bouffante caravanata: July 2009

Today, standing upon the highest cliff we could find over the salt heaven Manarola, there came a simple and enraging realization as I watched the buzzing of these curious and fat iridescent blue-winged bees, that all one does in creating art, whether it be through writing, or filtering images through a camera, or whatever one might do, is out of the need or desire to shift impossibly rich cosmic experience into something beyond - (and just try to

follow me; I'm simplifying because I don't know how else to say it) - to put reality into something else, to reshape it, to put a frame on it in the redundant hope of making it accessible again to ourselves. Or maybe this is not it at all; I am referring to the process of the documentation of time, or art which seeks to remember itself-- my goodness, how language limits us! -- (keep following). This singular thought, this little grain of sand got me right between the teeth, for the impossibility of such a vast and ridiculous task brought forth that familiar gut-splash of ache for all I saw and experienced in this moment, and how I would never, ever be able to describe it to someone else. There was a windsock, red and white, swiveling from a klunking latch; the statue of a woman with grapes in her hands pooling at her feet, water-rusted in a fluorescent green drizzle down the calves into iron toes, (and the sea behind her casting on like a cloak over everything that ever was); and the roses, petals burnt, peaches and red ones and lavender and white; the fluttering feeling of eyelashes and the whipping of my dress and the hotness and difficulty in breathing up on the dusty crag --- This is the crux. I can offer scraps which will mean nothing if you weren't there and in my brain when they happened (and you are seeing through the lens of me, so already there is fallacy). Is this making any sense? The camera has slipped ever slowly from my fingers, and thank goodness Shannon arrived when she did or I'd have nothing to show for it. It began to feel like I stood outside of everything, so I softened my hold. Let us then think of this like a flip-book, the hand's own picture show. There is so much to share you'd think I was making it up.

I received word that a certain farm needs help for a month, and in addition to this work, assistance with their theatre, Teatro Povero. I will be working on the farm, waiting tables and performing as well. (If this weren't so pertinent for a project I am working on now, perhaps it wouldn't be so strange, but the fact that we are in the biz of preparing a traveling theatre, café and living exhibition, all of this feels mysteriously perfect, given also that the day they need me is the day before Shannon-my-companion leaves, giving me exactly one day to reunite with my sweet someone in Florence before a spontaneous trip to the coast!)

OK, Firenze: I arrived at midnight and walked to the jailbird's Duomo where I sat and waited in the piazza for Kecco. A voice called me over, one who turned out to be Abdul, a man I would subsequently run into 3 more times that week. By the 3rd run-in he was convinced of our destiny as husband and wife, though I have to say I wasn't so hard-pressed.

I later bombed to Ferrara to meet Meike and Luca, and I think it's

safe to say I have finally met my match. No one exaggerates more than me, except for these Italians. Where else in the world could *a little bit* mean a 6-course meal of ridiculously seafoody proportions, 7 bottles of wine, Sambuca, an entire watermelon filled with floating vodka, and an evening that ends at 5 in the morning? The next day I lay on the beach for 3 hours and suddenly resembled a brown bear (of color and proportion); it's wonderful how fat I'm getting, it seems I have really needed all this cheese and gelato after all.

I went to the walled village of Lucca where I was met by the one-leaf ear ringed Marco, holding in his hands two little biciclette, one a pink low-rider, the other a giant handle-barred rusty road maiden. I took the latter, and off into the wind through muted cobble streets, sun splashing the towered ridges, ricocheting voices of kids with candy, of roadside commerce, of birds in the marketplace and the wheels of street barrows, the gurgle of café stalls, the zipping of Vespa's and motorcycles with ladies in helmets bouncing on the backs, sweat between forearms and bottoms and right there within the creases of my own elbows!

Marco took us up the mountain to an ancient metal-worker who brilliantly exploits the galloping of riverwater for

his medieval ironsmith machinery. The water is pushed toward levers, moving giant cogs leading to wooden wheels, catching the ridges which slap a timber trunk the size of a northwestern fir to raise up in one great heave and exhale like a troll upon the glowing iron in the two hands below, a practice that has since become illegal, though it is all he has known and so he continues, making shovels, fire pokers, knives and swords, and selling them to anyone who comes to visit, anyone who knows he is there. We then continued higher, to the che

stnut tree farm of Marco's parents, where we arrived unannounced - 5 of us! - to which we were greeted with boisterous fanfare and served a mountain meal from the outdoor stove, homemade wine from his father, cream limoncello from his mother, and sang songs into the blackest night with the passing neon flies.

Once I returned to Firenze, a most exquisite love affair ensued, one that brought such surprising depth and beauty, I dare say I am going back for more! Shannon, here for two weeks to bring much-needed misbehavior, met me there and we headed on our northern tour, first to rambling Bologna, then to sweet Ravenna, only to have a strange coincidence arise, that of the spontaneous appearance of a certain miss Henri! Henri and I knew we would be around the country at the same time, but who knew we would be in the same town for the same 2 days, and offered shelter by the very same host? Shan and I arrived to cheering and hugs of disbelief! We borrowed 3 bicycles and explored the tiny mosaic-plastered town, open-mouthed and enraptured, spent our evening watching the outdoor cinema and being eaten tenderly by clans of mosquit's, went with Roberto to the beach where loads of middle-aged Italian cover bands were playing classic rock when the fireworks exploded, eyelids fading into sand, it was all a strange acid-dream Red, White, and Blue sparkle-skied mess to the throb of "Sweet Home Alabama!", or with proper accent ("Sweet Ohm, Alle-bah-mah!").

Venice, my goddess, I don't have words so we'd better stop here. There is no sense in going into it, but I will say that we found a special quiet canal on which to rest and wandered without aim in the day, drank and ate more than our wallets could oblige so in love with it all we didn't care; I dropped my ring into the canal, my most precious piece of tin; I bought a harmonica, the trusty Handy Harp! and in a fit of thunder and lightning while stranded under the umbrella of a café we began to play, to the surprising enjoyment of the other strandee's. When the music stopped, so did the rain, and Shan and I made our exit to claps and cheers of thanks! A most memorable moment, I suppose you had to be there.

Now we rest at the Art Monastery, a heaven in the Umbrian hills, where we have made ourselves useful by driving into Roma to shop for pounds and pounds of fennel and melons and all sorts of things I honestly think they should just be growing in their garden and not wasting money on, but hey, that's just me, for as Shannon and I discovered as I cut her hair into a mohawk 2 nights ago, I am not a very LOGICAL thinker... But we pick black figs from the fig tree, chase the four baby kittens, tend the garden, and eat like fat queens and kings. I busted my ankle jumping around like a nincompoop yesterday and am now nursing it, tho am walking like a stubborn Sally cuz I just don't want to get slowed down. Tomorrow I gaze north. And then to the south.

And that is all.