Here are some scans I took of my face.
_________________________________________________
Poetry?
Jason Whitmarsh Explains Narrative
What we know of William is that he was a doctor as well
as a poet, and the thing in the rainy night that conveyed to him
the dying child was a wheelbarrow that the morning after
was still in the yard. Knowing this about the red wet barrow
and the white chickens should color your view of the poem.
But it's false.
End quote.
________________________________________________
What we know of William is that he was a doctor as well
as a poet, and the thing in the rainy night that conveyed to him
the dying child was a wheelbarrow that the morning after
was still in the yard. Knowing this about the red wet barrow
and the white chickens should color your view of the poem.
But it's false.
End quote.
________________________________________________
Poetry?
Metamorphoses
If you want to see
transformation, look
how Bernini turned
marble into flesh,
how a travertine slab becomes
two opposing
figures posing.
Watch the stone’s spiraling shape
shift to an encircling shroud.
Witness how Hades’ hand holds
the thigh and impresses
itself just so,
how the opposite fingers insinuate themselves
into the fleshy cleft of a twisting torso
as she turns away,
and how the nape folds
back to the top of the shoulder
when she sends a cry up.
This single moment, the ultimate
corporeal act, bound
by marble to the mundane.
Notice how the work
of art is a violation
masterpiece.
How her hair locks into a cumulating nimbus,
forever storming.
How the lecherous seethes through the teeth,
meat-eating smile.
How one side of his eye leers
upward against her negating hand,
and that stupid stupid look
on his face,
like a sadistic child
that always gets what he wants,
is always getting what he wants,
so he takes it, is always taking it.
This single moment.
This one single instant:
One scene, obscene.
We know how the story ends,
but with no end ever ending
we can imagine any ending.
What if Persephone
escapes, plunging
the world into eternal
spring, springing the world into eternal
summer.
What if Cerberus,
the patient Hades hound,
develops suddenly
a taste for blood and seeks
it from his master’s bloody,
blood-filled dog.
What if Artemis, friend
of Persephone, arrives
to hunt Hades down
and, in traditional Greek
style, sets right the lunatic
machinery
and he is sent down
to dwell in a cell
of his own making,
guarded by the same dog
that, with all its many eyes,
calmly witnessed the crime.
Wrote this one while in the Borghese Gallery looking at Bernini's Pluto and Proserpina.
_________________________________________________
Poetry?
In Ruins
I wrote this after touring the ruins of Paestum and Pompeii. I spent part of both days walking around with my instructor, Johnny, a tall, white-haired sort of a guy who always carried a large Moleskine in his right hand and wore all-black wingtips. He asked me what god's powers would I choose if I could select a superpower from among the Greek pantheon. I couldn't think of anything good, so I chose Apollo for his youth and beauty, even though I'm not really obsessed with those things. (In retrospect I would choose Dionysus for his wine, theater, symposia and transformation). Johnny chose Hermes for his ability to transcend all levels of experience and to communicate with all creatures. He confided in me that he thought this place (Italy in general, but Pompeii specifically that day) was destined to kill him. The idea of becoming a ruin while simultaneously walking in ruins planted itself in my head. This was supposed to be a sonnet, but sonnets are hard.
________________________________________
The searing smiting breaths of mid-day sun,
how one on one like travertine they stack
to press a weight of noon delirium
that will create the walker’s will’s collapse.
Becoming ghost, shapeshifting down the street.
Hermetic then, with wingtips on his feet.
And from his ruins we will pillage what
of his stories, histories, conspiracies
we like, and reconstruct from what we found
a thing of him we knew as true, yet not
so literally -- literarily.
We’ll charge his ghost as guide to tour the grounds.
“What am I” says the tour-guiding ghost.
To show one’s life is most that one can hope.
________________________________________
Poetry?
Here's a villanelle I wrote about the church of San Clemente, which is a 12th century church that was built on top of a 4th century church, which in turn was built on a 1st century pagan sort of a thing. Some interesting factoids:
1) The 4th century layer has on a fresco the earliest known example of written modern Italian.
2) "Prego" is this all purpose Italian word that you would use to say such things in English as "You're welcome", "How my I help you?", "After you", "Go ahead". Often times when you enter a retail establishment, you're greeted with a "Prego!" Literally translated, "Prego" means "I pray".
1) The 4th century layer has on a fresco the earliest known example of written modern Italian.
2) "Prego" is this all purpose Italian word that you would use to say such things in English as "You're welcome", "How my I help you?", "After you", "Go ahead". Often times when you enter a retail establishment, you're greeted with a "Prego!" Literally translated, "Prego" means "I pray".
Layer Cake
Why does God have to have so much stuff?
Build upon a building, never stop.
At what point would you say you’ve had enough?
Would you say this layer cake is up to snuff,
or has this spolia spoiled this whole crop?
Why does God have to have so much stuff?
The pacing of this tour’s kind of rough.
There’s only so much I can take before I drop.
At what point would you say you’ve had enough?
The gold’s been polished. The marble’s all been buffed.
In the Vatican Ocean I drop a fee. Kerplop.
Why does God have to have so much stuff?
The art erupts like bluffs beyond a bluff.
This layer like the gilded frosting on the top.
At what point would you say you’ve had enough?
I go down the stairs and look around and come back up.
I have to exit (“Prego!”) through the shop.
Why does God have to have so much stuff?
At what point would you say you’ve had enough?
_________________________________________
_________________________________________
Poetry?
So, I'm on this trip to Rome to write poetry. Here's some poetry that I wrote on this trip to Rome.
This poem is titled Apertures. It's about apertures.
Aperture I
Everything is a portal to something.
Take this bust, for example.
Look at the hairstyle, the piles of sweeping feathers, the loosely hanging open shirt.
In spite of the spited face, the portrait could be of an 80s heartthrob.
1680s? 1980s?
Choose a century
Aperture II
St Peter, I think, his eyes upturned,
above him, the Lord, shrouded in blue, and his mother,
she leans down to offer insight, to put a thought through him.
The saint’s mouth the divine speaks through,
and all around fat babies, up in the sky
and at his feet, they pray, offer adoration
(they are aperture through which adoration flows).
Through a hole in the clouds, a listing ship,
the unseen souls on board prepare to enter the gate
he guards, or fall through
a hole in the earth to damnation.
Aperture III
Heavenly angel on a cloud,
your toga flies around you,
and is slipping off one shoulder so you have to hold it up
lest we get a glimpse
of your breast.
You’d think in heaven the clothes would be better fitting,
or perhaps, in heaven, that they fall away so easily is the point.
In your other hand you hold a hole
that looks like an oso buco bone,
cleaved at top and bottom
the marrow in the middle
sucked out. Through
you, into
me, my mind a wondering thought:
what was it that you held.
Aperture IV
So focused,
the sun burns a hole I fall into.
My pen melts in my hand.
No words.
Aperture V
Aperture VI
In his side Jesus has an aperture that Thomas sticks his finger in.
It’s this hole that Thomas is transformed through.
Aperture VII
I go down the steps to an electronics shop. There is no one except a flat screen playing an Italian soap opera, soft focus, swelling music, domestic drama. All the electronics are second hand. This is not the place to buy a cell phone, but I look around anyway. The proprietor appears. I may or may not tell him I would like to buy a cell phone. We miscommunicate for a while. He holds up his cell phone, Telephonino? Si, I reply. He goes in the back to get another man who in turn gets a third. The third man tells me, No vendi, and he sends me away. Before I can ascend the steps, he calls me back to write an address on the back of a business card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it in my pocket and say thanks.
The blond girl and her mom negotiate for a mobile. Massimo, the man behind the desk, has gray hair, a pink polo shirt, and on his wrist a faded tattoo of a dolphin. He prints out a copy of the girl’s passport. Ukrainian. The young one pouts because her mother won’t spring for the expense of the luxury model. (Teenagers are terrible everywhere). When my turn comes, I ask him if he speaks English. He says, Un poco. I tell him I need a telefonino, and he knows exactly what I need. You need a telephone economicale. 24 euro for the phone, 10 for the chip. He pronounces the word chip, cheap. Yes, I say. Before we can commence the sale, Massimo’s bother, son and granddaughter enter. Business is on hold for uno momento while family is attended to, and for a short time, I’m in a Roman living room with three generations of Romans. The girl is dressed the same as my parents’ granddaughter, my niece, in spangled pinks. (Little girls are the same everywhere). She’s eating a slice of pizza. She doesn’t want the crust, so she hops up on her granddad’s lap and feeds it to him. He eats it. A server from an adjacent bar enters with a tray of drinks which she disperses. In the corner on the floor by the door there is a stack of dishes she clears away before exiting. The three men sort out their drinks: un café for the son, un acqua minerale for the brother, and Massimo quaffs a lemonade. At the end he bites the wedge of lemon in the glass. It’s a post siesta snack, and I’m invited to observe, but not partake. The brother, son and granddaughter take their leave with a, Ciao, papa. Massimo processes my documentation as two more men enter. Sera, they say. Sera, he says. They’re not here for any other reason than to gossip. They leave. Another man comes in, and he needs a favor. His telefonino is broken. Massimo seems displeased, but fixes it for him anyway. My total comes to 46. I pull 45 from my wallet, but before I can dip into my pocket to find one more, Massimo waves me off. He tells me if I have any problems to come back to him and hands me his card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it my pocket and say thanks.
At the end of the day, I empty the day’s travels from my pockets. Among the artifacts there are the two business cards. The hand written address on the one card matches the address on the other.
Aperture VII (Confirmed Relic)
Two Christians cross, and in the dirt one of them draws a line.
A fish, a faith is what you get when a line crosses a line.
The fishermen fish for men with a lure that dazzles and shines
with a promise that says that earthly death isn’t the end of the line.
Thirteen at a Sader. They dine on bread and wine.
This is my body. This is my blood went the legendary line.
Walking through the hand-cut stone on a path that bends and winds:
a graveyard with no dead. Just a line of writers writing lines.
I went to mass a San Pietro, an obligation of mine.
I held her hand to recite Our Father, but I couldn’t remember the lines.
Three strokes from the axe couldn’t cut through St Cecilia’s spine.
The fourth chop never came down: tow the dogmatic line.
Her head is wrapped in a marble shroud. She’s lying on her side.
Unravel the mystery of the never corrupted by tugging on the line.
I left a note to San Antonio. Whatever is lost, he’ll find.
A prayer to St. Jude probably was a more appropriate line.
I can’t remember exactly when I left it all behind.
I don’t think their line was ever congruent with my own meandering.
____________________________________________________
This poem is titled Apertures. It's about apertures.
Aperture I
Everything is a portal to something.
Take this bust, for example.
Look at the hairstyle, the piles of sweeping feathers, the loosely hanging open shirt.
In spite of the spited face, the portrait could be of an 80s heartthrob.
1680s? 1980s?
Choose a century
Aperture II
St Peter, I think, his eyes upturned,
above him, the Lord, shrouded in blue, and his mother,
she leans down to offer insight, to put a thought through him.
The saint’s mouth the divine speaks through,
and all around fat babies, up in the sky
and at his feet, they pray, offer adoration
(they are aperture through which adoration flows).
Through a hole in the clouds, a listing ship,
the unseen souls on board prepare to enter the gate
he guards, or fall through
a hole in the earth to damnation.
Aperture III
Heavenly angel on a cloud,
your toga flies around you,
and is slipping off one shoulder so you have to hold it up
lest we get a glimpse
of your breast.
You’d think in heaven the clothes would be better fitting,
or perhaps, in heaven, that they fall away so easily is the point.
In your other hand you hold a hole
that looks like an oso buco bone,
cleaved at top and bottom
the marrow in the middle
sucked out. Through
you, into
me, my mind a wondering thought:
what was it that you held.
Aperture IV
So focused,
the sun burns a hole I fall into.
My pen melts in my hand.
No words.
Aperture V
Aperture VI
In his side Jesus has an aperture that Thomas sticks his finger in.
It’s this hole that Thomas is transformed through.
Aperture VII
I go down the steps to an electronics shop. There is no one except a flat screen playing an Italian soap opera, soft focus, swelling music, domestic drama. All the electronics are second hand. This is not the place to buy a cell phone, but I look around anyway. The proprietor appears. I may or may not tell him I would like to buy a cell phone. We miscommunicate for a while. He holds up his cell phone, Telephonino? Si, I reply. He goes in the back to get another man who in turn gets a third. The third man tells me, No vendi, and he sends me away. Before I can ascend the steps, he calls me back to write an address on the back of a business card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it in my pocket and say thanks.
The blond girl and her mom negotiate for a mobile. Massimo, the man behind the desk, has gray hair, a pink polo shirt, and on his wrist a faded tattoo of a dolphin. He prints out a copy of the girl’s passport. Ukrainian. The young one pouts because her mother won’t spring for the expense of the luxury model. (Teenagers are terrible everywhere). When my turn comes, I ask him if he speaks English. He says, Un poco. I tell him I need a telefonino, and he knows exactly what I need. You need a telephone economicale. 24 euro for the phone, 10 for the chip. He pronounces the word chip, cheap. Yes, I say. Before we can commence the sale, Massimo’s bother, son and granddaughter enter. Business is on hold for uno momento while family is attended to, and for a short time, I’m in a Roman living room with three generations of Romans. The girl is dressed the same as my parents’ granddaughter, my niece, in spangled pinks. (Little girls are the same everywhere). She’s eating a slice of pizza. She doesn’t want the crust, so she hops up on her granddad’s lap and feeds it to him. He eats it. A server from an adjacent bar enters with a tray of drinks which she disperses. In the corner on the floor by the door there is a stack of dishes she clears away before exiting. The three men sort out their drinks: un café for the son, un acqua minerale for the brother, and Massimo quaffs a lemonade. At the end he bites the wedge of lemon in the glass. It’s a post siesta snack, and I’m invited to observe, but not partake. The brother, son and granddaughter take their leave with a, Ciao, papa. Massimo processes my documentation as two more men enter. Sera, they say. Sera, he says. They’re not here for any other reason than to gossip. They leave. Another man comes in, and he needs a favor. His telefonino is broken. Massimo seems displeased, but fixes it for him anyway. My total comes to 46. I pull 45 from my wallet, but before I can dip into my pocket to find one more, Massimo waves me off. He tells me if I have any problems to come back to him and hands me his card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it my pocket and say thanks.
At the end of the day, I empty the day’s travels from my pockets. Among the artifacts there are the two business cards. The hand written address on the one card matches the address on the other.
Aperture VII (Confirmed Relic)
Two Christians cross, and in the dirt one of them draws a line.
A fish, a faith is what you get when a line crosses a line.
The fishermen fish for men with a lure that dazzles and shines
with a promise that says that earthly death isn’t the end of the line.
Thirteen at a Sader. They dine on bread and wine.
This is my body. This is my blood went the legendary line.
Walking through the hand-cut stone on a path that bends and winds:
a graveyard with no dead. Just a line of writers writing lines.
I went to mass a San Pietro, an obligation of mine.
I held her hand to recite Our Father, but I couldn’t remember the lines.
Three strokes from the axe couldn’t cut through St Cecilia’s spine.
The fourth chop never came down: tow the dogmatic line.
Her head is wrapped in a marble shroud. She’s lying on her side.
Unravel the mystery of the never corrupted by tugging on the line.
I left a note to San Antonio. Whatever is lost, he’ll find.
A prayer to St. Jude probably was a more appropriate line.
I can’t remember exactly when I left it all behind.
I don’t think their line was ever congruent with my own meandering.
____________________________________________________
Getting There
13, June, 2012 13:04, Madrid Airport Writing just to stay awake. Been awake since the 12th, 2 am Seattle time, so I'm not
sure how many hours that makes it. I suppose that I might have dozed off on the plane
at some point as well, but the days have become confused. The act of traveling, from being
in one place at one time, to being in another place at another time, to being on one airplane,
and then another, all seem to have merged into a single act, so that this has been one
continuous thirty hour interval (or how ever long it's been--too addled to attempt calculation).
In Sea-Tac, I was waiting around to board the plane, not really paying much
attention to the time. Flight departed at 6 am. The clock read 5:30. I wondered if we shouldn't
be boarding by now. I was sitting on the floor near the kiosk, staring out the window, when
a mechanic appeared from the gate. He told the United Airline people that a sensor on the
plane needed to be replaced. I would be a quick fix if they could just find the right part.
The airline people got on the PA to tell us that the flight would be delayed.
I had a two-plus-hour layover in Newark, so I wasn't worried.
A while later, they had found the part and were installing it. We would be
boarding in a few minutes. We were close to two-hours delayed by this point.
Once we were on the plane and taxiing, the flight attendant announced that
there was another mechanical problem. We had to return to the terminal. Fifteen
minutes elapsed. The pilot got on the PA to announce the problem fixed, and we
were finally departing, two hours late.
On the flight, I kept looking at the clock, looking at my ticket, and wondering if
I had enough time to make my connection, just as, I'm sure, many other passengers
were doing.
We were somewhere over Appalachia when the pilot announced that we
had to be rerouted south due to bad weather in Newark. We had to fly over
West Virginia, then head north up the coast to reach our destination safely. Any
detour that involves West Virginia is bad auspices. Since we would now be close to
three hours late, I figured I'd missed my connection. The flight attendant assured
us that because all the flights arriving to and departing from Newark would also
be delayed.
When we arrived in Newark, the weather was terrible, as promised. Buckets.
Torrents.
Maybe if we weren't stranded on the tarmac for 15 minutes before arriving
at the gate, maybe if I had sprinted to the front of the plane the moment we landed,
or asked the flight attendants for permission to deplane first, I could have made
the connection. As it was, I missed it. My connection, flight 40, was still at the gate,
waiting to depart, but the doors were closed, and so I was denied entry. Three minutes
later, I received an email from United that flight 40 would be boarding 20 minutes late.
I arranged to be rerouted through Madrid to Rome. They told me that I would
have to go to Customer Service to have my luggage rerouted with me because the
last leg of my flight was on Iberia Airlines instead of United. Since so many other travelers
were similarly waylaid by the storm, the line for customer service was long. The service
agents were in to hurry to move people along. I waited an hour and half to reach the
counter where they told me, Okay. You're all set. You'll have to get you boarding pass
for your flight to Rome while you're in Madrid. We can't print it out here.
I had an hour and a half to kill before departing for Madrid, so I got a beer.
the bartender was a thick sort with a Jersey accent. He was more interested in the
interleague action, Mets v Rays, Yankees v Braves, on the twin flatscreens than he
was in service. I ordered a Yeunling's. He asked me if I wanted a small or large.
Assuming the normal 10 v 16 ounce glasses, I ordered a large. Turns out a large
was 20 ounces compared to 16. Drinking my beer, another thick type sat in the
seat next to me. He and the bartender grunted back in forth in Jersey accents.
They seemed to be communicating on some sort of subliminal level. He ordered
a double Grey Goose on the rocks with lots of lime, and a Cobb salad.
As I was leaving. another guy came in and ordered a Stella. Asked small
or large, he said, Large, I guess. He fell for it, too.
The plane was half-empty because of all the missed connections. Delayed
again because of the weather, and because they had to remove the luggage of
the people who didn't make it on the plane. On the flight, I dozed for the most part,
watched Drive with one earbud in because the other was buzzing.
Arrived in Madrid about 10:30 local time. My layover was supposed to
give me about an hour and a half to connect flights. It took my about twenty minutes to
realize that I had to exit the airport, including getting my passport stamped,
re-enter security, check in again to get my boarding pass. Of course my connection
was in a different terminal which required a ten minute bus ride. By the time I checked
in, the flight was already closed even though it was not to depart for another twenty
minutes. I got put on the next flight for Rome, to depart in five hours.
It was in the Madrid airport that I learned in Europe, I could pass for Spanish.
Several times, I asked for help at an information desk, and each time, the person
each time the person addressed me in Spanish. When I landed in Rome, a person
from my flight asked me in Spanish for directions to the baggage claim.
The next five hours in the airport were the worst of my trip. I forced myself
to stay awake as to not reset my jetlag. Maybe I was just tired, but I could have sworn
that I was cruised by one of a group of Catholic priests as I wandered around the
terminal.
I slept the entire flight from Madrid to Rome.
After one reroute and two missed connections, do you think my luggage
made it to Rome with me? Of course not. I went to the customer service counter
to inquire. I thought maybe my bags made on the previous flight and were waiting
for me somewhere. It seemed Iberia is not too good with the luggage-handling as
there was a large group of people, all English speakers, who were wondering where
their bags were. It turned out that mine were still in Newark. After the hassle of
telling them to re-route my luggage, United did not re-route my luggage. It was to take
the next flight 40 direct from Newark to Rome. The agent assured me that they would
deliver the luggage to me when it arrived, so I gave them the address to the convent
where I was to stay. It was about 8 pm by this point. I had arrived in Rome 13 hours
later than my original itinerary. The convent had a curfew at 11, and if I didn't make
it there by then, I might forfeit my reservation.
Finding the train was easy. FCO, Fiumicino Airport, is easy to navigate. Took
the train to the neighborhood where my room was. Finding the convent was not easy.
Navigating in Rome requires a map. The streets all have names instead of numbers,
and the numbers of the addresses do not correspond to the cross-streets. Forget
your ideas about "blocks". A street will change names as soon as it intersects with
another. They will wind and turn. I retraced my steps up Via di Monte del Gallo, a
narrow street that bends up a hill. The google maps printout did not provide an accurate
route to the place.
I walked up and down the hill several times. Strange European cars lined both
sides of the street, taking up the sidewalks, and behind them apartments towered. Up
on one balcony, a family dined al fresco. Near the top of the hill, was a cafe where
locals were drinking beers on the patio and watching the EuroCup on a TV set up
outside for that purpose. I went in there to ask for directions. The young man behind
the counter greeted me. I showed him my google map printout, and pointed to the
address printed across the top. He seemed deeply annoyed as he said stuff in Italian.
He nor his mother the bartender, seemed to know where the place was except to
say, Back down the hill that way.
I didn't know what time it was, but I guessed that it was close to 11, if not
already passed. I seriously considered the possibility of sleeping outside. Then I
found the address. It seemed dark inside, but there was a single room lit, the front
office, and two ladies were inside.
I rang the bell. One of the women looked up. I waved. She buzzed me in
through the front gate. She was very friendly and knew who I was. We had a very
slow conversation in Italian as she walked me through the fees and rules and so
forth. She asked me if I spoke Spanish. I had made it in with about 20 minutes to
spare, the first time I was against the clock and beat it.
I had arrived. In my room I took a shower, washed my socks out in the sink
and passed out.
____________________________________
sure how many hours that makes it. I suppose that I might have dozed off on the plane
at some point as well, but the days have become confused. The act of traveling, from being
in one place at one time, to being in another place at another time, to being on one airplane,
and then another, all seem to have merged into a single act, so that this has been one
continuous thirty hour interval (or how ever long it's been--too addled to attempt calculation).
In Sea-Tac, I was waiting around to board the plane, not really paying much
attention to the time. Flight departed at 6 am. The clock read 5:30. I wondered if we shouldn't
be boarding by now. I was sitting on the floor near the kiosk, staring out the window, when
a mechanic appeared from the gate. He told the United Airline people that a sensor on the
plane needed to be replaced. I would be a quick fix if they could just find the right part.
The airline people got on the PA to tell us that the flight would be delayed.
I had a two-plus-hour layover in Newark, so I wasn't worried.
A while later, they had found the part and were installing it. We would be
boarding in a few minutes. We were close to two-hours delayed by this point.
Once we were on the plane and taxiing, the flight attendant announced that
there was another mechanical problem. We had to return to the terminal. Fifteen
minutes elapsed. The pilot got on the PA to announce the problem fixed, and we
were finally departing, two hours late.
On the flight, I kept looking at the clock, looking at my ticket, and wondering if
I had enough time to make my connection, just as, I'm sure, many other passengers
were doing.
We were somewhere over Appalachia when the pilot announced that we
had to be rerouted south due to bad weather in Newark. We had to fly over
West Virginia, then head north up the coast to reach our destination safely. Any
detour that involves West Virginia is bad auspices. Since we would now be close to
three hours late, I figured I'd missed my connection. The flight attendant assured
us that because all the flights arriving to and departing from Newark would also
be delayed.
When we arrived in Newark, the weather was terrible, as promised. Buckets.
Torrents.
Maybe if we weren't stranded on the tarmac for 15 minutes before arriving
at the gate, maybe if I had sprinted to the front of the plane the moment we landed,
or asked the flight attendants for permission to deplane first, I could have made
the connection. As it was, I missed it. My connection, flight 40, was still at the gate,
waiting to depart, but the doors were closed, and so I was denied entry. Three minutes
later, I received an email from United that flight 40 would be boarding 20 minutes late.
I arranged to be rerouted through Madrid to Rome. They told me that I would
have to go to Customer Service to have my luggage rerouted with me because the
last leg of my flight was on Iberia Airlines instead of United. Since so many other travelers
were similarly waylaid by the storm, the line for customer service was long. The service
agents were in to hurry to move people along. I waited an hour and half to reach the
counter where they told me, Okay. You're all set. You'll have to get you boarding pass
for your flight to Rome while you're in Madrid. We can't print it out here.
I had an hour and a half to kill before departing for Madrid, so I got a beer.
the bartender was a thick sort with a Jersey accent. He was more interested in the
interleague action, Mets v Rays, Yankees v Braves, on the twin flatscreens than he
was in service. I ordered a Yeunling's. He asked me if I wanted a small or large.
Assuming the normal 10 v 16 ounce glasses, I ordered a large. Turns out a large
was 20 ounces compared to 16. Drinking my beer, another thick type sat in the
seat next to me. He and the bartender grunted back in forth in Jersey accents.
They seemed to be communicating on some sort of subliminal level. He ordered
a double Grey Goose on the rocks with lots of lime, and a Cobb salad.
As I was leaving. another guy came in and ordered a Stella. Asked small
or large, he said, Large, I guess. He fell for it, too.
The plane was half-empty because of all the missed connections. Delayed
again because of the weather, and because they had to remove the luggage of
the people who didn't make it on the plane. On the flight, I dozed for the most part,
watched Drive with one earbud in because the other was buzzing.
Arrived in Madrid about 10:30 local time. My layover was supposed to
give me about an hour and a half to connect flights. It took my about twenty minutes to
realize that I had to exit the airport, including getting my passport stamped,
re-enter security, check in again to get my boarding pass. Of course my connection
was in a different terminal which required a ten minute bus ride. By the time I checked
in, the flight was already closed even though it was not to depart for another twenty
minutes. I got put on the next flight for Rome, to depart in five hours.
It was in the Madrid airport that I learned in Europe, I could pass for Spanish.
Several times, I asked for help at an information desk, and each time, the person
each time the person addressed me in Spanish. When I landed in Rome, a person
from my flight asked me in Spanish for directions to the baggage claim.
The next five hours in the airport were the worst of my trip. I forced myself
to stay awake as to not reset my jetlag. Maybe I was just tired, but I could have sworn
that I was cruised by one of a group of Catholic priests as I wandered around the
terminal.
I slept the entire flight from Madrid to Rome.
After one reroute and two missed connections, do you think my luggage
made it to Rome with me? Of course not. I went to the customer service counter
to inquire. I thought maybe my bags made on the previous flight and were waiting
for me somewhere. It seemed Iberia is not too good with the luggage-handling as
there was a large group of people, all English speakers, who were wondering where
their bags were. It turned out that mine were still in Newark. After the hassle of
telling them to re-route my luggage, United did not re-route my luggage. It was to take
the next flight 40 direct from Newark to Rome. The agent assured me that they would
deliver the luggage to me when it arrived, so I gave them the address to the convent
where I was to stay. It was about 8 pm by this point. I had arrived in Rome 13 hours
later than my original itinerary. The convent had a curfew at 11, and if I didn't make
it there by then, I might forfeit my reservation.
Finding the train was easy. FCO, Fiumicino Airport, is easy to navigate. Took
the train to the neighborhood where my room was. Finding the convent was not easy.
Navigating in Rome requires a map. The streets all have names instead of numbers,
and the numbers of the addresses do not correspond to the cross-streets. Forget
your ideas about "blocks". A street will change names as soon as it intersects with
another. They will wind and turn. I retraced my steps up Via di Monte del Gallo, a
narrow street that bends up a hill. The google maps printout did not provide an accurate
route to the place.
I walked up and down the hill several times. Strange European cars lined both
sides of the street, taking up the sidewalks, and behind them apartments towered. Up
on one balcony, a family dined al fresco. Near the top of the hill, was a cafe where
locals were drinking beers on the patio and watching the EuroCup on a TV set up
outside for that purpose. I went in there to ask for directions. The young man behind
the counter greeted me. I showed him my google map printout, and pointed to the
address printed across the top. He seemed deeply annoyed as he said stuff in Italian.
He nor his mother the bartender, seemed to know where the place was except to
say, Back down the hill that way.
I didn't know what time it was, but I guessed that it was close to 11, if not
already passed. I seriously considered the possibility of sleeping outside. Then I
found the address. It seemed dark inside, but there was a single room lit, the front
office, and two ladies were inside.
I rang the bell. One of the women looked up. I waved. She buzzed me in
through the front gate. She was very friendly and knew who I was. We had a very
slow conversation in Italian as she walked me through the fees and rules and so
forth. She asked me if I spoke Spanish. I had made it in with about 20 minutes to
spare, the first time I was against the clock and beat it.
I had arrived. In my room I took a shower, washed my socks out in the sink
and passed out.
____________________________________
Poetry?
I guess April is National Poetry Month? In honor of that, here's a poem I wrote. The assignment was to write something in blank verse. This poem is written in blank verse.
Big Bang
The chestnut trees stood watch above the state-
ly houses' ting and geometric lawns.
A child's abandoned bike looks out of place:
an upturned tire, a breeze caught in the spokes.
The wives were statuesque and bronze.
The men inside their suits were crisp and sharp.
The kids were wads of chewing gum, all sweet
at first then tasteless. I, an only child,
among them, flavor of a different sort.
This was the postcard where we used to live:
each element composed precisely right.
My mother and my father: gods to me.
My father was a blond Adonis; I
his olive child. Our house, a temple to
their greater breeding intellect and taste.
In tux and gown they one night left me by
myself. I thought myself a guard at night
and charged with sentry work, each room
a diorama filled with life unknown,
a spirit there in each one lurked that was
not there at day. The empty house with si-
lence rang so I turned on appliances.
The microwave, the television, wash-
er /drier too, until the whole house hummed
with noise, and I was not alone.
It was at eight or so I heard a knock,
authoritative, coming from the door.
The doorbell rang a few times too, and then
the knock again. "Police," a voice said from
behind the door. I opened it and stand-
ing there, a bulky officer. "Your father home?"
he asked. Contempt was on the corners of
his moustache like the crumbs of donuts. Al-
so with him was a man that I had nev-
er met, and yet, I recognized his face.
He was a feral man who strayed somehow
into the postcard's frame. A streak of dust
and shadow seemed to haunt his weary face.
"Uncle," I said, not knowing why. The strang-
er smiled a smile that showed myself in him.
"My boy," he said, "I am your uncle. Yes,
I am. I am."
The bulky officer,
he arched a brow and crossed his arms.
"He's here
to watch me while my mom and dad are out.”
I said. “Can you not see it? Look at him,
then look at me."
The officer conced-
ed that there was resemblance and harrumphed.
"You told the truth about yourself,” the cop
said to the feral man, “but I don't trust
you still." The officer retreated back
into his cruiser, stealing one last glance
at us.
My uncle entered, but I did
not have a clue as what to say. We did
not speak. Instead we sat around the kitch-
en nook. He bowed his head above a bowl
of Lucky Charms, and I just watched him eat.
His hair, bedraggled, hung beside his head
like Cocker Spaniel ears. He ate one bowl,
and then he poured one more into the sug-
ared milk. He cupped the bowl with both his hands
and drank the milk. He belched. He wiped his sleeve
across his mouth. Before he left, he gave
to me an AM radio. That night
I hid my head between the sheets, my bed
a tent, and tuned the dial down. I fell
asleep as static hissed. I dreamt of all
the secret voices it contained.
"How does
a radio transmit the sounds across
the air?" I asked my dad.
"In waves," he said,
"that travel at the speed of light."
"And where
does static come from, dad?"
"The static on
the radio is radiation from
the making of the universe."
_______________________________________________________
Big Bang
The chestnut trees stood watch above the state-
ly houses' ting and geometric lawns.
A child's abandoned bike looks out of place:
an upturned tire, a breeze caught in the spokes.
The wives were statuesque and bronze.
The men inside their suits were crisp and sharp.
The kids were wads of chewing gum, all sweet
at first then tasteless. I, an only child,
among them, flavor of a different sort.
This was the postcard where we used to live:
each element composed precisely right.
My mother and my father: gods to me.
My father was a blond Adonis; I
his olive child. Our house, a temple to
their greater breeding intellect and taste.
In tux and gown they one night left me by
myself. I thought myself a guard at night
and charged with sentry work, each room
a diorama filled with life unknown,
a spirit there in each one lurked that was
not there at day. The empty house with si-
lence rang so I turned on appliances.
The microwave, the television, wash-
er /drier too, until the whole house hummed
with noise, and I was not alone.
It was at eight or so I heard a knock,
authoritative, coming from the door.
The doorbell rang a few times too, and then
the knock again. "Police," a voice said from
behind the door. I opened it and stand-
ing there, a bulky officer. "Your father home?"
he asked. Contempt was on the corners of
his moustache like the crumbs of donuts. Al-
so with him was a man that I had nev-
er met, and yet, I recognized his face.
He was a feral man who strayed somehow
into the postcard's frame. A streak of dust
and shadow seemed to haunt his weary face.
"Uncle," I said, not knowing why. The strang-
er smiled a smile that showed myself in him.
"My boy," he said, "I am your uncle. Yes,
I am. I am."
The bulky officer,
he arched a brow and crossed his arms.
"He's here
to watch me while my mom and dad are out.”
I said. “Can you not see it? Look at him,
then look at me."
The officer conced-
ed that there was resemblance and harrumphed.
"You told the truth about yourself,” the cop
said to the feral man, “but I don't trust
you still." The officer retreated back
into his cruiser, stealing one last glance
at us.
My uncle entered, but I did
not have a clue as what to say. We did
not speak. Instead we sat around the kitch-
en nook. He bowed his head above a bowl
of Lucky Charms, and I just watched him eat.
His hair, bedraggled, hung beside his head
like Cocker Spaniel ears. He ate one bowl,
and then he poured one more into the sug-
ared milk. He cupped the bowl with both his hands
and drank the milk. He belched. He wiped his sleeve
across his mouth. Before he left, he gave
to me an AM radio. That night
I hid my head between the sheets, my bed
a tent, and tuned the dial down. I fell
asleep as static hissed. I dreamt of all
the secret voices it contained.
"How does
a radio transmit the sounds across
the air?" I asked my dad.
"In waves," he said,
"that travel at the speed of light."
"And where
does static come from, dad?"
"The static on
the radio is radiation from
the making of the universe."
_______________________________________________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
