When she was a girl, Elwin Ravenblack had run through green fields, heard the birds and gulls cry out high above as they circled her coastal home or flew out to sea. She felt the sun warm her face and bronze her arms and legs, and smelled the salty tang on her lips as the breeze blew in. At night, sometimes she would sneak away from her home to lie in the grass on her back and look at the stars, listening as the waves crashed against sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliff. On warm nights like this, she would count the stars, imagining that the sky was a great sea, and the points of light were islands, waiting to be explored, and she was captain of her own ship, sailing far out into the night. She imagined she could feel the swell and sway of the water beneath her strong, fast ship, like she were riding some great animal, and with these thoughts she would fall asleep, content.
This was before the oars of the black ships scraped against the shores of her home, the wind unfurling the flag that smelled of death.
The ships had made landing a few miles further north, in a sandy cove, and men with silent steps and sheathed weapons crept into the town. The screams of women and children in the night and the clash of iron drowned out the grating of gulls, and the town of Lorlinden was set ablaze, sparks ascending into the sky before winking out. Elwin was not in town this night, but had gone out to the field near the sea. She awoke to the sound of the screams and blazing light, and an image of her mother came to her mind, and she panicked.
With feline grace, she crouched and ran to the edge of Lorlinden, back to her home to see if her mother, father, and two brothers had escaped. She ran from room to room of her house, but there was no one there, until she ran into her own room. She stepped to the windowsill--it was still unlatched from before--and had stuck one leg out the window when a man stepped from the shadows, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back. She fell to the ground with a thud, and then all went black.
She awoke to taste copper in her mouth and a pain in the back of her head. She was hanging upside down, being carried like a sack over the back of a giant of a man who smelled like sweat and sour beer. Her head pounded and pain shot like knives and glass up her spine, and then she was in darkness again.
She woke again, this time overwhelmingly thirsty, as a cup was roughly brought to her lips and something foul and bitter was poured down her throat that made her stomach turn to fire. She coughed and spat it up, but was merely laughed at by her captor, slapped, and then the cup came to her lips again. This time she held it down. She lay on rough boards in the dark, opening and closing her eyes to see if she were blind, and felt the swell and sway below her and knew she was at sea. She lay there for a moment, exhausted, trying to catch her breath and pray that the burning in her stomach would go away. It did, but its heat spread through her body, to her arms and legs, and up to her neck, until she felt warm and fuzzy headed, and closed her eyes, dreaming of green fields and the days she had been a princess.
* * *
Ten years went by, and the world had changed. She had grown into womanhood, her body had hardened under hours of hard labor, her hands had grown calloused, and her mouth ran like a scar across her face to match the lines that crisscrossed her back from countless beatings. The ocean spread out before her, rising and falling, with little distinction between the gray surf, and the gray sky overhead. The world indeed had changed, and trouble was brewing at land and on the seas. She had looked once for green fields, but over time had stopped. They now seemed like a dream from long ago.
Still, there was a change coming. She could feel it in her soul, see it in the fearful glances of the crewmen as they tried to mask it with sneers and bravado and sharp cuffs across her jaw she no longer felt. She would bide her time for a little longer; she had become a master of waiting. But make no mistake, the day was coming, and it would arrive soon.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
The Epitome of Cool
There's a dance, it's a rhythm, and you have to know the music.
If you don't, baby, you end up lying on your back, or your face. Somewhere in the prone position, anyway.
Don't be too needy, too clingy, too desperate to be with someone. If you are, it'll never happen.
Play it cool, be uninterested, and sometimes even a little cocky/jerky/bitchy/whatever. Don't always say the right thing. When you walk away they'll be fuming, but they'll be thinking about you, and maybe what you said. Then come back, laugh, tease them a little, and you'll have them in your hand. You'll have taken them through the deepest lows to the highest highs. You're their new king of the world.
If they're having a bad day, don't console them. See who they can be and take them there. No one wants to be miserable, so don't enable them. When you're excited to see someone, hang back. You don't want them to know you're excited. Yeah, they're special, but not THAT special.
Walk into the store, the club, the social center like you own the place. Know the owner's first name. Buy the bartender/bouncer a drink. Ask the waitress about her day as if you already know the answer, you're just challenging her a little to come alive.
Find the next adventure. Wear chainmail, around your body or around your heart. Go find yourself in the forest or jumping out of a plane or from a bungee cord. Whatever it is, do something, something you're afraid of, something you've never done before, just because you're alive today and tomorrow . . . well, we won't talk about that.
If you don't, baby, you end up lying on your back, or your face. Somewhere in the prone position, anyway.
Don't be too needy, too clingy, too desperate to be with someone. If you are, it'll never happen.
Play it cool, be uninterested, and sometimes even a little cocky/jerky/bitchy/whatever. Don't always say the right thing. When you walk away they'll be fuming, but they'll be thinking about you, and maybe what you said. Then come back, laugh, tease them a little, and you'll have them in your hand. You'll have taken them through the deepest lows to the highest highs. You're their new king of the world.
If they're having a bad day, don't console them. See who they can be and take them there. No one wants to be miserable, so don't enable them. When you're excited to see someone, hang back. You don't want them to know you're excited. Yeah, they're special, but not THAT special.
Walk into the store, the club, the social center like you own the place. Know the owner's first name. Buy the bartender/bouncer a drink. Ask the waitress about her day as if you already know the answer, you're just challenging her a little to come alive.
Find the next adventure. Wear chainmail, around your body or around your heart. Go find yourself in the forest or jumping out of a plane or from a bungee cord. Whatever it is, do something, something you're afraid of, something you've never done before, just because you're alive today and tomorrow . . . well, we won't talk about that.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Eros
The Story of Cupid and Psyche
Psyche was a mortal of incredible beauty, and Aphrodite, goddess of love, was jealous. No one, least of all a mortal, should be as beautiful as she (Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest? Not you). So she sent her son Cupid (Eros) to kill her, but he fell in love with her instead. He visited her every night and made her promise not to look on him. Their affair went on for a while and Psyche became pregnant, but her sisters warned her that her lover was a snake who would devour the child. Psyche hid a knife to kill him, but instead pricked herself on Cupid's arrows and fell madly in love with him, but also discovered who he was. Angry, Cupid left, with Psyche grasping onto his heel. Aphrodite came up with a series of tests for Psyche to achieve immortality, but not until she'd gone into the world of the dead and come back again. In the end, Psyche regains Cupid's love, gains herself immortality, and earns the begrudging respect of Aphrodite.
Though it ends well, the are moments of pleasure, but also incredible pain in this love story.
The day we visited the Coliseum in Rome it rained, so we spent more time there than we'd originally planned while we waited for the rain to stop. There was a temporary art exhibit on Eros upstairs, and different depictions of the Greeks in relationships. Part of their understanding of Eros was the love can sometimes be pleasurable, sometimes painful, and often both at the same time.
Many of the stories we're told as kids end, "And they lived happily ever after," and we imagine that's what life should be when we meet the right person. Maybe there's something wrong when pain is mixed in.
Someone told me recently, "We usually hurt the ones we love most." It's not always intentional, though sometimes it is, but living close to someone, risking vulnerability with them, being with them day in and day out, we're going to hurt each other. He said something at the wrong time that hurt her deeply. She didn't come home until late and his mind wondered where she'd been. He accuses her. She accuses back, and soon something that had been safe and beautiful is broken between them. Life would be easier without relationships because we wouldn't hurt each other.
She wishes he were more. She has a hard time respecting him some days when he yells at the kids, or seems too soft with them. He wishes she wouldn't sound so shrill when she's reminding him again to take out the garbage.
We long for the good moments, the joy, the enjoyment and beauty of relationships, but forget it's often intertwined with pain. The things we're most afraid of, the things we want to hide from others, become apparent, at least if we're being honest with each other. Over time, it's inevitable.
So sometimes we run from relationship to relationship, because it only makes us invest so far and no farther. If we're gone tomorrow, or in a month, they won't see the insecurities; they'll think we're a good person. Intimacy comes through the doorway of conflict, but conflict is hard and some wounds run too deep.
The best relationships last for years, but at the end of these, she's dying of cancer and he is having his heart ripped out as he holds her hand. She watches him, once strong of body and mind, forget his own name and drool at the dinner table. They go to the cemetery gravesides of the friends that used to have over for dinner, played cards with, served in wars with, fought or loved, knowing that soon they'll be parted from each other as well.
What do we do with the painful aspects as well as the pleasurable aspects of love? Is it too much? Do we sacrifice one because the other is too much? Is there value or wisdom that comes from both? Can we have one without the other, or are they two sides of the same coin?
Psyche was a mortal of incredible beauty, and Aphrodite, goddess of love, was jealous. No one, least of all a mortal, should be as beautiful as she (Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest? Not you). So she sent her son Cupid (Eros) to kill her, but he fell in love with her instead. He visited her every night and made her promise not to look on him. Their affair went on for a while and Psyche became pregnant, but her sisters warned her that her lover was a snake who would devour the child. Psyche hid a knife to kill him, but instead pricked herself on Cupid's arrows and fell madly in love with him, but also discovered who he was. Angry, Cupid left, with Psyche grasping onto his heel. Aphrodite came up with a series of tests for Psyche to achieve immortality, but not until she'd gone into the world of the dead and come back again. In the end, Psyche regains Cupid's love, gains herself immortality, and earns the begrudging respect of Aphrodite.
Though it ends well, the are moments of pleasure, but also incredible pain in this love story.
The day we visited the Coliseum in Rome it rained, so we spent more time there than we'd originally planned while we waited for the rain to stop. There was a temporary art exhibit on Eros upstairs, and different depictions of the Greeks in relationships. Part of their understanding of Eros was the love can sometimes be pleasurable, sometimes painful, and often both at the same time.
Many of the stories we're told as kids end, "And they lived happily ever after," and we imagine that's what life should be when we meet the right person. Maybe there's something wrong when pain is mixed in.
Someone told me recently, "We usually hurt the ones we love most." It's not always intentional, though sometimes it is, but living close to someone, risking vulnerability with them, being with them day in and day out, we're going to hurt each other. He said something at the wrong time that hurt her deeply. She didn't come home until late and his mind wondered where she'd been. He accuses her. She accuses back, and soon something that had been safe and beautiful is broken between them. Life would be easier without relationships because we wouldn't hurt each other.
She wishes he were more. She has a hard time respecting him some days when he yells at the kids, or seems too soft with them. He wishes she wouldn't sound so shrill when she's reminding him again to take out the garbage.
We long for the good moments, the joy, the enjoyment and beauty of relationships, but forget it's often intertwined with pain. The things we're most afraid of, the things we want to hide from others, become apparent, at least if we're being honest with each other. Over time, it's inevitable.
So sometimes we run from relationship to relationship, because it only makes us invest so far and no farther. If we're gone tomorrow, or in a month, they won't see the insecurities; they'll think we're a good person. Intimacy comes through the doorway of conflict, but conflict is hard and some wounds run too deep.
The best relationships last for years, but at the end of these, she's dying of cancer and he is having his heart ripped out as he holds her hand. She watches him, once strong of body and mind, forget his own name and drool at the dinner table. They go to the cemetery gravesides of the friends that used to have over for dinner, played cards with, served in wars with, fought or loved, knowing that soon they'll be parted from each other as well.
What do we do with the painful aspects as well as the pleasurable aspects of love? Is it too much? Do we sacrifice one because the other is too much? Is there value or wisdom that comes from both? Can we have one without the other, or are they two sides of the same coin?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Story Fragment 12 June 2007
The witch woman comes.
The house is empty except for an impending doom. The hallway, the living room, the stairs that lead up and the stairs that lead down, and the view through the bay window to the outside world carry the weight of quiet anticipation. Disembodied voices float up from the basement: "Stop worrying out loud. We can hear you, we're trying to watch TV." Grandpa sleeps upstairs, the rustling beneath the covers an inaudible whisper.
There are no wise men left. His friends have gone into town, and out in the field, still some way off near the treeline, he sees her making her own path, picking her way closer, wrapped tightly in a blanket or dark cloak, and there's a creature padding behind her. Somehow he's been expecting her, but he doesn't know how he knows this, only that her coming is a portent. Of what? He doesn't know.
The sun has set; it's not quite dark, but the half light between day and night casts shadows on reality. It's the time-between-times when the worlds are thin, and anything--real or fantastical--may happen. It's been raining outside, and the smell of clay, grass, and ozone still linger in the air. Should he lock the door, look for a weapon, or simply wait for the inevitable? She is seeking him, he knows this, as much as he knows that running would be useless. She is bound to him and he to her. She would find him no matter where he went, and so he waits, drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg, and tries to slow his breathing. She brings the snake, a voice echoes again from below, the test of Pythias.
When she comes up the steps to the house, she opens the door as if it were her own home, matter of factly, and reaches a slender hand up to the hood of her mist covered cloak, pulls it back, and underneath is a much younger face than he expected, and thick jet black hair spills down over her shoulders and around her face. Although she is pale, she is incredibly beautiful, and her green eyes are piercingly unflinching, full of wisdom and secrets.
No introduction is needed, or expected. They step into the kitchen and pull up chairs around a table. A large gray moor cat has followed her in from outside and pads softly to her side, wraps itself around her feet, and immediately falls asleep. He doesn't see a snake, and looks at her questioningly.
"You know about the snake," she demurs in a voice that reminds him of dark earth and bells. "It's inside the cat. Stick your hand inside its throat and the snake will swallow your arm. If your conscience is clean you will have nothing to fear and can remove your arm unharmed."
"And if not?" he asks, his eyebrows arching mildly.
"Then you will die."
"What choice do I have?"
"You always have a choice." She looks down at her hands, inspecting her nails, and the moor cat awakens briefly, yawns, and closes its eyes once again.
"Okay, I'll do it," he says. There were no wise men left. He now realized the choice that stood before him. If he took the test and passed, he would have the knowledge of Ancients, his path would be lonely, but there may once again be hope to rekindle the fire needed for the coming storm. It was a dangerous gamble, but he had been waiting for this.
"Do you have any questions?"
"Yes. My conscience is clean in this world, but in the other one, I don't know. There's something still troubling me."
"Agreement first, and then questions?" A smile plays across her lips, but she doesn't say what she's thinking. "You have to let go of your guilt in both worlds, this world and the world you left behind. There is no difference between dream and reality. They're both the same. Forgive yourself. Seek forgiveness if possible, and then you will be ready for the trial."
He still carried guilt. He didn't know how it ended with her, but it had ended, and now he carried a painful reminder with him, tucked away from all but himself, an image of her to be mulled over when he had time to think about such things.
"Okay," he said. "I'm ready." He rolled up his sleeve. The moorcat, as if on signal, woke instantly, yellow eyes gleaming and turning to slits as it opened its mouth to reveal long, sharp fangs. He closed his eys and pushed his arm deep down its throat. There were no wise men left . . .
The house is empty except for an impending doom. The hallway, the living room, the stairs that lead up and the stairs that lead down, and the view through the bay window to the outside world carry the weight of quiet anticipation. Disembodied voices float up from the basement: "Stop worrying out loud. We can hear you, we're trying to watch TV." Grandpa sleeps upstairs, the rustling beneath the covers an inaudible whisper.
There are no wise men left. His friends have gone into town, and out in the field, still some way off near the treeline, he sees her making her own path, picking her way closer, wrapped tightly in a blanket or dark cloak, and there's a creature padding behind her. Somehow he's been expecting her, but he doesn't know how he knows this, only that her coming is a portent. Of what? He doesn't know.
The sun has set; it's not quite dark, but the half light between day and night casts shadows on reality. It's the time-between-times when the worlds are thin, and anything--real or fantastical--may happen. It's been raining outside, and the smell of clay, grass, and ozone still linger in the air. Should he lock the door, look for a weapon, or simply wait for the inevitable? She is seeking him, he knows this, as much as he knows that running would be useless. She is bound to him and he to her. She would find him no matter where he went, and so he waits, drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg, and tries to slow his breathing. She brings the snake, a voice echoes again from below, the test of Pythias.
When she comes up the steps to the house, she opens the door as if it were her own home, matter of factly, and reaches a slender hand up to the hood of her mist covered cloak, pulls it back, and underneath is a much younger face than he expected, and thick jet black hair spills down over her shoulders and around her face. Although she is pale, she is incredibly beautiful, and her green eyes are piercingly unflinching, full of wisdom and secrets.
No introduction is needed, or expected. They step into the kitchen and pull up chairs around a table. A large gray moor cat has followed her in from outside and pads softly to her side, wraps itself around her feet, and immediately falls asleep. He doesn't see a snake, and looks at her questioningly.
"You know about the snake," she demurs in a voice that reminds him of dark earth and bells. "It's inside the cat. Stick your hand inside its throat and the snake will swallow your arm. If your conscience is clean you will have nothing to fear and can remove your arm unharmed."
"And if not?" he asks, his eyebrows arching mildly.
"Then you will die."
"What choice do I have?"
"You always have a choice." She looks down at her hands, inspecting her nails, and the moor cat awakens briefly, yawns, and closes its eyes once again.
"Okay, I'll do it," he says. There were no wise men left. He now realized the choice that stood before him. If he took the test and passed, he would have the knowledge of Ancients, his path would be lonely, but there may once again be hope to rekindle the fire needed for the coming storm. It was a dangerous gamble, but he had been waiting for this.
"Do you have any questions?"
"Yes. My conscience is clean in this world, but in the other one, I don't know. There's something still troubling me."
"Agreement first, and then questions?" A smile plays across her lips, but she doesn't say what she's thinking. "You have to let go of your guilt in both worlds, this world and the world you left behind. There is no difference between dream and reality. They're both the same. Forgive yourself. Seek forgiveness if possible, and then you will be ready for the trial."
He still carried guilt. He didn't know how it ended with her, but it had ended, and now he carried a painful reminder with him, tucked away from all but himself, an image of her to be mulled over when he had time to think about such things.
"Okay," he said. "I'm ready." He rolled up his sleeve. The moorcat, as if on signal, woke instantly, yellow eyes gleaming and turning to slits as it opened its mouth to reveal long, sharp fangs. He closed his eys and pushed his arm deep down its throat. There were no wise men left . . .
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Italy and Greece: Second installment
Okay, here's where we left off . . .
Monday 28 May. We were still in Florence, ate a quick breakfast of rolls, butter, nutella (good stuff), coffee and some hot chocolate that most people said tasted like warm milk with chocolate added for color. I liked it, but it wasn't very sweet. We got on the bus, said goodbye to our driver Sylvanus (gold medallion man), and had a new driver named Johnnie (possibly part of the mafia. Good thing we didn't speak Italian or we would have been nervous. The cars passing and yelling at us seemed to speak perfect Italian, to which Johnnie responded, also yelling out the window while driving around breakneck curves in the mountains or the Autostrada. Enough about Johnnie). We drove through Tuscany, which was absolutely beautiful, and saw cream colored houses set on hills with terra cotta tile roofs, vineyards, and olive groves. Honestly, I think I was deeply involved in a conversation with the person I was sitting next to, and only saw the scenery in passing. We took an obligatory stop at a gift shop (they'd paid our way to Rome or Assisi), and I bought some things for friends and saw a couple dogs. The bus climbed a hill and we found ourselves in Assisi, the home of St. Francis (of Assisi). We took a short tour of the town, saw the church of St. Clare, followed a road through town to Francis' church, where he's buried, and watched the clouds roll in from the surrounding hillside. We went inside the church, and when we came out, we got pelted with rain. I had left my poncho in the car.
The neatest thing here was seeing Francis' tomb underneath the main church, and the tomb of Martin of Tours, the guy who brought Eastern monasticism to the rest of Europe and might have been a link for the Irish monks, Patrick included. We were on our own for lunch, so Chris and I left the group and found a nice restaurant tucked away up a hill in the heart of town, away from the main street, got out of the rain and sat down to the best meal we would have the whole trip (bread with olive oil and a salad, pasta noodles with mushrooms, ravioli, spinach, more mushrooms, thinly sliced beef, sausage, and fruit with ice cream). We then headed back into the rain and found shelter in the Roman temple of Minerva that had been converted into a church. It still had high Ionic or Corinthian columns holding up a porch, and this is where we stood. I told Chris about the time I nearly ran away from home but got stuck in a rainstorm instead, and he told me about how he became a Christian. All while waiting for the rain to stop.
Then we were off for Rome. It stopped raining after we got on the bus.
Tuesday, 29 May: Rome.
The hotel in Rome had a balcony, and ivy climbing up the walls. It was a busier city than I envisioned, and there were more Smart cars than I'd seen anywhere else. By appearances, a car could park wherever there was space, though this wasn't totally true because we saw a car being towed one of the mornings we were there. We couldn't figure out why, but I guess there are some places even in Rome where you can't park. We also saw a car scrape against the shoulder guard rail, right itself, and keep on going. Even though there were four lanes to the road, about six cars could--and did--ride side by side, especially if there were some motorcycles in the mix.
We started out at the church of St. Peter in chains, and saw more "authentic" chains of when Peter was in prison (we'd seen other "authentic" chains earlier). Michelangelo's Moses was also there.
We walked to the Coliseum, and it started to rain. Luckily, I'd remembered to bring my poncho (also dubbed a tent) and we walked around the Coliseum, took pictures of the stands and the labyrinth of walkways, holding pens, and passageways below the floor, and decided to wait out the rain. Fortunately, there was a gift shop and a sculpture exhibit on Eros, so we made our way past Greek vases and Roman statues, and waited for the rain to stop. Bethany and Stasi and I spent a lot of time together that week, and the two ladies thought it would be a great idea if we actually had a battle in the Coliseum, since that's what people did in the Coliseum, they fought . . . and died. We wondered how short careers would be as a gladiator would be (probably not very many commercial offers, or the opportunity to open up restaurant chains or car washes). Stasi and I fought, I died, and Bethany caught the whole thing on video. So the gladiatorial games are still alive and well in the Coliseum, though not as bloody or violent.
We made our way up Palatine hill in the rain, saw the remains of Emperor Domitians palace, saw the Arch of Titus (?), Trajan's Column, the Circus Maximus, and the Pantheon. The Pantheon was bigger than I imagined, and truly awe inspiring.
In Florence we had seen the statue of David (Michelangelo's). It stood at the end of a hall, was fourteen feet tall, and the minute we saw it we saw nothing else. Even now it's hard to describe. It was perfect, flawless, the ideal human body, and a thing of beauty. Stasi said, "I wonder what Michelangelo must have felt, stepping back from this when it was done. I think he know he'd created a masterpiece. It would have been strange to see the two together, the statue and Michelangelo: Michelangelo small and human, David larger than life, a giant, a work of art."
The Pantheon was awe inspiring as well, though not in the same way. The Romans had built the dome by pouring concrete, and there were five rows of box-like panels that moved up the dome to the open oculus in the center. On days when it rains, the center of the room is slightly sloped so rain collects in the center, then drains down five holes that were part of the original design. Even now it's a mystery how they were able to pour so much concrete perfectly to create the dome. It's seamless, a modern day engineering marvel.
After lunch we stopped at the church of (I don't know) and saw a painting on the ceiling that gave the appearance of a dome, though it was mostly a flat, or slightly arched, roof. The artist had used optical illusions, so that as you stood in the center of the church it looked like the ceiling went up and up, and depicted the Ascension of St. Ignatius. I don't remember who the painting was by.
In the afternoon, Brandon, Austin and I went to the Capitoline Museum and saw Marcus Aurelius on a horse, a large image of Constantine (at least his head), and the statue of the Etruscan she wolf nursing Romulus and Remus, the brothers who, according to legend, founded the city of Rome. The highlight though was that I got to see the statue of the Dying Gaul, a Roman sculpture of a Galatian Celt that I have seen in several books on Celtic monasticism. The man is resting, leaning heavily on one arm, his torc around his collar his only clothing. A gash is open in his right side and the horn behind him is broken in two. His sword lies on the ground. His tousled, wild hair sticks out like spikes, and his traditional moustache would make any NASCAR driver proud, but even in death, the Dying Gaul has a look of proud nobility, enough to capture the admiration and respect of the artists and soldiers who conquered him in battle.
We ate dinner in Rome, somewhere, but I don't remember where, and we got back to the hotel late, passing the garrison walls that surround much of the city. There would be more Rome the next day at the Vatican, but again, for another time . . .
Monday 28 May. We were still in Florence, ate a quick breakfast of rolls, butter, nutella (good stuff), coffee and some hot chocolate that most people said tasted like warm milk with chocolate added for color. I liked it, but it wasn't very sweet. We got on the bus, said goodbye to our driver Sylvanus (gold medallion man), and had a new driver named Johnnie (possibly part of the mafia. Good thing we didn't speak Italian or we would have been nervous. The cars passing and yelling at us seemed to speak perfect Italian, to which Johnnie responded, also yelling out the window while driving around breakneck curves in the mountains or the Autostrada. Enough about Johnnie). We drove through Tuscany, which was absolutely beautiful, and saw cream colored houses set on hills with terra cotta tile roofs, vineyards, and olive groves. Honestly, I think I was deeply involved in a conversation with the person I was sitting next to, and only saw the scenery in passing. We took an obligatory stop at a gift shop (they'd paid our way to Rome or Assisi), and I bought some things for friends and saw a couple dogs. The bus climbed a hill and we found ourselves in Assisi, the home of St. Francis (of Assisi). We took a short tour of the town, saw the church of St. Clare, followed a road through town to Francis' church, where he's buried, and watched the clouds roll in from the surrounding hillside. We went inside the church, and when we came out, we got pelted with rain. I had left my poncho in the car.
The neatest thing here was seeing Francis' tomb underneath the main church, and the tomb of Martin of Tours, the guy who brought Eastern monasticism to the rest of Europe and might have been a link for the Irish monks, Patrick included. We were on our own for lunch, so Chris and I left the group and found a nice restaurant tucked away up a hill in the heart of town, away from the main street, got out of the rain and sat down to the best meal we would have the whole trip (bread with olive oil and a salad, pasta noodles with mushrooms, ravioli, spinach, more mushrooms, thinly sliced beef, sausage, and fruit with ice cream). We then headed back into the rain and found shelter in the Roman temple of Minerva that had been converted into a church. It still had high Ionic or Corinthian columns holding up a porch, and this is where we stood. I told Chris about the time I nearly ran away from home but got stuck in a rainstorm instead, and he told me about how he became a Christian. All while waiting for the rain to stop.
Then we were off for Rome. It stopped raining after we got on the bus.
Tuesday, 29 May: Rome.
The hotel in Rome had a balcony, and ivy climbing up the walls. It was a busier city than I envisioned, and there were more Smart cars than I'd seen anywhere else. By appearances, a car could park wherever there was space, though this wasn't totally true because we saw a car being towed one of the mornings we were there. We couldn't figure out why, but I guess there are some places even in Rome where you can't park. We also saw a car scrape against the shoulder guard rail, right itself, and keep on going. Even though there were four lanes to the road, about six cars could--and did--ride side by side, especially if there were some motorcycles in the mix.
We started out at the church of St. Peter in chains, and saw more "authentic" chains of when Peter was in prison (we'd seen other "authentic" chains earlier). Michelangelo's Moses was also there.
We walked to the Coliseum, and it started to rain. Luckily, I'd remembered to bring my poncho (also dubbed a tent) and we walked around the Coliseum, took pictures of the stands and the labyrinth of walkways, holding pens, and passageways below the floor, and decided to wait out the rain. Fortunately, there was a gift shop and a sculpture exhibit on Eros, so we made our way past Greek vases and Roman statues, and waited for the rain to stop. Bethany and Stasi and I spent a lot of time together that week, and the two ladies thought it would be a great idea if we actually had a battle in the Coliseum, since that's what people did in the Coliseum, they fought . . . and died. We wondered how short careers would be as a gladiator would be (probably not very many commercial offers, or the opportunity to open up restaurant chains or car washes). Stasi and I fought, I died, and Bethany caught the whole thing on video. So the gladiatorial games are still alive and well in the Coliseum, though not as bloody or violent.
We made our way up Palatine hill in the rain, saw the remains of Emperor Domitians palace, saw the Arch of Titus (?), Trajan's Column, the Circus Maximus, and the Pantheon. The Pantheon was bigger than I imagined, and truly awe inspiring.
In Florence we had seen the statue of David (Michelangelo's). It stood at the end of a hall, was fourteen feet tall, and the minute we saw it we saw nothing else. Even now it's hard to describe. It was perfect, flawless, the ideal human body, and a thing of beauty. Stasi said, "I wonder what Michelangelo must have felt, stepping back from this when it was done. I think he know he'd created a masterpiece. It would have been strange to see the two together, the statue and Michelangelo: Michelangelo small and human, David larger than life, a giant, a work of art."
The Pantheon was awe inspiring as well, though not in the same way. The Romans had built the dome by pouring concrete, and there were five rows of box-like panels that moved up the dome to the open oculus in the center. On days when it rains, the center of the room is slightly sloped so rain collects in the center, then drains down five holes that were part of the original design. Even now it's a mystery how they were able to pour so much concrete perfectly to create the dome. It's seamless, a modern day engineering marvel.
After lunch we stopped at the church of (I don't know) and saw a painting on the ceiling that gave the appearance of a dome, though it was mostly a flat, or slightly arched, roof. The artist had used optical illusions, so that as you stood in the center of the church it looked like the ceiling went up and up, and depicted the Ascension of St. Ignatius. I don't remember who the painting was by.
In the afternoon, Brandon, Austin and I went to the Capitoline Museum and saw Marcus Aurelius on a horse, a large image of Constantine (at least his head), and the statue of the Etruscan she wolf nursing Romulus and Remus, the brothers who, according to legend, founded the city of Rome. The highlight though was that I got to see the statue of the Dying Gaul, a Roman sculpture of a Galatian Celt that I have seen in several books on Celtic monasticism. The man is resting, leaning heavily on one arm, his torc around his collar his only clothing. A gash is open in his right side and the horn behind him is broken in two. His sword lies on the ground. His tousled, wild hair sticks out like spikes, and his traditional moustache would make any NASCAR driver proud, but even in death, the Dying Gaul has a look of proud nobility, enough to capture the admiration and respect of the artists and soldiers who conquered him in battle.
We ate dinner in Rome, somewhere, but I don't remember where, and we got back to the hotel late, passing the garrison walls that surround much of the city. There would be more Rome the next day at the Vatican, but again, for another time . . .
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Poem: First draft
I know a girl who doesn't like to dust
Her voice speaks rain and hidden lust.
The landscape of her mind: gray and green,
She has a knowledge of things unseen.
Beauty and sadness, long dark hair.
She smiles softly as I stop to stare
into her face, as I study it intently
and wonder if I'll be able to hold onto it when she's gone.
This girl I know, she haunts my dreams
with silent cries and guilt-ridden schemes.
Her voice speaks rain and hidden lust.
The landscape of her mind: gray and green,
She has a knowledge of things unseen.
Beauty and sadness, long dark hair.
She smiles softly as I stop to stare
into her face, as I study it intently
and wonder if I'll be able to hold onto it when she's gone.
This girl I know, she haunts my dreams
with silent cries and guilt-ridden schemes.
Italy and Greece: A Narnian Adventure
We came back from Athens yesterday. It was one of the longest days of my life, and while I was glad to get home after fifteen days out of the country, coming back to Lincoln was also depressing. I chalked it up to being exhausted. The two weeks we were gone felt like we'd been gone forever, and at the same time had barely left. It felt like stepping into Narnia through the wardrobe, and then coming back again to find that we had changed but nothing else around us had.
So here's a quick snapshot of the journey. I hope to expand it, maybe in my journal, maybe in more blogs, but here's the short version for now.
Thursday 24 May. Milan, Italy. We flew to Milan by way of Munich, Germany, and were going to head to the Church of St. Ambrose, but didn't have time, so we went on to Verona, saw Juliet's balcony (Romeo and Juliet), were greeted by hot temperatures and Italian gelatto (smooth Italian ice cream made with milk), and then made our way to the hotel
outside of Venice in a town called Caorle that sat just off the Adriatic Sea. I stood that night in the sea, letting the water lap over my feet as I watched the sun set and darkness descend.
Friday 25 May. Venice. We drove to Venice on a bus, passing through towns and seeing Italian homes with tiled roofs and small vineyards and olive groves. Some of the homes looked like little Roman villas, but were definitely different from the American homes we've grown used to seeing. We caught a ferry across the Po River (?) into Venice, and visited the doge's palace, St. Mark's basilica, rode on gondolas and saw the campo (village square) that Giacomo Casanova frequented (to keep the virgin nuns company). My friend Chris decided he could easily live in Venice, though I was happy to move on, mostly because of the heat. We also saw the Basilica of the Friars, and I saw a pyramid sculpted by Antonio Canova (Cupid and Psyche is my favorite).
Saturday 26 May. We left Caorle and headed to Florence, Italy. We took a walking tour near the Piazza del Signoria, and I saw a copy of Michelangelo's David (we'd see the original at the Academie the next day). We passed the the Uffizi with sculptures of a number of Florentine Renaissance figures (Dante, Boccacio, Galileo, da Vinci) and climbed 400+ steps of the duomo and saw images of Hell and Paradise, and then saw a beautiful view of Florence (Firenze) from the top. At first I disliked Florence, but quickly came to love it, even more than Venice. It rained hard that afternoon, which brought cooler weather, and we watched the sunset off the Old Bridge (Ponte Vecchio). I saw architecture here all the way from Roman times to the Renaissance, to present day.
Sunday 27 May. I spent four hours in the Uffizi looking at paintings with Emma and her aunt Cathy. I saw Botticelli's Birth of Venus, work by Giotto and Cimabue (Madonna and Child), and a number of other sculptures and works of art. We also saw copies of Laocoon and Sons, and of Silenus and Bacchus (Bacchus/Dionysius, the god of wine, and usually attributed to festivals, Greek satyr plays, and drunken orgies). That night we had a service in the hotel, and then I watched Shrek in Italian.
To be continued soon . . .
So here's a quick snapshot of the journey. I hope to expand it, maybe in my journal, maybe in more blogs, but here's the short version for now.
Thursday 24 May. Milan, Italy. We flew to Milan by way of Munich, Germany, and were going to head to the Church of St. Ambrose, but didn't have time, so we went on to Verona, saw Juliet's balcony (Romeo and Juliet), were greeted by hot temperatures and Italian gelatto (smooth Italian ice cream made with milk), and then made our way to the hotel
outside of Venice in a town called Caorle that sat just off the Adriatic Sea. I stood that night in the sea, letting the water lap over my feet as I watched the sun set and darkness descend.
Friday 25 May. Venice. We drove to Venice on a bus, passing through towns and seeing Italian homes with tiled roofs and small vineyards and olive groves. Some of the homes looked like little Roman villas, but were definitely different from the American homes we've grown used to seeing. We caught a ferry across the Po River (?) into Venice, and visited the doge's palace, St. Mark's basilica, rode on gondolas and saw the campo (village square) that Giacomo Casanova frequented (to keep the virgin nuns company). My friend Chris decided he could easily live in Venice, though I was happy to move on, mostly because of the heat. We also saw the Basilica of the Friars, and I saw a pyramid sculpted by Antonio Canova (Cupid and Psyche is my favorite).
Saturday 26 May. We left Caorle and headed to Florence, Italy. We took a walking tour near the Piazza del Signoria, and I saw a copy of Michelangelo's David (we'd see the original at the Academie the next day). We passed the the Uffizi with sculptures of a number of Florentine Renaissance figures (Dante, Boccacio, Galileo, da Vinci) and climbed 400+ steps of the duomo and saw images of Hell and Paradise, and then saw a beautiful view of Florence (Firenze) from the top. At first I disliked Florence, but quickly came to love it, even more than Venice. It rained hard that afternoon, which brought cooler weather, and we watched the sunset off the Old Bridge (Ponte Vecchio). I saw architecture here all the way from Roman times to the Renaissance, to present day.
Sunday 27 May. I spent four hours in the Uffizi looking at paintings with Emma and her aunt Cathy. I saw Botticelli's Birth of Venus, work by Giotto and Cimabue (Madonna and Child), and a number of other sculptures and works of art. We also saw copies of Laocoon and Sons, and of Silenus and Bacchus (Bacchus/Dionysius, the god of wine, and usually attributed to festivals, Greek satyr plays, and drunken orgies). That night we had a service in the hotel, and then I watched Shrek in Italian.
To be continued soon . . .
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