Response to Blog Post Week Five

This is in response to Thomas' Week Two Junkyard Three:

 

"The smell of curry fills my nostrils even before the Indian Restaurant comes into view. Window shoppers peruse the various goods in shop windows nearby, and an older Italian beggar approaches me with a bird and a chest filled with lottery tickets. I do my best to be firm in my refusal to participate and I leave him awkwardly with regret and embarrassment flooding my belly."

This is what I said in response: 

"This is a really interesting image. I feel like you could have something here with the idea of the beggars. I would love to see that expanded: how do you feel when they put out those empty coin bowls? Do you think they are for real or just acting? How do they compare to the gypsies in Rome or Assisi? The other thing you should expand upon is the regret and embarrassment. That is a really interesting and revealing idea, why would someone have this sort of reaction with beggars? This shows some sort of empathy with them and at the same time, the feeling that you are better than them. I urge you to explore that, and do what Davidson has told us this whole time: dig deeper, ask questions of yourself and this scene. Also, if you choose to create this into a longer draft, of course you are going to dive into specifics. Where are you? What is the name of the indian restaurant? What are the shoppers buying? What are you wanting to buy? What shops are you passing? What is the beggar wearing? What kind of birds are they? These are questions you know the answers to...leave the meaning to the readers."

Original Post Week Five

This is taken from Deep Travel's piece "Egyptian Mummy in the Etruscan Museum at Cortona" by Charles Wright.

Doves release themselves from the post by Francis' statue
in the Basilica in Assisi, unlatch this landscape, the thornless roses
and spikes prevent perching, till feathers shrink to a glow.
I stand in awe of this halo, this aura of what we can't grasp.
Francis seems to smirk at me from Giotto's rendition,
all lapus lazuli and perfection,
telling me in a Mona Lisa smile of everything bad in my life
I tucked away under the good. You'll never be this way,
never be someone for whom shrines are built,
someone clothed unwillingly
in gold. My heart pulsates in my chest as I reach
for Sydney's eyes, her gaze a pale messenger
from the wordless world:
a worthless Basilica for a priceless connection.

Reportage Week Five

Its a nice circular building at first glance. Not too small, not too big, and from a distance, unnamed. This is the well where Orvietians retrieved water for ages. For five euro a head you can see it yourself. Feeling like the donkeys that carried Italians, our legs clomp down the cobbled steps, jiggling to maintain stability. Every few steps there's a window built in to check your progress, hold on to the ledge or you might pitch forward and down the 250 steps. A double helix system in steps allows for air circulation so far down, resulting in chilliness. Throw a coin in St. Patrick's well and you might find luck walking back up. The heat and sun hits your face, you make your way out the revolving door, and pitch forward to the water fountain gasping against the history.

Junkyard Quote Four Week Five

A doorway to the underground opens and we file in, listening to our guide explain Orvieto as a series of tunnels. Protection from World War Two, storage containers, or just breeding ground for pigeons. I think of A Cask of Amontillado and Edgar Allen Poe and wonder if he had one of these birds. I imagine snuggling up to dirt walls mixed in cement from limestone, listening to the metal tools of Italians and the noises of donkeys. The ground dips, and I catch myself on a metal railing, jolted back into the world of steep steps and pillars. Where olive oil must be hidden from enemies and poured on their heads through a drain in the wall, and water comes from a well 250 stairs down.

Memory Post Week Five

While we ride on the bus out to dinner last night, I looked out the window at a parking lot, half expecting the University Bookstore to appear in the front right corner of the bus. Wracked with a case of deja vu, I shake my head to remind myself that we were not in Georgia, instead finishing up our five week trip here. Thoughts of packing up have yet to occur; violent memories flash of the end of fall semester, a year ago.
We finished a movie night, Hostel, the first one, and it was Thursday. Everyone who lived in the dorm gets kicked out the next night at six, I remember my RA shouting down the hall. It was quiet hours, and I wished I could have written her up for disturbing my studies. The boxes that I moved in with sat on my bed, mocking my procrastination. I didn't want that year to end. I knew once summer hit, and then we all came back for the fall, my group of friends would fall apart, be torn to shreds by school and walking distances.
I feel that now. A sense of preemptive nostalgia, once we disembark from Lufthansa's plane, we vanish to the corners of Carrollton and the world, only to relive the fun from Facebook. The inside jokes fade away, just like summer tans from Rome, only replaced by school and winter whiteness.

Junkyard Quote Three Week Five

Florence Hostels are full of nonworking locks and British teenagers. Florence itself is full of pizza, pigeons and Americans. Dante gets thrown in there somewhere, along with Irish pubs and construction from the corner. Our room opens to a balcony, where we drain a bottle of wine into our mouth holes, some pregaming for that night, I'm trying to sleep. There's a set of loft stairs missing a transition step, you lunge from first to third. The space-filled with injury and fear. Fear of the thoughts from Taken and Hostel when I'm left in the room by myself. My company: three beds and a door that doesn't lock.

Junkyard Quote Two Week Five

While lost in the market of Bologna, a tunnel of white tents and Indian men that yell in Italian, I found a park. A place with steps and a fountain, covered in spray paint and history. I lay out my jacket on the dusty grass and settle in for an afternoon of sweat and Gomorrah. Heineken bottles litter the ground, three in a circle with a little liquid left inside. To my right, a couple pulls scarves and prayer rugs out of plastic bags, showing off purchases to each other, anxious to share in the excitement. She bounces up and down trying to pull a new sweater over her head, even though they sit right in the middle of the sun. I shake my head, turn to my left where Lucas lays on his back in the grass, hat on his face, dead to the world.

Junkyard Quote One Week Five

The train station at Borgo Nuovo is not a train station. Its more of a bench with an awning that holds a do-it-yourself ticket kiosk and validater. To say that this was the sticks-an understatement. This place, this train stop, was Bowdon's bastard brother. Tucked further up the mountain, in the foothills of the unknown, hides a restaurant that will render even the professional wordsmith speechless. The wine flows freely, everyone laughs and sings along offkey to the open mic artist who stands in front of the bar. Plate after plate of lasagna and wild boar, potatoes and cheese from goats and cows. Its a place where its 30 euro a head...if you're friends.

Original Post Week Four

This is taken from Deep Travel's "Mid Winter Snowfall in the Piazza Dante" by Charles Wright.

If there is one secret to this life, it is this life.
This life and its hand-me-downs that you laugh at me when I say I love them.
Make me feel close to someone,
like I have a piece of them
on my feet, or in the fabric of my shirt. Isn't that why we search,
why we travel?

From Bologna to home takes
four hours too long, Arezzo finds us confused with laughter,
doubled over with the Perugia train chugging behind us,
who hopped off to check the Partenze,
I'm left behind,
a hand-me-down girl in a brand named world.

A bottle of wine to calm only creates hysteria
inside, with no food to sop it up. If there is one secret
to this life, it is this life. This life and its sop.
Puddles after a rain, Venice floods, not enough bread.
You loop my arm, say We're only learning, killing it.
I shake my head yes, inside- a grenade of Gomorrah ready to explode.
No-I'm happy as second hand sop.
World traveler headed home. 

Response to Blog Post Week Four

This is in response to Merrick's blog post "Week 4: Memory 1: -The Audition"

"I was new to the community theatre group and felt distinctly like an outsider, but there was no way I was going to let my insecurity keep me from doing my best to get a part in this play.  "10 Little Indians" was the first serious play had participated in with this community.  I truly wanted to be murderer in this play and I figured the best way to do that was to just be the darkest, sexiest bitch there.

I lowered my voice to an alto whenever I read a line and made sure I moved with a grace that bordered between sex kitten and assassin.  I never felt so comfortable in a cold reading audition before.  I was enjoying myself and after a while, I no longer felt like I was being watched and judged on my acting. I was the character.

I didn't get the part, but I found out later the reason why they didn't give me the part was because I was apparently too good.  They said I was too creepy and dark and though they loved my characterization, they thought it would be too obvious I was the murderer.  I felt a lot better about not getting the character then, and through myself into portraying an old man who murdered his wife, went insane, hit on a younger woman, only to be murdered himself.  It was awesome.

And, as it turned out, I was able to use the same characterization I created for the murderer audition, for my portrayal of the Wicked Witch of the West in 'The Wizard of Oz"

This is what I posted in response:

"Merrick,
This is a really intriguing and fascinating memory. I was never into theater, but took a class in High School on acting. I love the line "moved with grace that bordered between sex kitten and assassin." This is such an opposing idea, but it works here. It works very well. I think if you wanted to turn this into prose or a poem, the next step would be to relate this to something else, to get away from the triggering subject and into something deeper. My thought would be to relate this to Italy and traveling here, because I know we have all felt a little out of place and a little intimidated by the people we are with. My suggestion would be to find something about the people that you are with (ie: the group) or something about how you feel about traveling with us that reminds you of this theater moment. I love the idea of morphing yourself into a character. Would the speaker be morphing themselves to fit in here? Are we morphing ourselves to fit in with Italian life? How is traveling like acting? I think if you meditated on how the two relate, you could have a really interesting and thought provoking piece on your hands. I will be more than willing to help you with sorting out ideas and such."

Masters Reading Response Gomorrah Part One and Part Two

Gomorrah Part One by Roberto Saviano reflects an Italy that is the heart of criminal activity. He starts out discussing Naples as a sphincter muscle that squeezes out products. I love that analogy of it being a part of the body: its a very visceral image that connects with all the Camorra killings. There are images of people being dissolved in acid, being burned in cars, being shot multiple times, and being killed by drug dealers. There is a moment in this part of the book that really stuck with me: the moment when the man is "dead" and his girlfriend pees on his face. This makes Italy seem like a land of insanity. Confusion and wonderment. Drugs and prostitution. Recently I traveled to Bologna, where the car that I was in passed by a street where prostitutes were waiting for someone to stop. This made everything seem so much more real. Italy, though this part, manifests as a place of justified violence. Its a place that everything goes, there are no rules even when the police catch you, nothing happens of major significance. Rome shows this immensely. Its a place where people don’t want to follow the rules because their history is all about oppression. This remains the same all around Italy, people from Bologna talk about when going to America, it is amazing how people actually follow rules. I think its very intriguing how this book truly shows how Italy’s violence really comes out. That’s not something advertised, even though people know about it.

Part Two goes deeper into the behind the scenes mental activity of the Camorra. For example, the most intriguing part of the part two was the chapter about Hollywood. I found it fascinating how much Hollywood plays into the naming and the dress of the Camorra clans. I still cannot grasp the interest with the Hollywood lifestyle for the bosses, and while being here, nothing has pointed to that idea other than the way some people dress. The book talks about how the Scarface and the Godfather ideologies play into the life of the Camorra, and that then extends into what the other people wear. People follow those around them, and fashion is what Italy is known for throughout the world. It makes me wonder whether or not Italy is turning into a country of another Hollywood. I like this idea of Camorra following Hollywood, but it begs the question, is Hollywood actually following Camorra and the Mafia lifestyle?

Memory Week Four

While waiting for friends in Piazza Nettuno, Neptune's finely carved butt shadows over me as I watch a woman dressed in black sashay in front of a man playing a headless guitar. Sydney and I gawk for a while and I start to think of when I was fourteen and my family visited friends in Milwaukee. There, in a park, was a music festival-SummerFest.  A Steely Dan cover band rocked out under a tent next to a Dipping Dots stand and while my sister and mom went to find cookies and cream balls of ice cream, I sat on a bench carved with "T hearts J" or "RC 93." I could see the wrinkly bearded men just fine until a group of four middle aged beer holders squeezed in front of me. I particularly remember the blonde haired woman directly in front of me, who sloshed bad Heineken on my sandals and swung her hips out of tune. So today, when the woman with the red hair showing black roots flips her too short tutu  and shows off a run in her tights, I'm transported back to SummerFest.