August 3, 2007


i'm a little buzzed, and there's a family meeting i'm avoiding. one on the bedroom with the women, where nonna lies down. one in the kitchen with the men. i've been on the computer a while now, checking various websites, prolonging social engagement. and i began to listen to the noises behind me. the music of the language. how this doesn't sound strange anymore, even though i understand nothing from a distance. only the voices, who is who. the rhythmic flow. the punctuated syllables. and the sigh my heart gives, the comfort that swims in my body, when i tune in to the language.

if you are ever able to find it, i highly recommend:
montefalco rosso (sagrantino grape).

August 1, 2007



i have returned to naples. how i had missed it. up early to do the laundry and the dishes. waking up next to someone and a morning kiss with that awful morning breath. this time i don’t care. a few nights ago it was a full moon and the moonlight reflected off of vesuvio, bouncing between the clouds and the volcano, so close together. the moonlight did not reach the city. perhaps the clouds and vesuvio were too selfish; they kept it to themselves. i returned to a full moon, an empty refrigerator, a scared family, a very sick woman, and spaghetti with tuna. apparently vegetarianism is too difficult for some to accept.

i’m a little afraid to write. ideas bounce in my head all the time, but writing sounds scary these days. i’m either too tired, or i’ve forgotten the words in english. the computers here are PCs and very volatile. at any time, they will crash, infected with viri and technologically retarded users. but this isn’t what i want to talk about. what did i want to say?

anticipating grief. how do we do this? how do I do it? i have an amazing ability to detach myself, or attach, depending on what i want to do. for as “crazy” and unorganized as we pin italians to be, there’s so much regularity that i’ve fallen into. every morning at 8:20 am, i am awoken by who i call “the crazy man” with the scruffy voice who sells a variety of fresh food from his truck, yelling into a microphone/intercom type system. no word is recognizable, even to fabio. the view from annamaria’s hospital window is of the entire città. the airport, the sea, the port, tutte le case, capodimonte, vesuvio…. if i do not eat pasta at least once every 24 hours, i begin withdrawl symptoms. the ubiquity of bra straps, cleavage, and undergarment type situations in general in plain sight. crowded public transportation and the measurement of personal space. never silence, never peace; sempre caos, sempre confusione. and a hunger for solitude.


today i’m wearing a bra that shows. the color of my bra does not match the color of my tank top or my skirt. today i feel like i fit in just a little more. or maybe it’s just that i will not stand out as much.