Late night light show. Poetry sprawled across a building in Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.
My first taste of Roman pizza... Needless to say I was UBERpleased... molto felice!
The sun blazing out over the Collosseum.
Up a flight of steps and into a wide doorway. A petite woman greets me with a smile and I’m given a tour of the apartment. Immediately I’m in love with the ambiance of the place. Richly tinted lace scarves, camouflage doorways and are peeled back to reveal massive bedrooms. Large geometrical shapes are painted on the walls in bold shades and poetry quotes are splashed across the walls in massive gold- colored cursive letters.
We sit in the kitchen and peer out of the two wood-framed glass doors leading out to a small balcony, scattered with paint supplies and potted plants. Over a pasta lunch we talk about ourselves. I find out that she is an architect, that she respects and adores art, and that she has a real appreciation for unfiltered expressions of human emotion. That’s all I need to know. I can tell I like her.
It’s confirmed when days later, I sit in bed and cry, seemingly of a broken heart (we’ll get to that later) and she stoops down on the floor in front of me and stares into my face “Cry!!” she says. “Cry…” She tells me that to pretend to be happy would be worse than crying. And she’s right. So I cried….
I remember the day I decided to translate one of my free-writes into Italian. After over an hour and a half of painstakingly wrestling with Google translator, I was SO sure that I finally had my translation right. I proudly handed her the paper to check for mistakes, of which I was SURE there were few. After about 2 minutes of looking it over she told me “This is all wrong”. “Your Italian is like my English” she laughed. That day she spent over an hour correcting my translation. “This is important” she said, as she hunched over a massive English- Italian dictionary. She’d refer to me when she needed clarification. “ ‘Stared’ What is this?”. I explained “ah! Come ‘fissò… fissato’!” We went on like this until the entire text had been translated. And it wasn’t until weeks later that I realized she had helped me write my first, but not last, piece of Italian poetry….
Italy so far- what can i say. Was almost too easy getting here. but then when i think of the year I've had, it becomes far easier. Let's start off by saying. I didn't think I'd end up staying...
So yea. It’s the first Saturday night of September. I just stepped out of my bridesmaid's Sari at my best friend's wedding and into a reception dress that I borrowed from a friend. As I saunter out onto the lawn where the reception party is to be held, I run into a man. I’ve met him before. He’s a mutual friend of the bride and groom. I don't expect to be invited to Italy by this man- But I am-. And I don't expect to say yes. But I do. Needless to say, my parents were a bit shocked when four days later I board a plane on a one-way ticket from JFK.
Rome is beautiful. the cobblestone streets of the Trastevere stumble out from the brick and peach tinted walls of the aged buildings. The tangerine stained tiled rooves unfold, stairways to the sky. As we drag our bags up the bumpy streets we hardly noticed our now callused hands. Too mesmerized by the warm sun and hunter green vines clinging to the buildings. Copper pipes danced along the wall and lead the way. At the front desk, Antonio gives us our key to a double room directly adjacent to garden sprinkled with gravel and shaded by trees. With the grapefruit dropping to the ground one by one and the lime starting to appear in stronger numbers, a changing season is being signaled. I don't yet know that I'll be around to see it for myself. It looks beautiful. It feels sure and welcoming. "Home" I would one day call it.
My first few days in Rome I danced around in thigh-bearing shorts and an ancient pair of converse sneakers. I inhale. Smelling tomatoes and cheese from whatever dish I dare to indulge in. The food is endless. And the restaurants are too many to choose from. Pizza, panini and pasta (the 3 p's) punctuate my days.
Afternoons I walk up and down the sunlit streets taking snapshots of the creased paths just as they curve into their own shadows. I make it my assignment to sneak quick-pics of nuns out and about. I admire them. One day I see a nun walking with her daughter. A bold symbol of the decisions we make in a lifetime.
I stare at graffiti art until it begs to be misunderstood. The good ones make you think.
Setting our budget to the side, he and I splurge on "We're in Italy bitches!!" dinners our first few nights. Get all dressed up for our three course meals. We speak endlessly over dinners, though our conversation turn to passionate arguments more often than not. Prompted and prodded by the empty bottles of wine which frame our tables. I grow to admire this man.
We spend our days marching around monuments and splitting up when different esthetic and culinary preferences present themselves. He buries his head in tourists guidebooks and I pretend to pay attention. Days alone I speak with local store owners and what appears to be a Big Boss or two.
Italy has me hooked. I'd say it’s the day I walk into a store owned by a well-coiffed man in a loose-linen shirt and a warm honest aura, that I start to dig my heels in. I look over his hand-made merchandise and admire his skill. I sit down in a low wooden chair and speak to him about religion and the world. "Tutto quello chè lucechè non'e oro" he teaches me. And my first lesson in Italian is complete. I run my fingers over his textured jewelry boxes and repeat. 'All that glitters isn't gold', it translates to. I don't know if he means his jewelry boxes or the beauty of this new country I've landed in. Even if he means both it can’t deter me.
I walk to the Vatic
an. Following the Tiber river. I forgo the offer of a three hour tour and prefer to see it all at my own pace. I climb a narrow stairway of over 300 steps to reach the top of the Cupolla. When I reach the top the clouds turn dark and come together over the statues of men long gone, the weight of whose names I hope to one day understand.
The rivers are intermittently dotted with bridges with vast archways. People row down them more often in Florence than in Rome. On a late afternoon you can expect to see sets of 3 and 4 rowers in narrow one-man vessels as they glide down sun-striped waters. They drift into sight, turning from shadows into people. Jutting forth out of the glare of the setting sun. Delivering messages of tomorrows.
Saying goodbye to Rome is hard. And I sleep off my sorrow on the train ride to Florence. My first day in Florence is disappointing. I can't believe that I’ve left Rome's beauty for the dusty street of “Firenze”, as it's called by Italians. And to top it all off, my travel buddy and I are arguing again (this time about rap music of all things) We decide to part ways because we can’t stand each other anymore. I find a room for rent, on the website airbnb.com and proceed in my nicest cyber-voice to inquire about its vacancy on such short notice. The next morning I’m out the door of our hotel, bags in hand. As my taxi pulls up, I hop out and looked at two big wooden doors. I stand down on the busy sidewalk and ring the bell….
Love, Me... Free
Your power is in your secrecy.
In that respect I have none.
My whole being has been cut open and put on display,
for all to see.
These scraps of power that I've gathered, crawling on my hands and knees already too scathed to now be ashamed: They are made of reality.
Made of the pieces of me that will still and forever whisper truths through the openings of my wounds.
I've had to build my power.
From these broken down understandings and fallen tears.
It's something that I can no longer lose.
Evolved.
Now made of all the things that Losing wouldn't think of.
It goes unseen and hushed along the promenade of evenings
and allows your arrogance to dance on its feet to the last song of the night.
Afraid to dream because I talk in my sleep.
Spent the night waiting for the morning.
Just to find
That the view may be better when you only catch a glimpse...
Spent the night waiting for a meaning.
Just to wake up to an unfamiliar feeling.
Just to be taught to keep looking.
Watching. Searching. For another day. Another night.
Which is all good as long as I can catch the sunrise.
....That glimpse of true beauty
That only lasts for a few minutes
...But is worth more than all the sunshine of my jaded afternoon.
Love, me... Free
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
This guy dressed in a full cheetah print spandex body suit and proceeded to put on one of the best public shows ever right in the middle of Union Square. He jumped over 6.5 girls (the ".5" was a little 5 year old) I was girl #3
Thats my friend CHristina. She was girl #2
Thats girls 4 and 5
These guys were playing chess and talking soooo much shit. it was hilarious. That's "tuna fish" on the right... Don't u dare call him "Fish".. its "TUNA fish"
There's Christina about to get hustled by the shoeless chess man.
Some guy hanging out in a window on Broadway
Me smiling like an out of control 5 year old
The was a ballerino having his own private photoshoot in front of me while I snacked on strawberries... yes, i just said "ballerino". so what?
really hot guy. pose ain't bad either
the end of the day. The view from Stuy Town on east 14th st.
No day's complete without a minor lil' chocolate binge
Katerina Graham
Love her big hair and her style
Anything and everything Sienna Miller wears
Public Royalty. Kinda getting back into sneaks since I have to do so much walking lately.
