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Florence, Firenze, on a Thursday. the day, like all the others before, had been maddeningly hot. wherever we went, thousands of tourists were crammed into whatever shade whatever giant cathedral or baptistery or museum provided, leaving half of a plaza desolate.
i was sweaty with the weight of a backpack filled with the unnecessary weight of the trusty old D200 Lauren was letting me use for the trip. i had stopped looking for good shots hours ago–too hot, too crowded, too rushed: the theme of a European tour via Mediterranean cruise. in my head, i was already crashed out on my cabin’s bed. no more weight on my feet, my sweaty tanktop on the floor, the balcony door sealed shut to trap in the cool, conditioned air. then back to reality. Ponte Vecchio and Piazza Signoria rolled past in a wave of fluttering heat like you see emanate off the hood of a hot car. we trudged on.
i hated that it was happening, but Florence was becoming just another old city with pretty old places. i’d have traded it in a second for a gallon of ice water and a massage.
we entered the Basilica di Santa Croce to see the tombs of Michelangelo and Macchiaveli (how’d the birther of lie-laced, ruthless ambition get buried in a church?). while Ignazio, our tour guide, was asking if any of us could sing, i could only think about how i had to cover my shoulders with a scarf, raising the temperature of my body another few unbearable degrees, so as to not offend God, or something.
get me out of this city.
our last stop of the day was at Cappella dei Pazzi, the chapel at Santa Croce–another cavernous space adorned with prophets and columns with a dome on top. Ignazio went on to explain the geometric perfection of the structure which made the chapel an acoustic wonder. to illustrate, he walked away from us to the other side of the huge space and whispered, “can you hear me?” his voice rolled across the curve of the dome and floated into my ears like he was telling me a secret, but everyone was nodding their heads.
“where’s my singer?” Ignazio asked. a stout African American woman from Austin stepped out from the crowd, only a little shyly. her eyes scanned the space, maybe a little nervously, but mostly with a glint full of wonder.
“will you sing a line or two?” Ignazio asked.
“what should i sing?”
“anything you want.”
the woman nodded her head just slightly, looked around the chapel once more, then closed her eyes and took in a breath.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…
Florence went silent as her sad, deep gospel voice slowly filled the marble room. i swear i saw the walls shiver just slightly as they inhaled the sound, and then they exhaled together returning her voice to us in thick, rolling waves. i closed my eyes, and i felt the entire world tiptoe inside the chapel to hear what was happening. we all held our breath together.
the singer whispered, more shyly than when she started, “should i keep going?”
“please…” Ignazio whispered back.
That saved a wretch like me…
the sweat on my arms went cold as the waves of her song seeped into my skin. suddenly, we all weren’t just in Florence. Florence was there, but so was Austin and Mumbai and La Paz. the world turned inside out, without boundaries, a breeze across our faces.
I once was lost, but now I’m found…
the painted prophets were there, too, holding breath i didn’t know they had, straining their ancient ears as to not miss a note. then the moon and all the stars arrived. time crumbled and the heat together with any cold in the world vanished. we were suspended, all of us, hanging there together inside the cupped hands of some vast, unfathomable…
Was blind, but now I see.
this is me tapping my fingers before heading to New Jersey to catch a plane. then Europe. i have my pre-judgments. but i’m trying to stay open-minded. i won’t worry about what i wear. i’ll smile at everyone i see.
i’m so lucky. blessed. happy.
see you when i get back. or maybe you’ll see me first.
i’m grateful for today, so far. (i desperately need to remind myself…)
- six and a half hours of unbroken sleep.
- fresh cherries and pineapple slices in the refrigerator for breakfast.
- an hour of calm reading time with coffee before work.
- Lauren’s voice didn’t sound like a grating box of Lucky Brands, and she was glowing from her seven and a half hours of unbroken, albeit CR, sleep.
- the resuscitation of a long forgotten mix on the way to work, with songs from a nostalgic, bygone era.
- traffic at the I-95 merge kept me held up for awhile, giving me even more time to enjoy that mix.
- morning Zen chat with Wendy.
- Chik-Patty Sandwich from Edge of the Hood on a full hour lunchbreak.
(bonus: free sample of Reed’s Ginger Beer) - the amazing opportunities for patience and compassion presented by a last-minute phone call from my boss, the sudden loss of much-needed fonts, and the five-minute lag-time between the moment i press “print” and when the document actually prints.
- dark chocolate-covered almonds.
and it’s only 3:14 in the afternoon.
it happens sometimes when i’m not paying attention. memories creep in from distant places. the smell of Chapel Street early this morning; steady rain on the windows after the sun goes down; Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea from the ipod on shuffle; tu me manques on the tv. bystander details from an innocent June day saturating all the photos i didn’t save or never took.
in my head i found you there and
running around and following me
it may not be much of an image, sometimes not even a face. sometimes it’s just a presence filling the space like in a dream where a stranger is pictured but you recognize them as someone you know in real life. sometimes it’s just a name written in someone’s particular script in the air in front of me.
but they’re there, and they don’t notice me. and of course that’s all i want. i want them to look up from their faraway lives and say hi.
that’s why i’m writing, of course.
i want them to remember me like i sometimes remember them. that ride home from the Valley, that photo taken on the Turnpike, that storm over Seaside Park.
but i suppose the best i can do is wave to them from here, whether anyone is looking or not.
i haven’t forgotten you, and i don’t think i ever will.
baker baker baking a cake
make me a day
make me whole again
and i wonder if he’s ok
if you see him say hi
it’s a strange thing to run without music when i’ve run plugged into my ipod for so long. the opposite of music is not silence, it’s breath–mine and a neighborhood’s. the sound of moppy heads grinding the sidewalk with skateboards. of dogs behind fences barking at dogs on leashes. of the soft soles of a faster runner coming up behind me.
it’s been a long time since i’ve ran through East Rock (the section of town). Carrie-Lynn and i used to jog to the edge of East Rock (the rock) and then wind through the sort of suburban streets of the rare New Haven neighborhood that has somehow managed to not become too gentrified or too dangerous. we’d end at her place on Foster, and she’d invite me up for lemonade and conversation on her third floor balcony.
the houses lining Livingston all look like they’ve been alive a long time, like great-grandpas with bushy eyebrows or ancient aunts whose knee-high pantyhose are always falling down–the ones the kids love best.
and there are kids everywhere. one who keeps throwing a flat rock at the sidewalk to see how many pieces she can break it into. teenagers in Uggs outside of Hall-Benedict Drug. i smile but they don’t smile back because teenagers never smile back. white kids shooting hoops at East Rock Park; black kids shooting hoops a little further down English St. across from Rice Field.
i go a little further down English and realize that I-91 and a hidden field of cat tails keeps me from looping back over the river to my car. so i turn around.
i take the trail that girls aren’t supposed to take by themselves. i take it because it’s quiet, lined with giant, quiet trees and a quiet river. nothing has blossomed yet, but it seems to me like the brown of winter has turned gold. the jogging comes easier with gold than with brown.
and then i’m suddenly back with the oversized houses stuffed three floors high with Yale grad students and starter families. everyone smiles back when i jog past, even the dogs. everyone except the teenagers, of course.
i think i’d like a floor and a starter family.
i’m about to turn back onto Edwards where my car is parked when i notice that under the mail box on the corner there’s a pair of old ladies shoes, black flats like a librarian would wear. they just sit there, as though an old lady were standing in them.
i’m not sure i would have noticed them if i were plugged into my ipod.
Lauren: i just pictured us middle-aged and hanging out on a porch swing, watching our kids play in the yard, and saying, “we made it.”
Me (with happily surprised tone): kids?
Lauren: ummm, maybe dogs. i don’t know. they were really far away.
cross-posted from facebook. (i know, i’m a huge slacker these days.)
the rules per fb land: Think of 15 albums, that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life. Dug into your soul. Music that brought you to life when you heard it. FIGURATIVELY socked you in the gut, is what I mean.
here are mine, chronologically, sort of. (defining song from album in parentheses.)
Pearl Jam – Ten (Porch)
in junior high, i fell asleep to this album on high volume in my chunky headphones every night. i could program my discman in the pitch dark to play six songs, culminating in Release. for some reason, i’d always wake up during Garden, a little petrified from the darkness of the music and a little awed by the depth of it. this was the first album i fell teenage sloppy in love with.
Toad the Wet Sprocket – Fear (Something to Say)
this was the first cd i owned. my dad bought it for me for Christmas, and it was sort of his nod/wink to me that we could be on the same page. this was the album of my adolescent’s discontent. i’d listen to Something to Say (he drops hints but he won’t tell you what’s really on his mind / but you know if you look it’s easy to find) a thousand times, trying to figure out this one girl and why she was on my mind so much. i’d fall asleep to Pray the Gods, waking up during the dreamy round of angel voices at the end.
Tori Amos – Little Earthquakes (Tear in Your Hand)
my own revolution. i learned how to hear music when i heard this album. Katie Swingle played Silent All These Years on my stereo at home, and i was hypnotized for the next ten years. i could pull out every layer out of every song and play it alone in my head. i knew the harmonies and tended to like them more than the melody. my love affair with Tori grew stronger with the next three albums, but this was my gateway drug.
Violent Femmes – Add It Up (Kiss Off)
i drank in high school like a freshman fratboy, and this was the soundtrack of every illegal drop that went down my throat. this album went the way of my party nights–from a slow, slightly off-balance bus song to building sloppily and with many mistakes to the desperate end until you pass out during the loud, live stuff. there’s not a better alcohol poisoning anthem than “eight, eight, i forget what eight was for! nine, nine, nice, oh and i lost count!”
Dave Matthews Band – Under the Table and Dreaming (Satellite)
in high school, Dave Matthews somehow reassured me that better things were to come. i felt mature when i listened to it for some reason. maybe it was how so many uncool instruments–a fiddle with a saxophone?!–fit together so purposefully. it was what we listened to in Jason’s car, and Jason’s car was one of the only places i felt at home in that goddamned Wyoming town. every song had its place over the course of the day. Rhyme and Reason when we were escaping for lunch, Ants Marching on the way to soccer practice, #34 just before bed.
Miles Davis – Kind of Blue (the whole damn album)
at Wax Trax in Denver, i asked Jason to pick out two cds for me to buy. Kind of Blue, he told me, was essential. when i thought jazz, i thought that cheesy smooth jazz you heard in waiting rooms or on the local access channel. Miles assured me otherwise. i’d buy red wine because i knew we’d be listening to Miles at dinner. i’d lie on the couch at dusk with my eyes closed for the entire album and feel the light fading through the music. it might be my deserted island pick. maybe.
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…and didn’t see this on facebook:
1. i was born and raised in Darth Vad-, i mean Dick Cheney’s hometown. everything is named after him–the courthouse, the (other) high school’s stadium. it makes me want to become a vandal.
2. i love wasabi peas. a great salty substitute for chips.
3. the part of my body that i am most proud of is the giant scar on my knee. makes me feel tough. i’ll show it to you even if you don’t want to see it.
4. i’ve driven across the country (North Fork of Long Island to Los Angeles) twice, roundtrip. the first time: from NY to WY by myself, from Casper to Las Vegas with my grandma, and the rest of the way with random girls from Belgium (don’t ask–it’s a long, boring story). the second time: with my ex. i also did the CT to WY drive quite a few times.
5. i am unabashedly unashamed of my love for facebook.
6. i’m not afraid to ask you for your money if it’s for something i truly and passionately believe in.
7. i can’t think of one thing (besides Lauren) that i would be absolutely devastated losing if my apartment burned down.
8. i think my love for beer is fading. i’d rather be drinking white wine. i’m not cool enough for red.
9. the last time i was in love with an entire album was In Rainbows by Radiohead. the last time i was in love with a song was Scott Joplin’s Bethena (A Concert Waltz).
10. i regularly miss my old friends and can’t understand why we can’t connect better. and i readily admit that it’s probably my fault.
11. i ADORE furry animals, but they make me seriously ill.
12. i am often reminding myself to practice what i preach.
13. in college, i dreamed of writing for the New Yorker, but now i just read it every week.
14. i tend to believe i’m in pretty good shape. before my knee dissolved playing soccer last month, i was running 5k a few times a week and working out. now i can only make it 2.5 miles until my lower leg starts doing this burny numb thing.
15. i never thought i was very good at soccer.
16. i love that Lauren just gets me. and when she doesn’t, she lets me be me anyhow.
17. i deplore the “funny before nice” philosophy.
18. it was a tie for my favorite Christmas gift between the Iron Gym and the UConn hoodie.
19. i didn’t realize until i was an upperclassman in college that i was totally crushed out on two girls in high school.
20. i’ve had three nicknames in my life: skins, sprout, and bear.
21. i’m currently reading “Everyday Zen” and “Why We Hate Us”.
22. i lost at least two “best” friends when i came out.
23. i was most unhappy when i was living in the most beautiful house in one of the most beautiful places in the country.
24. i don’t understand why East-coasters say ore-gone. it’s ore-gun.
25. i once went camping with one of my favorite singers, and i spent more time having a blast with her son than hanging out with her.
when something like this happens, you think about all the calls you didn’t make, all the times you put her off because 35 minutes seemed like too long a drive or you weren’t sure you’d fit in or you didn’t want to drink or it seemed more like a business event.
no time for catching up now. maybe not for awhile.
–
when we first really talk, we are looking out over Seaside Park and Long Island Sound from the third (fourth?) story window at Seeley Hall. we are talking about books and poetry and writing, Kundera and Szymborska. it’s a long discussion, and i sort of feel like she’s testing me, pushing to see if i’ll push back. but she smiles in between questions.
“what was your favorite part in Immortality?” she asks.
i tell her that i loved the conversations between Goethe and Hemmingway.
she nods her head slowly. i watch a ferry crawl through the summer waves.
we don’t say anything for awhile. we just watch through squinted eyes the joggers go around the Seaside amphitheater. it’s August and sticky and bright.
finally, she turns her head to look at me and tilts it slightly to let me know that she’s really thought about what she’s going to say.
and then she says, “i like you.”
–
we are in Levoca, Slovakia when she first tells me that she doesn’t think she’ll live to see 29. she isn’t scared or apprehensive or in a hurry. she’s just letting me know. i smile a tiny, slow smile and shrug because she is always saying things like that.
she turns 29 on March 4.
–
she and i are in new haven. we had been wandering around, looking for photographs and clues to our future like tealeaves on the sidewalks. we stop at starbucks. she orders a strong coffee. i order a hot chocolate, exclaming, “this is the best hot chocolate.” we sip and step out onto the salt-covered streets.
we pass willoughby’s and i feel bad for having a starbucks cup. we pass claire’s and the gap. the air is hanging like very thin ice. our breath sticks to it. we wander onto the green which is covered in a thin layer of newer snow–not powder but not yet ice. they had just set up the christmas tree. about twenty feet tall and dotted with lights.
i say, “this hot chocolate is so good.”
she says, “shut up about the fucking hot chocolate.” she looks right at me and smiles.
then she says, “let’s play a game. i’m going to walk and you have to match each of my footsteps in the snow. right on right. left on left.” i chase her all over the green. sometimes she takes giant leaps that i can’t match, sometimes she takes baby steps that are annoying. sometimes i can’t find the next step.
i stop following her when we get to the tree. i tilt my head back and look at the top of the tree against town hall’s facade. the bells start ringing. 9 p.m. in the middle of those bells come the bells from the three churches along temple street. they’re all playing a different hymn, all in a different rhythm. i close my eyes and breathe in the cold air.
diana looks back and sees me on pause. she pulls out her camera and the shutter snaps.
i’ve spent the last days of 2008 writing countless thank you cards, handwritten in slow cursive. to the folks who made me family without question, who baked me a birthday cake when there was so much other cooking to do, who sent thoughtful congratulations when we got engaged.
to the strangers who spent hours stuffing thick tube socks with deodorent, soap and new underwear for those who usually don’t have those simple things, to a family who came to the shelter on Christmas to give new sweaters and undershirts instead of giving presents to each other, to kids who made homefries for people who were at the shelter on Christmas Day.
to the family i spent my first 18 years with and am finally just getting to know and who are finally getting to know me.
i have one more to send out. not in my somewhat sloppy script, but in the all lower-case you’re used to reading: thanks to every single person who has stopped by to read over the past year.
i just finished reading Living Buddha, Living Christ by Thich Nhat Hahn, and he describes what is, to him, “the most essential practice of peace”:
“Do not think the knowledge you presently possess is changeless, absolute truth. Avoid being narrow-minded and bound to present views. Learn and practice nonattachment from views in order to be open to receive others’ viewpoints.”
thank you for all your comments, in disagreement or affirmation, in loving praise or raw anger. each of you has given me the opportunity to rethink my words, to take in new information and open my head and heart to your experiences of the world. i’m slowly learning that compassion is more important than white-knuckling onto any opinion, and you are all constantly reminding me of that.
we all have so many differences, but i still believe people mostly want to do good by others. there’s no good reason to believe otherwise.
thank you all for an amazing year. see you tomorrow.
