliminal impressions. Of course, it wasn’t
just about proving yourself, people simultaneously developed intrinsic interest
for the arts because of humanism and such, and artists became specially
important as they and their patrons realized the true worth of their
innovations. And the desire for art to be naturalistic and taken from direct
observation and using the accurate laws of perspective and math corresponded
with scientific observational inquiry and methodical studying into the many
facets of nature, which was what mine and a couple other kid's art history
research paper's related to. But this turned out to be a huge history tangent
that I swear to god I didn’t mean to go on, I’m really sorry, but then again I
do like reflecting on these things and enlightening whoever’s bored enough to
read this and maybe your attention span is too short to hear me talk about it
in person.
So, as I was saying, capitalism helped start
the modern era as well as modern art, and now much modern art tries
to destroy capitalism because capitalism is about to destroy the
modern era. It's interesting how it is now and how it all started, back in
Florence, which is why it is the way
it is. But walking through the Uffizi gallery in Firenze
you see the oil alter-piece by Flemish artist Hugo van der Goes and say “and
these Italians thought their own art was something, look at this fucking
texture!” Well, I think I’m going to keep writing, but this is as much as I’ll
post.
My Italian experience didn’t seem to start off well. I over
packed, I knew it from the start but I just had too much stuff that I wanted to
take. I cursed my mother for giving me this crappy duffle bag instead of a big
backpack when I noticed almost everyone else had one. But that didn’t happen
until I got to Rome, the flight up
until then was alright. Air Lingus, from JFK to Dublin,
it was full of Irish people, and I got to sit next to a mother and her
children. It would have been nice to talk to them, if I was a sociable person,
but I’m not an the mother seemed a bit cold so very little was exchanged, but I
listened to every word they said, hanging on every subtle detail of their
accent, saying it over in my head so maybe one day I could fool someone. Either
that or I was asleep or listening to the sweet jazz on the plane radio. As long
as I could concentrate on the jazz I felt ok, not thinking about the images of
crashing into the dark, cold water and plummeting deeply into the sea until God
knows how far down and having several large sea creatures with those enormous
eyes and gaping jaws rip your body apart like a dead fish and maybe before
you’re soul can move on it’s trapped by the water pressure and you have to
witness the whole thing, those images conjured up by the fears of my best
friend who refuses to fly over the water for such reasons. But I didn’t think
about that, because I had the jazz in my ears and cute Irish people all around,
and then they gave me a tofu dinner and eventually we made it safely to Dublin.
I was with
Kathy and Christen who both went to school with me in Hartford.
Before we boarded the plane we met Aaron, a musician from somewhere, with
roughly spike blonde hair and slightly tight jeans that covered what I think
were cowboy boots, a very casual type. We were all going to study together in
this mystery town in Italy.
I had some classes with Kathy my freshmen year, and I vaguely knew Christen
through other people who I was vaguely friends with. By the end of the semester
they would be completely different people to me than they were that day as we
sat on the floor of the airport terminal, since all the seats were taken. They
talked about bands, and when I started paying attention I missed them say the
particular band they were discussing so I was completely lost and decided to
continue to not really pay attention. I think perhaps I was reading something.
When in Dublin I stayed behind to
look in the airport shops as the two girls went ahead. Then as I went to go
find the terminal I found Aaron and the two of us rushed to A and B before
finally finding our flight in C, worrying we were going to miss it. We followed
the line outside into the crisp early Irish morning. And I took in deep breaths
of the Irish air and bent down to lay my fingertips on the Irish pavement,
thinking it would be my only chance. Fortunately, it wasn’t.
August 27th Somewhere over the Atlantic
on route to Dublin
I’m on the airplane now, listening to jazz, thank god they
have it, for my mp3 player’s battery’s dead and my cd player and cds with my
luggage. I feel I’ve over packed way too much, but I couldn’t exclude most of
my clothes. I hope I won’t have to do much walking with them. I’ll probably feel
like an idiot compared to everyone else’s lite packing. Oh well. all I have to
is pretend like the intense weight isn’t really excruciatingly painful and
knocking my shoulder out. Almost everyone is Irish on this flight. I wonder if
they resent me for invading their country. No in-flight movie, just some
dumb-ass TV shows. I’ll stick with my jazz and books. Adam gave me H.P.
Lovecraft and I bought a Sandman comic at Jay and Silent Bob’s secret stash.
That was an incredibly fun adventure. I’m so mad I didn’t bring my camera to
take pictures of the comic store and the Quick Stop.
Mmmmmmmm, Pen State Pretzels with Worcester Sauce flavor.
The drinking age is 18, but I don’t feel like getting drunk yet. I probably
will when we land in Dublin, and
call Adam drunk just to piss him off.
For some reason the jazz stopped. ;(. So I’m listening to
Irish folk instead. “Far Away in Australia!”
I think the other people got more pretzels then me god damnit!
(Whiskey in the Jar!)
Kathy and this other chick whose name eludes me cuz I’m gey
like that [Christen] are on this flight plus one kid from Kansas.
I’ve been pretty quiet around them. I have plenty of time to be talkative
later, if I’m able.
ROME
August 28th, Torra Rosa Park Hotel, lobby.
Arrived in Rome
about 2 hrs ago. Took a bus from the airport. I did pverpack, it was a hassle
lugging around those suitcases, especially that one that kept falling. Luckily
there was a baggage cart thingy. And luckily I wasn’t the only one. But I gotta
figure out how to move better, I keep falling behind. It’s making me depressed.
My lack of social skills and interest is making it worse. Feelings of
alienation can become overwhelming sometimes, but maybe it will get better as I
get more familiar. I felt really weird in the airport. Very sleepy and
delirious and depressed, kinda dizzy. Hearing weird things in my head. People
talking nonsense. Passed out in the seats since I wasn’t talking and no one was
talking to me [the other students]. At least the Benedril has cleared my nose.
On the plane the jazz came back and I slept a little. I saw
the fastest sunset as we crossed the Atlantic. We landed
in Dublin and I tried to finding a
post card but couldn’t right away and didn’t have time to search anymore. I
tried to make a call but realized you needed Euros or a credit card. Didn’t
have time for a pint. Barely made it to the next gate on time because the gate
number wasn’t on the ticket for some reason. But I made it and it was all fine
and dandy. Sat next to two sporty lookin Italian dudes. Slept pretty much the
whole time, after watching the take off and before the landing cuz I had a
window seat!
As I boarded the plane, the crisp, cold, wet Irish air felt
invigorating and I breathed it eagerly since that was the only piece of Ireland
I’ll get for whose knows when. I even touched the ground with my left hand. Too
bad it was pavement and not pretty emerald grass.
5:55
taking a shower, maybe it will help me feel better. Can’t
get “Someone to Watch Over Me” out of my head!
Aug. 29th 9:35 am
At a piazza with my group. A giant market place filled with
fruits and veggies and other goodies.
Woah, took a break and walked around. Wandered off to a
little alley, one of me roommates followed me. Bought a couple of post cards at
a dinky little store. We walked around and chatted about politics and whatnot.
I love the alleys here. So bumpy, curvy, narrow, worn and full of life. The
marks of each generation, the crevices hidden from the tourists, romantic, aged
like fine wine. And pretty clean too!
Caravaggio-
Basilica di St. Augostino. Monastic church
of Augostinian monks. Elevated Mary
almost to level of Christ. Pilgrims visited “House of Virgin Mary” flew over
from Jerusalem. Instead of painting
effigy or statue of virgin, he paints real virgin Mary [in the painting]. Was
he being crafty? Playing upon realism and expectation or being impulsive?
Painted pilgrims realistically, dirty and worn out. Pose of virgin from antique
sculpture. Caravaggio- impulsive, uncaring bad boy? Or craft, interested, more
going on in there?
The vocation of St. Matthew, St. Matthew and the Angel, The
Martyrdom of St. Matthew.
The infamous vocation- people in contempor/v [?]
Pantheon-
Perfect index of ancient achievement. Cast shadow over
subsequent art, intimidating.
Barometer for other art. Typical of Italian style temple.
More than Greek (Greek is only front). Romans were more creative and inventive.
Square interior creates perfect sphere. Occullus- hole in sphere, open to
elements but Romans built drainage system. Bronze was taken out [to build
weapons].
Emperor Augustus- “perfect emperor” Emperor Adriane-
inspired by Augustus. Humbled himself by not putting name on it. Honors all
gods, but used for government business, his own benefit.
The Vatican-
This place is flippin HUGE! It’s awe inspiring and soul
trembling, and I haven’t even gone inside yet! Outside in the giant circle of
columns, the 2 fountains, the obelisque which we are sitting around. Talking
about the pope, wanting to see him give mass tomorrow.
La Capella di Sistine
12:30
[let me just add that it took for-fucking-ever to find the
chapel, though I saw some awesome things on the way, like paintings and
Greco-roman sculptures, Laocoon! I just kept following the arrows and around
every corner I’d be like “this is it!?!” but it was just some other pretty room]
The Sistine Chapel! I can hardly contain myself. Just
overcome with amazement at the site of the real thing! I’ve been staring at the
last judgment for so long with Ave Maria and Moonlight Sonata playing in my
head, hearing the screams of the damned and praise of the relie[ved]. This is
more beautiful than any reproduction could ever accomplish. I wish people
weren’t so loud, and only choir music was playing. It’s so beautiful!
Walked around with Corey for a while, saw most of the rest
of the Vatican Museum.
From the Sistine the 17th and 18th century religious
decorations in the halls of Vatican relics. Then some
medieval and Byzantine art with all it’s shimmering gold and creepy pale faces.
I’m sorry, I know it’s beautiful, but something about Byzantine art just sends
chills down my spine, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Then we ate lunch, walked around some more ‘til I felt sick
and I had to use the bathroom. We split, I kinda lost her after that. Found the
Raphael rooms. “School of Athens”
aw yeah! By the time I found my way out, everyone had left besides these two
chicks Charlotte and Alexis [really
Lauren, idk why I thought it was Alexis]. So we wandered around for a bit, we
tried to go into this castle next door but it was 7euro so we said fuck it and
walked across the bridge, making fun of the statues and got the bus.
Still waiting for my visa debit card to come in. I hope I
don’t run into any money problems, I’ve been pretty good so far. Talked to
Corey about hygiene and her not shaving her legs, me not shaving me armpits.
Then she wandered and I talked to Cathy about cross countrying this summer.
Apparently our chick Kate can get a min-van from her pops so if we find at
least one more cat we will totally go for it. I just hope I got enough saved by
then. Well, I’m gonna take a shower so’s I can hit the sack and hopefully get
up early. Today my roommates woke me up 10 to 8
because they felt bad about it, when most of the class left at 8-ish. But hopefully I’ll get up around 7-7:30
tomorrow. Ciao!
Musei Capitolini (Capitol)
Ruins of Ancient Rome
[bad notes on the story of the capitol, I kinda got lost in
my teachers talking]
Capitol used to be temple, then is senators’ palace, but not
anymore.
Pope gave she-wolf, Marcus Aralias. Pope had the real power,
but gave senate a little to feel better. Connected through ancient Rome
by Constantine, emperor but Christian after sack of Rome.
Pope realized real power of emperor, emperor had to kiss pope’s feet. Pope
restores capitol, builds symmetrical palace.
[at a photo gallery with a showing of brilliant contemporary
European photography]
long haired boy with [this thing I drew a picture of but idk
what it’s called] on movie set wearing “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” shirt, Copenhagen,
Denmark. “Station Next”
School of cinema.
Wednesday in Rome
Went to the capitol and museum inside. Walked through
ancient Roman ruins.
Oh wait, saw the “Head of Constantine” in the museum, plus
hands, feet, knee, and part of arm. Kick ass!
Then walked thru Ruins. Flippin sweet. Made way to Coliseum,
but didn’t go inside [too expensive]. Went with Corey and Maria to “Spanish
Steps”, tried to find modern art museum, but no luck. Walked thru streets and
stumbled upon those 4 fountains with baroque façade.
Went to photo show of the New Generation of Europeans. Very
cool to see what people in my generation are up to here. Seems like they’re
having a lot more fun than we are in the states, but eh, the grass is always
greener. The photos themselves were excellent.
Yesterday
Boarded the bus
Stopped in Viterbo
Wandered off by myself
Drew an abandoned house
Ate some crazy shrimp pizza
Wandered toward a museum
Felt sick
Sat in a park by a little pond near some huge ducks [geese]
and a swan.
One [goose] confronted me
(there was a wooden fence between us)
I tried to pull a feather that was sticking out of his ass
He hissed and moaned
(I saw a little mouse too!)
I fed them bread
The mean one just stared at me while the others ate
One with some weird bump in his head came right up to me and
took the bread from my hand
I think they grew to like me a little
[they accepted me into their tribe]
then I left
Sept. 2nd 11:00 am
Florence
In the Bargello Museum
of Firenze, or Florence.
I wonder why the name is so different in Italiano. Just finished walking
around, looking at all the marble and bronze statues. Was looking at the David
by Donattello, which is so slightly seductive with the pose and the wing
between the legs and the beard on the toes. If I remember correctly, my art
history teacher said that there is speculation that Donny was Gay. Good for him
if he was, it has made his art all the more special.
I was wandering around Florence
last night, got a big bottle of beer, I think it was a liter or maybe ½. I
thought I knew where I was but apparently not. These two Moroccan men began
calling after me and following me around. I tried to shake them but was
unsuccessful. They ended up trying to help me find the hotel, which is right
downtown, unlike in Rome, which was
on the outskirts. We had so much trouble, I realized we were just walking in
circles. We talked some, one guy had lived in the U.S..
He kept trying to get a number from me, wanting to see me again. I said I
didn’t have a phone, was in a hotel with a school and had to study all day,
trying to cut him loose. He says maybe we’ll run into each other again. I’m
like, yeah, maybe, blah! He was not at all attractive to me, and definitely not
his friend. Although I did see a few hot guys around, more so than in Rome.
They finally left and I thought I knew where I was going, but ended up walking
in more circles and totally in the wrong direction. I finally realized where I
was and got back to the hotel. What an adventure. I got back to the hotel and
two of my roommates and I were talking about relationships and guys, and my
current boyfriend and whatnot. They’re pretty cool girls, except before some
were saying they didn’t movies with unnecessary violence like Pulp Fiction. Arg.
Mon. Sept. 5th, 3:20
[pm]
Here in Cortona, in my room with four other girls. Well,
only two are here now. About to go to a meeting but thought I’d write a little
first. The last days in Florence
were excellent. The first day we just arrived, had dinner, and then I wandered
around and got lost. More in a sec…
[then there’s my schedule]
ok, so I got lost and these two guys from morocco called
after me. I tried to ignore them but they wouldn’t leave me alone. One, named
Chris, spoke pretty good English, said he spent some years in the U.S.
They asked wher I was going, I said my hotel. They asked where it was, I said I
dunno, so they tried to help me find it. We basically walked in circles around
right next to the street with the hotel. I had no clue the name of the street,
and no one seemed to know the name of the hotel. I wasn’t that worried, I just
wanted to get rid of those creeps. Eventually we hit this piazza and I thought
I knew where I was going so they left me alone. However, I didn’t really know
where I was going, even though the hotel was right down the street. I headed
off in the wrong direction and it took me ½ hr to finally find it. I eventually
learned the streets pretty well, but its very easy to get lost when all the
streets look the same and you don’t know if you’re coming or going.
Wow, I just realized I wrote about the same night twice! Mi
dispiace!
ELSEWHERE
It was all planned out, sort of. I think she had more of a
plan than me, I improvise without even knowing it, which is the only way you
really can improvise. But it didn’t matter anyway because all plans were
demolished at the last minute. I did anticipate things falling apart and tried
to prepare for anything. I was pondering hoping a freight train, but that was
more wishful thinking. There weren’t any trains going from Ct.
to Indiana, I would have to go to maybe NY and find out from there, and I’ve
never done it or seen anyone do it so that might have turned out to be
disastrous. I was hanging out with my cousin Elijah for the two days after I got
back from Vermont and trying to
prove that I hadn’t grown up into a loser, or that I at least had something to
make him feel happy to be related. And I was thinking that if I had made this
thing out to be so wonderful to him and everyone else, it would be an
embarrassing tragedy if I didn’t go. I only ended up corrupting him more than
inspiring, which is something you never realize as it happens. That’s the kind
of thing that takes at least a semester or so to catch up, and then at least a
year or so for the damage to really fruit. But by Friday I was too worried
about leaving to be bothered by that, and cursing myself for not making up my
mind the day before. I didn’t blame her, no matter how much she thinks I did, I
honestly didn’t. I just blamed fate. Can you even do that? It seems a bit
unnecessary. It’s like blaming the sun for giving you a sun burn while you’re
working your life away in some manual temp site. And blaming her was like
blaming the agency for not finding you a decent job out of the sun. There was
nothing to find fault in, except my aloofness.
But that was done and over with, no time for aloofness now.
She was going on about the sudden car problems and the chaos enveloping this
little good idea, and when she said “I’m sorry, I really thought we would be
leaving by Friday” I knew what the future held if I waited one more minute. So
I looked up the next bus leaving from Waterbury,
did a hasty survival equation, and shouted to my parents on the phone that I
didn’t care what they thought. I had a couple hours to stuff my backpack with
cool clothes and random travel food. Before I knew it I was at the desk handing
my debit card to the woman, and that was it, the point of no return. Before I
knew it I was on the bus, listening to Highway 61 revisited, then New
York City, and in an instant I was gone. Because I had
taken the Greyhound with Heathyr before to Chicago and Delaware
it was not so confusing. I was reading The Teachings of Don Juan, which I left
on the bus! And I was just getting to the crow part! I ended up losing a lot of
things on this trip, it happens when I’m alone. It happened a lot in Europe
too. I even left stuff at the house in VT, which I hope Webster noticed. I
stayed awake throughout Pennsylvania
until it got dark because I wanted to watch the beautiful farmland go by. A
wait in Pittsburg and then off to Cleveland.
A wait in Cleveland for the bus to get cleaned, which made me very grumpy
because I felt I had fallen asleep for but 3 minutes. I hate bus riding for
that reason especially, not only is it near impossible to fall asleep but once
you do they walk you up to go sit on grimy floor of a bus station for an hour. And
those buses are absolutely freezing, I was wearing five layers of shirts.
The next time I got off the bus was in Indianapolis.
I changed and washed in the bathroom, where the mentally retarded janitor lady
kept yelling at everyone for doing something wrong, using the wrong stall or
something. This is when “improvisation” hits you hard. I’m all by myself almost
a thousand miles from home, no transportation, no shelter, little money, little
food, no plans except to go to a concert in an unknown location in a town that
I wasn’t even sure I could get to. But I had something in me that I could rely
on… Faith? Courage? Integrity? Perseverance? Obstinacy? Fear?
I found out that to get to Bloomington
I could take this shuttle at the airport, which I had to catch a city bus to,
and I had to walk through downtown Indianapolis
to get to the stop. It’s a nice city, spacious, grand, cozy, flat. That morning
was quiet, I think everyone was at this festival thingy on one street I passed
by, playing basketball to blasting music.
I thought about the nature of those city people on the bus.
It seemed a Midwest city like this
had an abundance of “weirdos”. Funny looking odd fellows. Not that any other
city is lacking in them, but it seems like the cool big cities like NYC had an
equal amount of young, level headed folk. Other places, like Hartford,
don’t have as much as them, but enough of the weirdos. That’s something I felt
home had in common with Indianapolis.
They may not be smart, or safe, or nice, but they’re definitely interesting.
The suburbs were so un-easterly flat and straight. It
reminded me of the outskirts of Chicago
minus the apartment buildings. I remember one rough gentleman sitting at a bus
stop on a red recycling bin he carried around, he really must have cared about
the environment. It was bright day on a gloomy town. The people seemed to know
I didn’t belong there, probably because of my suitcase. The men stared, the
women rudely ignored. But I could never know if I truly blend in anywhere. I
wouldn’t be surprised. We ended at the airport and I found the $25 shuttle to Bloomington.
The man asked me where I wanted to go, I blanked, “Downtown?”. “The Mariot?”
“Um, anywhere, downtown, I guess, I’m not really going to a specific spot…” He
nodded impatiently and put my bag on the way back of the bus. It was crowded
and I sat in back, near these women who were loudly talking about the state of
being a psychology student and how much they loath APA format. I tried as long
as I could to look over the man next to me to see the novice landscape before
dozing off. I wanted to get as much sleep in a secure place as I could, since I
had no idea where I was headed that night. But it was only noontime then and I
had all day to figure it out. I got off right in front of the Mariot Hotel, where I later went with a new friend
to borrow some free coffee. That’s something I should definitely do more often.
I asked the driver if he knew where the bookstore was, he said no, then the
music hall, and he pointed directly across the street, across the empty block
to the next street. Its funny how things look so different from the first time
you’re there than when you later know it like your old home. The music parking
lot was so empty, only a few colorful punks sitting on the ground outside,
possibly in a workshop. There were posters, and flyers on a table inside. I
quickly decided that I should act like I know what I’m doing and that this back
pack is not crushing me for real, so I picked up some flyers, music
performances gone or yet to come. I was so nervous and self-conscious. I
immediately left and continued to find a place to hide my things, thinking it
would be better to take the load off before wandering the streets. This is when
I remembered one particular fascination with mid-western cities, the alleys.
It was incredible. So stereotypical that of course I would
be doing it. My shoulders were truly killing me by then of hours of carrying
it, but I had to go on. There was the loner. I felt like I was running away
again, running from my new friends, running from my new failures, just like I
had been running from the cops earlier. And the cops could have found me first,
I was always aware of that. I’ll admit I was scared, and I a lot of people
think I was justified in being so, but I had to do what I had to do and didn’t
care about what wasn’t safe. And I was really all alone by now, no more friends
in this bum town. The festival was done and I was just another tactless punk
being a thorn in your side. But the edge of Bloomington
looked rather pleasant. And soon it was gone, only stretches of green left. It
was when I was sure I was out of the residential eyes that I stuck my thumb out
and stared cars down. I wondered how the kids did it, what they would be doing
if they hadn’t lost me back there. Where they even going to come with me? Or
was it all apart of some great apathetic plan? I couldn’t wait around to find
out, anyhow, I had to burn. I had a box cutter in my purse and an adaptable
personality as my weapons. I was to wander in the raw. Kicking rocks like a
rolling stone, huh? I was listening to that song when I left, too bad it was
pillaged last night from my sacred hiding spot from the railroad tracks. Will I
make it? Does it even matter at this point what I’m going to make? Will I get a
hand from any of these scum-fucks?
The first possible hiding spot I found was by a shed on an
alley. An young hippy-looking dude was passed out on the grass in the sun, his
bike stashed in the small space between the shed and the adjacent building. I
thought at first he wouldn’t mind if I put my stuff there, but when I came back
later I realized it was an old hippy dude and the whole area looked pretty
sketchy. So I wandered down the alley and around the low buildings, and then
went onto a wooded side street where I found some big bushes. When I entered I
was hit with a smell like someone shitted out moldy mozzarella cheese. So I
figured, hey, no one will look here. Once I was relieved I went back down the
streets towards the center. There was a park there, and the bookstore, I see.
It was small, cozy joint, busy that day. There were flyers for the festival
events in the front by a kid sitting comfortably. I took some and walked up to
the kind looking man at the register. He had a long ponytail and a very calm
demeanor. He gave me a simple map of Bloomington
created by Erin Tobey, a musician, with information on local supplies and
events in town. I took it and sat on a tiny chair in The Children’s Corner (or
w/e) in the back of the store.
I asked the man at the register about classes and he handed
me a list with information along with a pencil and scrap paper, saying softly
he was sorry they didn’t have better technology. I said I didn’t mind, I didn’t
really like technology all that much and he said I would fit in perfectly
there. It was only around 1:30pm and my bookbinding class didn’t start until 4,
so I decided to walk around town. The lively scene captured my interest and the
simple layout of the streets kept me from losing myself. I walked up the alleys
in search of cool spots, I made it up to 8th
St. before turning around thinking it was far
enough, have no idea I would eventually be sleeping even farther up, at the 9th
St. park. I went back down to the 3rd
St. park where people were gathered in clusters around trees and benches. At
the water fountain there was a bench laid out with free zines on things from untold
history to DIY health care, revolutions of thought and orientation. I picked a
spot under an oak tree and read a little of what I found until my growing
headache moved me to stretch out on the grass. There was a boy across the park
sleeping by his backpack under another tree, and from a distance I could have
swore he was an ex-boyfriend, which he wasn’t. Soon I saw a gathering on the
grass directed at a young fellow with an acoustic guitar swaying back and
forth. I joined them when I heard him play and was quickly surrounded. He
nervously strummed to his forceful lyrics, hard melodies to oppressed times.
After a few tunes I think an English gentleman Russ was called forth by the
crowd. He sang loudly about his upbringing and desires for freedom, about sad
life in a sad world. Then another fellow came, then perhaps another. Two dogs
sprinted among the seated crowd after a ball, weaving around curious
outstretched hands. Then a man on an guitar with a lady on viola who sang
sweetly. By this time I knew I had to go to class across the street. We sat in
a closed off room filled with books kept for prisoners. It was me and about
eight other people, plus the lovely “teacher”. I was incredibly anxious, I
couldn’t overcome my apprehension to socialize and remained silent almost the
whole time. But we were all busy sewing books, and two men in across from me
talked enough to keep my mind steady. I was happy enough to be there, to be
doing what I came there for, something I had a reason to leave home for. And I
made something delightful, a book waiting to be a best friend, for whatever I
needed it to be. It wasn’t that hard to make, either, I could make a million
now if I wanted. After that I was so hungry I went right to the falafel joint
and grabbed a bite along with a group of cool kids I didn’t talk to. All the
kids were cool. Except for the occasional college bro or brosephina, and the
adults, all I saw were youthful punks, vivacious with all their personal
independence. I was just the quiet observer floating between them, maybe I had
something, maybe I was something, we all were together. Maybe we really were what
we believed, maybe none of us were anything we thought we believed, only
getting by on our own charity.
I got off subways practically
everywhere from Chicago to Prague, from DC to Montreal, and busses everyway in
between. Haven’t gotten to the west coast yet, ain’t sure if I ever will, but I
guess in all truth, there’s no reason not to go now. I envy those who have
traveled more, but I’m still so young and nervous. I feel like I’m always just
catching up on myself and getting metaphysically winded. But in this world I
find a tiny magazine picture of
impoverished Zambian boys tonight on public access, on the other side a full
page add for the latest guts-eruption horror flick on DVD. This world, the
people in it, has not caught up with itself. It’s fragmented realities
puncturing each other’s sides. The emergent existences climaxing diversity, and
estranging themselves farther and faster, just as the stars and galaxies hurl
faster and farther from their explosive origins and each other. Will we not be
able to support this and collapse in back to the center, to chaos and
nothingness? Or will we simply keep soaring into an infinite diffusion, beyond
the point of no return into until we can no longer recognize each other or even
find the light of a star in the sky that hasn’t faded or burned out by now. And
then our sun would go dead and what will it all mean then, what could it ever
amount to? If we left the solar system, the rest of the universe could be so remote from itself
we’d have to use wormholes or something. And how could we even attempt at
something so grand if we have distanced our consciousnesses so much as well and
the emergent properties consume you with wretched intensity. And if we collapse
on ourselves, is it the end, or the beginning? Perhaps another universe begins
and collapses in the same way; the infinite membranes from string theory
collide, waving by the force of the collective unconscious. Then, will it be
worth it? In the face of extinction, it is perhaps useless, but as Winton
Marsalis said, “No movement, no rhythm: no rhythm, no music.” And the wheels on
the bus go round, like stardust in the vacuum.
The most significant journey I’ve
been on was the most dangerous, although I’ve done more radical things
elsewhere. When I was in Europe I could
have died. Maybe. Could have gotten
raped, or seriously mugged by a gypsy, or schemed out of all I had by a
businessman. I did get all of these, sort of, not as badly. I got molested, an empty book bag
thieved, spent a lot of money on dumb shit, and fractured my ankle, but
survived, ankle in tact. I burn to go back there, especially because now I know
what to do better. But I cannot lament the past, I did the best I could, and
every moment was worth it, no matter how dour. I’ve had other terrible mishaps,
mostly when I’m alone. When I’m with others I tend to argue more and get into a
little trouble, and feel embarrassed. Traveling in couples is the way to go,
although a trio can be excellent. Only if everyone was really comfortable
together, and a little sprightly. I’ve traveled in a four pack, but we ended up
splitting into couples. Any group bigger than that is bound to split up. Unless
it’s a street action or mission of some sort, then everyone needs everyone. But
even still, one on one conversations are the easiest to start and participate
in, and trio’s often turn someone into the third wheel. Sometimes everyone gets
a turn at the third wheel, creating subtle jealousy that gets passed around as suspicious
intuitions arise. Larger odd numbers get more complicated, as crafty
interferences and rearrangements are utilized more unsuspectingly. In trio’s
everything’s more obvious. And in duo’s everything’s inescapable. That’s why
duo’s always look to drag strangers and semi-friends into their sphere, something to spice it up without
penetrating their private world. You can never really know the truth behind
their dialogue or shared memories. Their bond is the handle you grasp as they
pull you around, or you pull them, on an adventure. Duo’s can either make or
break a situation, depending on their own internal dynamics. But if things
upset between the two, one can always take a break on their own. Isn’t that
what it all comes down to anyway? For we are forever living alone, and we all
die alone. Our experience is only for ourselves, fundamentally ineffable. Oh,
alone. What an excitement that is. Where there indeed is safety in numbers,
solo journeys are the most risky. I guess that’s why people always admonish me
when I do it. I always thought I was clever enough to tackle anything on my
own, but alas, I was naïve. It’s not so much when misfortune happened my way
that I realized my naiveté, but when I later discover the much better methods
to survival and exploration that I kicked myself.
The fact that I haven’t gone
everywhere in the world yet is the primary reason I travel. I try to go to as
many niches in whatever place I’m in. Alleyways are always my most favorite
place in the world. But no alleyway is perfect, they only hold a piece of the
big collective picture of the greatest alleyway. Cortona had the best
alleyways, to my recollection. I would try to explore every nook and cranny of
that town. I would march up the steepest stone paths, meander between dark
curving stone walls, beyond private property, hidden and peering into every
space. Up the thin, narrow steps, shadowed by the earthly brown and red warps
with houses somewhere inside. There was one I sat in early on to write and
draw. It was a very slim staircase that lead up from via Nazional, the main
street running from Tonino’s and
the Piazza della Republica. The
bottom half, leading down to that main street, was under an arched ceiling
below the city homes. A dark secret passage hidden between unsuspecting
vendors, almost absent from the general hoards of pedestrians. I knew because
when I sat there, a few feet up the stairs, the passage was seldom noticed, and
barely was I. The little city was still heavy with tourists, and some of the
people took pictures of the staircase, it was so enchanting. So I’m guessing I
might be lurking in some random tourists’ shots, god who knows what I look
like.
