post Rome syndrome

Dear Caprece

I thought of you today as I passed the canal on my way home. 

It was early evening but  the sun had still managed to suffuse its rays pass the massive weight of humidity which hung suspended in the air, depressing down on me. I felt like I had an elephant on my back and I was ready to jump into the canal.

I was walking across the bridge when the skies suddenly turned dark.  Mind you, this was no Ponte Sisto.  Just a loose alignment of crisscrossed wooden planks.   I closed my eyes as a speck of rain fell on my forehead.  Soon the droplets turned heavy and huge, dampening into my t-shirt.  Thunder roared menacingly at me.  But I felt strangely nostalgic and took shelter under a tamarind tree, climbed up to pick out its fruit as I did when I was younger.  The ants from the tamarind tickled my arms so I flicked them off, let them scurry away from the rain.  They look just like the street vendors folding their fake merchandise as they packed and pulled plastic bags over their heads.  A vendor rolls his goods into one bundle and ties it across his chest.  He scampers into his tiny motor scooter and chugs off.  If only he had a Vespa.  A beggar is sitting on top of a sewage line across from me.  He watches the chaotic scene, laughs, showing his blackened gums and teeth from betel nut chewing, but the smile reaches his wrinkled rheumy eyes.

I sat on the wet grass, peeling the tamarind, watching the muddy waters of the canal move as fast as the Tiber, waiting for the rain to die down. 

Soon the clouds calmed, stopped leaking, leaving only a putrid odor of rain soaked garbage; the trailing stink of ‘tuk tuk’ exhausts, combined with cigarette fumes and a thin gossamer aroma of noodles.

The rain in Rome smells strangely like the rain here.  Oh how I miss you so. 

last day in Rome

Today I wake up

to the squeals of little children

counting beats in Italian,

singing rhymes that I do not know the meaning of

Outside the window.

The construction below my bed, drilling holes underneath me.

I used to stomp and jump in anger

But today I lie listening to the familiar buzz

My roommate's alarm squawking for an hour

And she is still asleep.

The constant repetition is somehow soothing today.

The tiles are cool against the morning heat

Cold feet beneath my sweaty head

Running water fluctuates in bursts

from copper metal faucet

Its smooth stillness slipping through my fingers.

Breeze blowing in through the open windows

Dust and leaves scamper in

Covering the footsteps of my trail

Toast in a pan from leftover bread

Crisp crunch on one side

Burnt black on the other

Flakes like ashes falling off the plate

Crumbling down in capitulation

Stale coarse breakfast made edible

By a packet of nutella

Smoked meat on the stairways

Why are you smoking meat at 9am?

The rotten shrimp, cheese, strawberries, pesto

Diffusing my apartment-mates from inside the fridge.

But the fridge is empty today.

piazza massimo

War is only man's invention

Carrots, sticks and spears are but strength

Broken noses, hollow eyes, headless bodies

Amputated arms, cloaked in carved clay

The rest lies under the stone sarcophagus

Selfishly suffocating in its own silent glory

Thousands of years past, why are we still trapped?

Strength is not power, in the end it stands alone

Power is the art to persuade

To create peace, to appreciate simplicity

Like:

A baby's plum cheeks, juicy and round

A peach colored petal, fragile but free

An orange tree, fruitful with possibilities

A balance of bodies, in imperfect harmony

A family, a country, builds itself up

by the continuation of its generation

Not necessarily by feats or by fame

For those leave empty legacies

That unless lost, are learned, relearned, but unlived

hadrian's villa/ villa d'este

The late morning sun calls out to crickets that answer back in constant beats.  We run down paths and pavements kicking dusty rocks behind our trails.  A white butterfly flutters away from surprise.  The pool glistens, shimmering like liquid crystals.  Of all his jewels, this is my favorite.  We are not allowed in but the water is refreshing and cool for our thirsty eyes.  Not like the hot baths guarded by rows of cold columns and stone statue soldiers.  He is coming soon and my mother shoos us away.  We stumble down the stairs of grass as fast as water falls off fountains.  Our high pitched laughter lost among the giggles and gurgles of the baby streams while the bottom ditch rumbles and bubbles on as old uncles do.  We are little invisible children, hiding behind the murky reflections of each dripping droplets, never wanting to be found.

vatican museum

Muse how it all began

Head high: I was in awe of gold frames that adorn the spectrum of colors, glassy and bright beneath the angel's feet above my head.  Encircled rings touch the hanging arms of short babies too high for me to reach.  But they do not care that I am there.  Ocean blue skies curve in patterns that weave in green and yellow hues. 

Head steady: The painting of half a pope, his body fading off as he drips down an invisible chair.  A striped shirt man fumbles his earpiece frantically finding familiar faces.  Red tapestries blocked by heads, cameras, and outstretched hands.  A sculpture in the corner, serene and calm.  Hands son her heart, armored by her white robe she sees me seeing her. 

Head low: Mosaic floor of moons and crescents.  A blue warrior tangled in vines as a cracked feet in sandals steps on his chest.

Can such rage inflame the immortal's hearts?

basilica de agosto

starry days below the sun spot skies

flower gilded ceilings reflect the glinted gold

its ribbons wrap arches that spread artificial suns

Mary shields her face from the fiery light that spears the paintings

soft stars tickle baby Jesus in waves of pale pastel

surfing the creases of his clothes

embracing both mother and child

a ghostly nun, her bewildered face a dirty white

and the rest of her blends into the shadows of her dark habit

frail and empty like broken flower petals and stain-washed waters

ludovica albertoni

i walk across waters, carrying a heavy heat
determined to find a calm sanctuary, a quiet refuge
tucked at the end of the street, grapefruit marbles lead the hallway
to a family of angels, a skull at their feet
but to the left corner, i found her
peacefully suffering
head tilted back, and slight lips parting
lying with crouched knees
her fingers searching for her heart
soft candlelight illuminates a flowery glow
where the golden sky shines gently on her neck
and curly hair angels observe her distant pain
bodiless, their heads float
in murmurs far away

villa giulla

the glass screen seems invisible as i walk in. next to the tomb is a chair attached, becoming part of it.  i wonder who sits here, guarding the dead and breathing in the last remnants of its former lie.  the chair is rigid, heavy and unmoving, locked in with no escape.  he leans back, blends in, earthen skin against the cracks of the clay like water on wrinkles.  there is nothing but the silence of his heartbeat echoing across the hollow walls, barely missing its owner upon its return.  eyes straight, he stares into the blankness, not daring to turn to the great noble beside him.  yet the courage of the body beneath the tomb reeks room within and maybe its the dead guarding the living.

little pieces aligned like a puzzle

illusions assembled

tangled and intertwined together

interlocking the footsteps of eras gone by

squares yellow, lines white, 

red cubes, black crosses, crosses

the dimensions of sight and time

sometimes the unexpected just shits on you, and you have a panic moment. and then there are other times where you don't think anything can surprise you anymore, and you're wrong. but you're too numb to emotionally breakdown again.
even though people and events can sometimes make you lose faith in humanity, and you don't really understand how or why, there is always another side that hides behind the self-created shadows that haze your eyes. one that isn't a pure white light.  clad in an array of colors, it can easily be missed among the grays your traumatized emotions only seek. but it is there all the same. and sometimes knowing that is enough to reinvest your faith in.

i know fundamentally who i am and where my core stands.  i was confident that this won't change.  i still am.
but there are moments of unfeeling where it doesn't matter.  the world is open. as long as i don't cross the line, i will be fine. its more of a trial just to try. to liberate yourself from the ground that holds you down. to go to further heights just for awhile. it was great to be lost, to be whatever you wanted to be but knew you couldn't. with no constraints, no filter, the possibilities are endless.
and then there's reality.  it hits hard. you are among hundreds and thousands of people, but internally you're alone.  simply me, a floating soul. searching for a landing that's right because you obviously can't be in the clouds forever. not if you want to hold on to who you were.

you don't know it; but because you matter so much, you can also hurt me so much.