we are making our luncheon in kerkhoven, MN. according to the sign, there are 555 people in this town. the public library is one room in the corner of the civic center, plus a closet for periodicals, files, and cleaning supplies. the video/dvd collection is hanging from the closet door. the book return is a big metal washbasin. there are 4 computers, and the 10-year old next to me is researching TRANSFORMERS.
the minnesota skyline has opened up for us today: after navigating some pretty sweet bike trails out of minneapolis yesterday, we are facing another beautiful day with only flutter of headwind. we are going to depart from our dilapidated but cheerful friend rt. 12 and venture due west on county 6 until we get to appleton. there we hope to find a churchyard or high school baseball infield where we might make our couscous.
these are some of the songs that have been stuck in my head over the last few days:
"america" from west side story
the 'hostia' tenor recitative from verdi's requiem.
'rise above' by the dirty projectors (n.b. i have never heard this song. tom was just singing the chorus all day yesterday, and now i know it)
most of the first weezer album
'i believe,' stevie wonder
as we gather at the table
'the thong song,' sisqo's modern masterwork
if anyone has suggestions for BETTER songs to have stuck in my head, i welcome them. if anything, one needs a diverse soundtrack; these roads are pretty straight, pretty flat.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
day 25: olfactory awareness
i'm sorry these posts are so few and far between. internet access is hard to come by; time off the bike is precious for reading, or stretching, or staring off blankly into space, or procuring and consuming peanut butter and jelly. i am also finding my reflections on the bike resistant to the blog format. having just graduated from university, my thoughts on the bike often settle into existential ruts of anxiety and doubt: i often feel that i'm not 'very good' at this trip; it's difficult for me to stay focused on the immediate scenery, the immediate moment, the immediate aches and unexpected encounters with people whose encouragement keeps us going into the next day. not feeling very 'good' at the trip makes me doubt my ability to make fulfilling things happen for myself post-school: without a concrete destination or predetermined route, this trip can seem like a metaphor for my whole future; the anxiety i feel when we haven't yet found a place to camp and the sky darkens is writ large. where am i going to pitch my tent? it's hard for me to find words for the ins and outs of this that don't seem like navel-gazing in the blogosphere.
these are some things we have been smelling over the past few hundred miles:
hay
fresh cut wood
wood burning
tires burning
cinnamon (unexplained, very strong)
the foul smell of high water that will not be accepted into the earth
cowshit (manure)
pigs and their shit
horseshit (golden stones that blaze up in the shoulder and become a little slalom course for us)
truck exhaust
lake michigan
butterscotch (outside a 'baby animal nutrition center.' disturbing.)
mint
banana bread
minty banana bread (at this point in northern illinois, i smelled mint, tom smelled banana bread. we compromised.)
fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies (we actually tried to follow this smell. we would have followed it into the depths of the earth, but we lost the trail.)
the musty interior of our tents
dust from dirt roads
elderflower
the dew burning off
we are leaving minneapolis this morning and heading west for the blue cloud abbey in marvin, SD. from there, up to bismark, ND. from there, glacier national park. we are well.
these are some things we have been smelling over the past few hundred miles:
hay
fresh cut wood
wood burning
tires burning
cinnamon (unexplained, very strong)
the foul smell of high water that will not be accepted into the earth
cowshit (manure)
pigs and their shit
horseshit (golden stones that blaze up in the shoulder and become a little slalom course for us)
truck exhaust
lake michigan
butterscotch (outside a 'baby animal nutrition center.' disturbing.)
mint
banana bread
minty banana bread (at this point in northern illinois, i smelled mint, tom smelled banana bread. we compromised.)
fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies (we actually tried to follow this smell. we would have followed it into the depths of the earth, but we lost the trail.)
the musty interior of our tents
dust from dirt roads
elderflower
the dew burning off
we are leaving minneapolis this morning and heading west for the blue cloud abbey in marvin, SD. from there, up to bismark, ND. from there, glacier national park. we are well.
Monday, June 23, 2008
day 19: rest days in chicago!
good morning (central time):
tom and i had a beautiful ride into chicago on saturday, following route 12 from southwest michigan. we rode through the corpse of U.S. Steel in gary, indiana (a significant blemish on the day's ride), but on to the magnificent lakefront bike path that runs parallel to lakeshore boulevard 17 miles. early showers gave way to sun, and the bikinied rollerbladers were out in force. we rode straight up to tom's brother sam's place near loyola university, where we participated in a barbeque, with gusto.
after a solid night's sleep, we spent the day in chicago: i caught up with some of my clan in the morning, and tom and i met at the art institute in the afternoon to investigate.
my body definitely was and is ready for a day off the bike, but it seems to be responding strangely to its novel tasks of walking, sitting, standing. not hunched over the handlebars, my back is suddenly very tired. i have a hard time standing for a long time. not cranking on the pedals, my legs cramped up twice for no good reason. i guess we'll just keep on stretching it out.
more to come; tom and i are going to roll out of sam's place this morning and take a short jaunt to batavia, IL, to stay with my grandparents for a night. i'll post more tonight when we get there; if not, in a few days when we get to the twin cities.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
day 14: bloomfield hills, MI
tom and i are at the library. this one is particularly beautiful, and apparently designed with the weary traveler in mind: we made our noontime PBJs in the little cafe area just inside the door, then walked across the expansive fiction and magazine section to the circular computer kiosks where we now have come to rest in office chairs with lumbar support.
since leaving rochester 5 days ago, we have ridden to tom's cousin katie's in buffalo, where we consumed untold and regrettable amounts of pizza, wings, and labatt blue light. the allentown arts fest was less than 50 paces away, and in the party atmosphere our bodies found that which they desired: more or less organic material to consume, in quantity. we left the next morning and rode up to niagara falls, and into ontario, CANADA. the toll was 50 cents per bike, and the canadian customs officer was much more excited about the idea of a bike trip than he was about searching our panniers, so it was smooth sailing across international borders.
sunday night (15 june, day 11) will surely be one of the highlights of the trip. looking for a place to camp along the road, we were directed by a kind dutchman to the house next door. "they're nice. it's two guys, but that's fine." fine indeed. we knocked on the door and jay, a burly bearded dude in jeans and a harley cap said "what can i for you?!" we asked if we might pitch a tent on his land. he said sure, he used to be a cyclist himself, clasped our hands, and shut the door. we were pumped. 10 minutes later, jay comes out, asks if we need to fill up our water bottles. he takes the empties into the house while we set up camp. comes back out after 5 minutes with water and 3 bottles of coors light. cheers to you, jay. we talked for a while about what we were doing, jay's cycling career in college, his farm, and the harley-davidson rallies that he goes to every friday the 13th in port dover, year round.
so then tony comes out, wearing birkenstocks and a golf shirt, clasping a big glass of merlot in his ringed fingers. he's british, a golfer, a doctor, a cancer specialist in hamilton. tom and i talked with him about the london theatre scene while jay hustled back to the house for a map and more beers. all in all we chatted with this amiable and generous fellows for about an hour before they went inside and we made some couscous.
about 45 minutes later, jay brings out some bug spray and two MORE bottles of the silver bullet and says if any weather comes in, just knock and there's a spare bedroom just inside the front door. and then 10 minutes later he comes out and says he doesn't like the look of the clouds to the east, why don't we come in and sleep in a bed. we did, and missed a killer T-storm that shook the trees.
the next morning we left a note of profuse thanks, which still fell short of the mark. given how psyched we were simply to have a place to pitch a tent, how could we express our gratitude for beer, good fellowship, and a four-poster bed?
day 12: cayuga, OT - port stanley, OT
day 13: port stanley, OT - ferry at sombra, OT/marine city, MI - algonac state park, MI.
we're heading for chicago, and hope to be there this weekend.
since leaving rochester 5 days ago, we have ridden to tom's cousin katie's in buffalo, where we consumed untold and regrettable amounts of pizza, wings, and labatt blue light. the allentown arts fest was less than 50 paces away, and in the party atmosphere our bodies found that which they desired: more or less organic material to consume, in quantity. we left the next morning and rode up to niagara falls, and into ontario, CANADA. the toll was 50 cents per bike, and the canadian customs officer was much more excited about the idea of a bike trip than he was about searching our panniers, so it was smooth sailing across international borders.
sunday night (15 june, day 11) will surely be one of the highlights of the trip. looking for a place to camp along the road, we were directed by a kind dutchman to the house next door. "they're nice. it's two guys, but that's fine." fine indeed. we knocked on the door and jay, a burly bearded dude in jeans and a harley cap said "what can i for you?!" we asked if we might pitch a tent on his land. he said sure, he used to be a cyclist himself, clasped our hands, and shut the door. we were pumped. 10 minutes later, jay comes out, asks if we need to fill up our water bottles. he takes the empties into the house while we set up camp. comes back out after 5 minutes with water and 3 bottles of coors light. cheers to you, jay. we talked for a while about what we were doing, jay's cycling career in college, his farm, and the harley-davidson rallies that he goes to every friday the 13th in port dover, year round.
so then tony comes out, wearing birkenstocks and a golf shirt, clasping a big glass of merlot in his ringed fingers. he's british, a golfer, a doctor, a cancer specialist in hamilton. tom and i talked with him about the london theatre scene while jay hustled back to the house for a map and more beers. all in all we chatted with this amiable and generous fellows for about an hour before they went inside and we made some couscous.
about 45 minutes later, jay brings out some bug spray and two MORE bottles of the silver bullet and says if any weather comes in, just knock and there's a spare bedroom just inside the front door. and then 10 minutes later he comes out and says he doesn't like the look of the clouds to the east, why don't we come in and sleep in a bed. we did, and missed a killer T-storm that shook the trees.
the next morning we left a note of profuse thanks, which still fell short of the mark. given how psyched we were simply to have a place to pitch a tent, how could we express our gratitude for beer, good fellowship, and a four-poster bed?
day 12: cayuga, OT - port stanley, OT
day 13: port stanley, OT - ferry at sombra, OT/marine city, MI - algonac state park, MI.
we're heading for chicago, and hope to be there this weekend.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
stage 1 complete: pit stop in fairport
leaving valley falls sunday evening, we rode a nicely rolling 30 miles down to the banks of the mohawk river in scotia, just west of schenectady, where we pitched a tent and cooked up some couscous. those two cups of granulated pasta have become our golden nuggets of nutrition. two middle-aged brothers spied us and rode over on their mountain bikes, all amped up to talk about gear. bruce and jay told us all about their routes up the mountain in the background and admired our racks. all they were carrying, bruce noted, was a rather large silver flask; from the smell of bruce's breath at 5 feet away, i was willing to bet there were only a few drops of canadian club left in the bottom.
we broke camp the next morning and met up with my good friend rebecca in amsterdam; she rode with us as far as antionette's cafe and pastries, where we ate ambrosia and drank the nectar of whatever gods dwell along the mohawk. later in the day, we took respite from the scorcher in the "grand hotel," the st. johnsville house of hospitality and hops. 2 pints of labatt were less than 3 dollars.
then we sprawled out in front of the local church and ate our cous. gutting out the rest of the day, we camped just east of utica at lock 19.
tuesday, we made our approach into syracuse and into the outstretched arms of ted limpert. ted, tom and i spent new years 2006 together in london on an english department theatre program and this was the joyous reunion of "room 14," some of whose exploits are chronicled in the earliest posts of this blog. we also met up with my francophile pal sasha at 'the blue tusk,' whose customers and beers on draft were both approximately 10-15 times that of the 'grand hotel,' where there were 2 liquid lunchers and 3 taps. we were moving up in the world. the ride into syracuse was essentially uneventful, excepting the massive thunderstorm and tornado watch that we neatly avoided by ducking into 'the knotty pine,' a delightful dive diner that sheltered us and poured cup after cup of lukewarm coffee.
we reluctantly left ted wednesday morning and rolled along rt. 31 toward my hometown of fairport, ny. there was a consistent headwind, but i am trying to accept a headwind as a fact of life, indeed, to affirm headwinds as nature's way of helping me breathe in. more importantly, the temperature was much more amenable to inhalation: after 3 days of 90+ temperatures (tuesday midday we passed a bank whose digital thermometer read 101 F), the breeze was like a balm to my sandpaper lungs.
we stopped at a roadside stand to chat with a friendly girl and eat strawberries picked that morning. she was kind to us: "surely, yous can stand here and eat 'em!" she spoke a melodious dutch into a cell phone. i thought that was weird, but whatever: the strawberries were delicious and we downed a quart without trying. we depart tomorrow morning for buffalo, where tom has a cousin. we understand that there is an arts festival happening literally out her front door, so we are excited to explore that.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
day 4: half-day off in valley falls, ny
well, we've just had some delicious tuna sandwiches here at tom's uncle rich's house just north east of albany, and we're going to take a swim at the neighbor's before taking a jaunt down to the schenectady area, so i will say only this for now: we made it from boston to valley falls in 2 days, and that feels like a victory. as you can see on the map below (you can move it around with the cursor), friday we rode on through the rain to swanzey lake, NH and yesterday we beat the heat from swanzey, across vermont, to valley falls. there were hills - big ones - along route 9, also known as the molly stark trail. we feel we have made molly's intimate acquaintance. we ate lunch at the "100 mile view;" we shoveled couscous into our maws while surveying 4 states.
at that point, i was pretty sure we weren't going to make it: i was feeling pretty beat, and vermont's famous green mountains lay ahead. thankfully, we had already made most of the day's elevation gains, and the ascent into the state park was roughly half the distance of our earlier climb, and was followed by a 4 mile descent. even with our unaerodynamic panniers and fat touring tires, according to tom's cyclometer, we hit 40 mph.
i will post some photos when we get to rochester on wednesday, but the other highlight of the day was an unexpected parade in brattleboro, VT. it's their take on pamplona's "running of the bulls:" this 3 day celebration of maple products, recycling and dairy is called the "strolling of the heifers." we followed the compost float and 40 bekilted bagpipers past the "green expo" straight to the "dairy fest," where we sampled delicious cheeses and saw a performance by the new england school of circus arts. trapeze. the young woman was very accomplished.
finally, i swallowed 3 bugs yesterday. i spent a lot of the time in between meditating on different kinds of knowledge: the first had a rigid exoskeleton - i could feel it struggling against me, and i was struggling against it. the second was tender. the third was a lakefly, i'm sure.
at that point, i was pretty sure we weren't going to make it: i was feeling pretty beat, and vermont's famous green mountains lay ahead. thankfully, we had already made most of the day's elevation gains, and the ascent into the state park was roughly half the distance of our earlier climb, and was followed by a 4 mile descent. even with our unaerodynamic panniers and fat touring tires, according to tom's cyclometer, we hit 40 mph.
i will post some photos when we get to rochester on wednesday, but the other highlight of the day was an unexpected parade in brattleboro, VT. it's their take on pamplona's "running of the bulls:" this 3 day celebration of maple products, recycling and dairy is called the "strolling of the heifers." we followed the compost float and 40 bekilted bagpipers past the "green expo" straight to the "dairy fest," where we sampled delicious cheeses and saw a performance by the new england school of circus arts. trapeze. the young woman was very accomplished.
finally, i swallowed 3 bugs yesterday. i spent a lot of the time in between meditating on different kinds of knowledge: the first had a rigid exoskeleton - i could feel it struggling against me, and i was struggling against it. the second was tender. the third was a lakefly, i'm sure.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
day 1: unexpected rain, unexpected rice
as you can see from the map below, today tom and i rode to hull beach to ritualistically dip our tires in the atlantic ocean. driving winds near the surf and a light rain provided a second baptism. round trip, we covered about 57 miles, including a few wrong turns. as much as i love the new england geography, local governments in massachusetts seem to take pleasure in making thier towns difficult to navigate. we came to a few intersections completely unmarked by street signs and many more giving us only the name of the cross street. in massachusetts it is very easy to see every way one might go, only very difficult to determine where one is.
we ate a delicious brunch at this little diner across the street from the beach. i couldn't stop shivering, so i drank 4 cups of coffee to try and warm up. in hindsight, perhaps i passed seamlessly into the jitters. by the time we finished our hash browns (mixed with rice - interesting!), we were the only people in the place, so we had the pleasure of listening to the waitresses talk amongst themselves as they cleaned up. in time, they turned to us, telling us about their kids and pouring still more coffee. "here you are, sweeties." "there you go, my loves." we are loved.
tomorrow we head west towards tom's uncle's in valley falls, new york - just north of albany. we'll be there saturday or sunday afternoon; we haven't decided our pace right out of the gate. let's see how the legs feel tomorrow.
of the few i took today, this is the picture that tom selected for himself: this is what tom looks like contemplating infinite water and infinite fog.
this is the picture that i have selected for myself.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
bike trip 2008
hi!
the blog is back: i am posting in response to rumors that my good friend tom cole and i will be taking a bike trip during june and july. these rumors are true. tom and i are meeting up in boston tomorrow to get organized, and we anticipate departure on thursday or friday for points west. first stage: boston to rochester, with stops at tom's uncle's north of albany and our friend ted's in syracuse.
i'll be posting again in the next few days to give a more complete picture of our immediate situation and our developing plans. tom will be blogging also, and his address is under the 'links' section to your right, so you can follow our progress from MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVES. stay tuned.
the blog is back: i am posting in response to rumors that my good friend tom cole and i will be taking a bike trip during june and july. these rumors are true. tom and i are meeting up in boston tomorrow to get organized, and we anticipate departure on thursday or friday for points west. first stage: boston to rochester, with stops at tom's uncle's north of albany and our friend ted's in syracuse.
i'll be posting again in the next few days to give a more complete picture of our immediate situation and our developing plans. tom will be blogging also, and his address is under the 'links' section to your right, so you can follow our progress from MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVES. stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
wild animals
my walk home from the u-bahn takes a shortcut along a playground. in the morning, the root-broken path is shaded by a canopy of spiky pines. in the evenings, the light of the steetlamps filters down white through long needles. being especially tired tonight, i was especially zoned out on the home stretch. i was preparing a few phrases to describe my day to my host mother and sister, who would probably still be up. i wanted to ask about antonia´s first day of the 6th grade.
i looked up before the noise had really registered: a snort. a snort? there, along my side of the low fence, a family of boar froze, streaked with the shadows. the small ones were about 5 meters away, herding together. i felt a shock over my skin; the largest one was still trotting towards me. the mother, at four meters, three.
i clapped, loud. one of the piglets lunged sideways and shook the fence. the mother stopped and snorted again. the other large boar was still approaching from my left. i clapped again. hey! i couldn´t see any tusks, but the closer beast came up to my thigh. it would knock me down on the charge like any other animal. i was thinking about my friend emanuele´s garden in montegemoli, how boar had rooted it up and broken his tomato trellises. last year a 6-year-old boy was killed. i clapped again and we all held still.
i backed away, and the two adults watched me, scraping their hooves onto the broken asphalt. putting a little distance between myself and the young, everyone breathed easier, and i quickly counted their ridged backs. nine, tramping into the suburbs for the choice grass. rules of the wild still apply.
i fly back to the US on friday.
i looked up before the noise had really registered: a snort. a snort? there, along my side of the low fence, a family of boar froze, streaked with the shadows. the small ones were about 5 meters away, herding together. i felt a shock over my skin; the largest one was still trotting towards me. the mother, at four meters, three.
i clapped, loud. one of the piglets lunged sideways and shook the fence. the mother stopped and snorted again. the other large boar was still approaching from my left. i clapped again. hey! i couldn´t see any tusks, but the closer beast came up to my thigh. it would knock me down on the charge like any other animal. i was thinking about my friend emanuele´s garden in montegemoli, how boar had rooted it up and broken his tomato trellises. last year a 6-year-old boy was killed. i clapped again and we all held still.
i backed away, and the two adults watched me, scraping their hooves onto the broken asphalt. putting a little distance between myself and the young, everyone breathed easier, and i quickly counted their ridged backs. nine, tramping into the suburbs for the choice grass. rules of the wild still apply.
i fly back to the US on friday.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
global observations about germany part 4
4. yesterday while on the last leg of my run around the grünwaldsee, i passed two girls, each about 10 years old. they were chattering loudly from either side of the street, seated gingerly on unicycles. they got quiet as i approached. the one with the long blonde ponytail hopped to the ground. after i passed, i looked over my shoulder; she had again fitted the long seat under her wildly striped skirt, and was wobbling over the wet cobblestones toward her friend. she was also wearing a pair of outrageous tights. behind that whirl of color, i noticed that the unicycle was outfitted with a small fender that pointed back, straight and stiff like a shark´s fin. i love germany. it is a land where children ride unicyces, secure in the knowledge that no spray from the street will kick up onto their skirts.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
weimar
as part of the program i´m on, this weekend was a scheduled trip to weimar, an idyllic town southwest of berlin and the birthplace of ´the german classical period.´ goethe lived there for 50 years, and was later joined by schiller. there is a beautiful park that stretches along the ilm river, complete with ruins purposefully constructed as such - to add to the atmosphere. the town is full of perfect 16th century renaissance villas with their tastefully daring color schemes. my favorite had a smooth stucco exterior, grey with a hint of violet, set off perfectly by orange window frames, outlined in black.
we spent this morning at what remains of buchenwald, a nazi concentration camp 6km from weimar. we spent 3 hours milling around, listening to an audio tour on ipods hung around our necks. i walked along the railroad tracks until they mossed over in the encroaching forest. there, i found a series of simple aluminum poles planted in the ground at regular intervals. at the bottom of one i read ´unbekannt 893.´ unbekannt means unknown, nameless.
after walking around for an hour inside the camp proper, i chose at random one of the paths leading down the hill into the trees. signs pointed towards ´the little camp,´ where conditions were worst: many prisoners lived barely a few weeks. but i chose wrong at the fork, and arrived at a dead end. from there i could see the path i should have taken, and cut across a small orchard towards it.
but i had to turn around. looking down, i saw enormous plums, oozing out of their overripe skins, scattered everywhere. i felt them under my feet. one looked stretched out like a pear, as though while still on the branch its flesh had liquified and weighed down in the peel, like pennies in a sack. turned with my toe, its underside was all rotten, clinging to the grass.
i was very angry: no one had picked these plums when they were ripe on the branches, no one had put them in a basket to sit on their kitchen counter or to be made into preserves. why hadn´t someone gotten some sweet out of these plums? i picked one up and it went to mush in my hand. it was so heavy. i put it down carefully, afraid it would splatter if dropped, and watched my step along the way i had come.
we spent this morning at what remains of buchenwald, a nazi concentration camp 6km from weimar. we spent 3 hours milling around, listening to an audio tour on ipods hung around our necks. i walked along the railroad tracks until they mossed over in the encroaching forest. there, i found a series of simple aluminum poles planted in the ground at regular intervals. at the bottom of one i read ´unbekannt 893.´ unbekannt means unknown, nameless.
after walking around for an hour inside the camp proper, i chose at random one of the paths leading down the hill into the trees. signs pointed towards ´the little camp,´ where conditions were worst: many prisoners lived barely a few weeks. but i chose wrong at the fork, and arrived at a dead end. from there i could see the path i should have taken, and cut across a small orchard towards it.
but i had to turn around. looking down, i saw enormous plums, oozing out of their overripe skins, scattered everywhere. i felt them under my feet. one looked stretched out like a pear, as though while still on the branch its flesh had liquified and weighed down in the peel, like pennies in a sack. turned with my toe, its underside was all rotten, clinging to the grass.
i was very angry: no one had picked these plums when they were ripe on the branches, no one had put them in a basket to sit on their kitchen counter or to be made into preserves. why hadn´t someone gotten some sweet out of these plums? i picked one up and it went to mush in my hand. it was so heavy. i put it down carefully, afraid it would splatter if dropped, and watched my step along the way i had come.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
überwältigt
i. general
there is a lot going on in berlin. every site has a past. to your right, you´ll see a fragment of the wall. and here, this is where karl liebknecht was killed. behind me and to my left, one can see the brick foundation of the SS-headquarters, the ´topography of terror.´
i don´t know very much about architecture, but i have been thinking about it a lot here. space has a memory, a past that must be somehow confronted, dealt with, integrated into the present. what do we want to remember? what do we want to forget? are we going to put a sign up that says ´under this parking lot is the bunker where hitler committed suicide and where his body was burned´? are we going to put a sign on the side of the finance ministry that says ´this was the air force headquarters, where hermann göring had his office´? there is a monument for the murdered jews of europe. should there be one for the gays and lesbians that the third reich massacred with equally malicious intent?
in an anthology i brought along on this trip, the editor j.d. mcclatchy introduces the poet may swenson saying that ´she was aware that description is itself a moral commentary.´ so this is about the past, but specifically, it seems, about how to reprsent the past - how should a community describe its own memory - to visitors and to itself. architectural choices seem to be one of the ´practical´ facets of dealing with a past that speaks to us whether or not we want to hear.
ii. specific
»The enormity and scale of the horror of the Holocaust is such that any attempt to represent it by traditional means is inevitably inadequate ... Our memorial attempts to present a new idea of memory as distinct from nostalgia ... We can only know the past today through a manifestation in the present.« (Peter Eisenman, 1998)
in may 2005, berlin´s holocaust memorial was opened to the public. constructed according to peter eisenman´s design, the denkmal für die ermordeten juden europas is comprised of a visitor´s center underneath the 19.000 square meter ´field of stelae´ - 2711 concrete slabs of varying height, arranged in a grid. because of their different heights (from a few inches up to 4 or 5 meters) and because the are placed on an intentionally uneven surface, together the slabs create a the impression of a wave or ripples on a liquid surface. i learned on my walking tour wednesday that peter eisenman was inspired by wheat blowing in the wind. take it or leave it.
the monument is open day and night. one can walk along the axes of the grid, seeing the blocks rise up around, some leaning slightly away. one can sit on the low blocks around the edges. i went back thursday evening and jotted down a few notes about what i saw. this is what i wrote:
iii. this is history
yuuuu-lee! yuuu-leee! juuuu-leee!
a young couple murmuring in french emerge from the stone, then fade again into a valley. walking side by side is a tight fit between the slabs.
3 guys my age jump from block to block toward the center of the field. they have gotten the attention of some official, who holds his arms out and pushes his palms toward the ground. Down! the one wearing a visor and camoflage shorts is embarassed. that´s nice.
to my right, another group has climbed up. leaping to the next block, they look through the LCD screens on the back of their pocket cameras. a boy sprints by, chased by his older sister. the french couple reappears at the edge. beyond the crest of the wave i can see the umbrellas outside the café.
yuuu-leeee! juuuu-leeee!
a young woman in a tanktop and playfully short bangs is pacing along the edge of the monument, peering down the rows. her 7 year old son jogs ahead, helping. she whistles between her fingers and anxious calls out juuuu-leeee! juuuuu-leee! she has lost her julie in there.
there is a lot going on in berlin. every site has a past. to your right, you´ll see a fragment of the wall. and here, this is where karl liebknecht was killed. behind me and to my left, one can see the brick foundation of the SS-headquarters, the ´topography of terror.´
i don´t know very much about architecture, but i have been thinking about it a lot here. space has a memory, a past that must be somehow confronted, dealt with, integrated into the present. what do we want to remember? what do we want to forget? are we going to put a sign up that says ´under this parking lot is the bunker where hitler committed suicide and where his body was burned´? are we going to put a sign on the side of the finance ministry that says ´this was the air force headquarters, where hermann göring had his office´? there is a monument for the murdered jews of europe. should there be one for the gays and lesbians that the third reich massacred with equally malicious intent?
in an anthology i brought along on this trip, the editor j.d. mcclatchy introduces the poet may swenson saying that ´she was aware that description is itself a moral commentary.´ so this is about the past, but specifically, it seems, about how to reprsent the past - how should a community describe its own memory - to visitors and to itself. architectural choices seem to be one of the ´practical´ facets of dealing with a past that speaks to us whether or not we want to hear.
ii. specific
»The enormity and scale of the horror of the Holocaust is such that any attempt to represent it by traditional means is inevitably inadequate ... Our memorial attempts to present a new idea of memory as distinct from nostalgia ... We can only know the past today through a manifestation in the present.« (Peter Eisenman, 1998)
in may 2005, berlin´s holocaust memorial was opened to the public. constructed according to peter eisenman´s design, the denkmal für die ermordeten juden europas is comprised of a visitor´s center underneath the 19.000 square meter ´field of stelae´ - 2711 concrete slabs of varying height, arranged in a grid. because of their different heights (from a few inches up to 4 or 5 meters) and because the are placed on an intentionally uneven surface, together the slabs create a the impression of a wave or ripples on a liquid surface. i learned on my walking tour wednesday that peter eisenman was inspired by wheat blowing in the wind. take it or leave it.
the monument is open day and night. one can walk along the axes of the grid, seeing the blocks rise up around, some leaning slightly away. one can sit on the low blocks around the edges. i went back thursday evening and jotted down a few notes about what i saw. this is what i wrote:
iii. this is history
yuuuu-lee! yuuu-leee! juuuu-leee!
a young couple murmuring in french emerge from the stone, then fade again into a valley. walking side by side is a tight fit between the slabs.
3 guys my age jump from block to block toward the center of the field. they have gotten the attention of some official, who holds his arms out and pushes his palms toward the ground. Down! the one wearing a visor and camoflage shorts is embarassed. that´s nice.
to my right, another group has climbed up. leaping to the next block, they look through the LCD screens on the back of their pocket cameras. a boy sprints by, chased by his older sister. the french couple reappears at the edge. beyond the crest of the wave i can see the umbrellas outside the café.
yuuu-leeee! juuuu-leeee!
a young woman in a tanktop and playfully short bangs is pacing along the edge of the monument, peering down the rows. her 7 year old son jogs ahead, helping. she whistles between her fingers and anxious calls out juuuu-leeee! juuuuu-leee! she has lost her julie in there.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
there are trees in this city
guten abend, i#m in berlin, adjusting to zet another kezboard configuration. i've been here 24 hours, and i need to take care of some basic 'get settled' tasks before dinner, but i just wanted to say that i am safely arrived in northern europe, at a very welcoming homestay in the southwest neighborhood of zehlendorf. this morning i went to the market with my host mother daniela and her daughter antonia, and this afternoon we went on a boat tour of berlin. that was very nice. here are the differences i have noticed thus far between germany (here) and italy (there):
1. here you eat all your food on one plate. fork and knife are both placed to the right of the plate, and the spoon across the top. i was delighted to learn this.
2. here, wheat bread exists. it is almost black, and after eating it i feel capable of unifying a nation.
3. germans love trees, and like to have them around for company. even in the center of berlin, i am amazed by how green the landscape is, and i don't think a month will be nearly long enough to see all the branches hanging over a dark oak trellis or all the ivy climbing up a black lampost.
4. there are many more buildings here that have been built in the last 50 years, and a particular wealth of public buildings designed by the most prominent architects in the last 15.
i am here in berlin to pound grammar and vocabulary into my skull, and, departing from this last point, to be a part of a culture that has witnessed two moments of profound destruction. the allies bombed the city. a wall was built, then they tore it down.
1. here you eat all your food on one plate. fork and knife are both placed to the right of the plate, and the spoon across the top. i was delighted to learn this.
2. here, wheat bread exists. it is almost black, and after eating it i feel capable of unifying a nation.
3. germans love trees, and like to have them around for company. even in the center of berlin, i am amazed by how green the landscape is, and i don't think a month will be nearly long enough to see all the branches hanging over a dark oak trellis or all the ivy climbing up a black lampost.
4. there are many more buildings here that have been built in the last 50 years, and a particular wealth of public buildings designed by the most prominent architects in the last 15.
i am here in berlin to pound grammar and vocabulary into my skull, and, departing from this last point, to be a part of a culture that has witnessed two moments of profound destruction. the allies bombed the city. a wall was built, then they tore it down.
Monday, July 30, 2007
il macellaio
tearing it up, endlessly analyzing the infinite possible interpretations in your mind, that's a waste of time, he said. the melody, the harmony of poetry is something you feel in your gut.
dario cecchini had very large hands and a collection of appropriately large knives. the wall of his shop read 'chi mangia la fiorentina unnà paura di nulla.' he who eats a steak alla fiorentina fears nothing. this is also written on his business card, which encourages prospective clients to make an appointment. dario cecchini is a butcher.
the shop was decorated with an incredible diversity of elegant art. restored antique furniture was balanced against wild modern sculpture. next to some of these latter pieces were silly sketches by the sculptors, made on the shop's own butcher paper. in the corner, a heavy door with a window looked into the stainless steel cooler: there were six sides of beef hanging on enormous hooks, and more chains hung down, waiting. already wrapped, cuts of pork, veal, and boar peeked out of the drawers in a plastic chest. in the corner chilled a stained white bucket, half full of unidentifiable innards.
behind the elegant curve of the glass display case, there was a small scale, piles of butcher paper, and an old machine that seemed capable of vacuum sealing a vespa. we were there after hours; the case was empty and spotless except for a few sheets of paper set parallel on the steel display platters - orders phoned and faxed in, notes to the two apprentices. next to the case, right out on the floor of the shop, was a wooden table about waist high. the legs were 4x4s, and the surface was 18 inches thick, curving slightly on the bottom. three feet long and two feet wide, it was half a tree: the surface was a hundred dark dents and in the center, a shallow worn into the wood by the rocking of a heavy blade. the block shone, greased with the fat of bones. i couldn't stop staring at it, and cecchini said simply, 'i made that.'
in addition to having this exclusive and impeccably decorated butcher shop, signore cecchini owns and runs a restaurant across the street that is open 3 nights a week and has no menu. you eat what he brings you. and until recently, if you caught him at the right time and in the right mood, he would recite sonnets of 13th and 14th century vulgar tuscan poets and hundreds of lines from dante's inferno before going back into his locker to hang hundreds of pounds of top-quality beef on stainless steel hooks.
but signore cecchini doesn't do dante anymore. he feels that roberto benigni and other italian actors have made dante a commodity. it's fashionable to recite dante now in soccer stadiums. or, benigni recites a canto on television and the next day every italian bookstore is sold out of the comedy, only so those books can gather dust on another set of shelves. signore cecchini is also a showman, no doubt: even while we were being introduced he threw out a wide variety of tuscan cuss words, trying to shock and alienate the theorists from the university, the people who want to take what is sacred to him and show it the self-indulgent saw of literary theory.
i asked signore cecchini if there was a connection in his mind between his love of poetry and the work that he does with his hands, tearing up animal bodies with his huge hands and his huge knives. he said, 'listen, i'm not a dante scholar, a dantista. i'm a butcher. i think that poetry is something that the soul needs to be healthy, and the only way i know how to approach poetry is to learn it by memory, to feel the words in my gut and then, from there, to speak them out loud.'
dario cecchini is relatively famous in italy and even abroad for his odd combination of callings. he has appeared on 'the today show.' this notoriety allows him to request his clients to make appointments, to serve whatever he wants at his restaurant, and to make a sack of money doing it. it could be argued that, to some extent he too has sold out, using poetry as a way to compliment and enrich himself. he doesn't seem to mind the attention it brings him.
but i want to let this butcher have his ego and his success. not because only very few butchers jump up on their counters to recite poetry for their customers and neighbors, but because all butchers know about bodies, about how much they weigh. and because all butchers cut themselves sooner or later. cecchini's reaction to this latest commodification of dante seemed almost physical, as if hearing dante torn up and sold for 50€ a seat gave him the same pain as seeing a choice cut ground up for goulash, or nicking a finger with one of his cleavers. swearing at us, refusing to recite in public, it was as if he was instinctively pressing this wound with his unmarked hand, or sticking the bleeding finger in his mouth.
why does it feel so right to do that, anyway? it makes us seem more animals than enlightened beings. and maybe that's the point. he may reject complex interpretations, he may cuss and stomp and make a little scene, and it may have all been part of the performance, the act - but i bought it: for cecchini, poetry has weight. he feels it in his bones, feels it running in his veins. to see it be made into a fad, sold on the auction block for cheap; that cuts him, and deep.
dario cecchini had very large hands and a collection of appropriately large knives. the wall of his shop read 'chi mangia la fiorentina unnà paura di nulla.' he who eats a steak alla fiorentina fears nothing. this is also written on his business card, which encourages prospective clients to make an appointment. dario cecchini is a butcher.
the shop was decorated with an incredible diversity of elegant art. restored antique furniture was balanced against wild modern sculpture. next to some of these latter pieces were silly sketches by the sculptors, made on the shop's own butcher paper. in the corner, a heavy door with a window looked into the stainless steel cooler: there were six sides of beef hanging on enormous hooks, and more chains hung down, waiting. already wrapped, cuts of pork, veal, and boar peeked out of the drawers in a plastic chest. in the corner chilled a stained white bucket, half full of unidentifiable innards.
behind the elegant curve of the glass display case, there was a small scale, piles of butcher paper, and an old machine that seemed capable of vacuum sealing a vespa. we were there after hours; the case was empty and spotless except for a few sheets of paper set parallel on the steel display platters - orders phoned and faxed in, notes to the two apprentices. next to the case, right out on the floor of the shop, was a wooden table about waist high. the legs were 4x4s, and the surface was 18 inches thick, curving slightly on the bottom. three feet long and two feet wide, it was half a tree: the surface was a hundred dark dents and in the center, a shallow worn into the wood by the rocking of a heavy blade. the block shone, greased with the fat of bones. i couldn't stop staring at it, and cecchini said simply, 'i made that.'
in addition to having this exclusive and impeccably decorated butcher shop, signore cecchini owns and runs a restaurant across the street that is open 3 nights a week and has no menu. you eat what he brings you. and until recently, if you caught him at the right time and in the right mood, he would recite sonnets of 13th and 14th century vulgar tuscan poets and hundreds of lines from dante's inferno before going back into his locker to hang hundreds of pounds of top-quality beef on stainless steel hooks.
but signore cecchini doesn't do dante anymore. he feels that roberto benigni and other italian actors have made dante a commodity. it's fashionable to recite dante now in soccer stadiums. or, benigni recites a canto on television and the next day every italian bookstore is sold out of the comedy, only so those books can gather dust on another set of shelves. signore cecchini is also a showman, no doubt: even while we were being introduced he threw out a wide variety of tuscan cuss words, trying to shock and alienate the theorists from the university, the people who want to take what is sacred to him and show it the self-indulgent saw of literary theory.
i asked signore cecchini if there was a connection in his mind between his love of poetry and the work that he does with his hands, tearing up animal bodies with his huge hands and his huge knives. he said, 'listen, i'm not a dante scholar, a dantista. i'm a butcher. i think that poetry is something that the soul needs to be healthy, and the only way i know how to approach poetry is to learn it by memory, to feel the words in my gut and then, from there, to speak them out loud.'
dario cecchini is relatively famous in italy and even abroad for his odd combination of callings. he has appeared on 'the today show.' this notoriety allows him to request his clients to make appointments, to serve whatever he wants at his restaurant, and to make a sack of money doing it. it could be argued that, to some extent he too has sold out, using poetry as a way to compliment and enrich himself. he doesn't seem to mind the attention it brings him.
but i want to let this butcher have his ego and his success. not because only very few butchers jump up on their counters to recite poetry for their customers and neighbors, but because all butchers know about bodies, about how much they weigh. and because all butchers cut themselves sooner or later. cecchini's reaction to this latest commodification of dante seemed almost physical, as if hearing dante torn up and sold for 50€ a seat gave him the same pain as seeing a choice cut ground up for goulash, or nicking a finger with one of his cleavers. swearing at us, refusing to recite in public, it was as if he was instinctively pressing this wound with his unmarked hand, or sticking the bleeding finger in his mouth.
why does it feel so right to do that, anyway? it makes us seem more animals than enlightened beings. and maybe that's the point. he may reject complex interpretations, he may cuss and stomp and make a little scene, and it may have all been part of the performance, the act - but i bought it: for cecchini, poetry has weight. he feels it in his bones, feels it running in his veins. to see it be made into a fad, sold on the auction block for cheap; that cuts him, and deep.
Friday, July 27, 2007
three
1. buon harry potter
tonight i went with some friends to see harry potter 5 e l'ordine della fenice at the multiplex. on the ride there, i got a phone call. at the end of the conversation, my interlocutor signed off saying 'ci vediamo domani, buon harry potter.' now, the sense of this was totally clear and translates perfectly into english as 'see you tomorrow, enjoy harry potter.' but literally (i find literal translations so very much fun), the phrase renders as 'we'll see each other tomorrow, happy harry potter.' italians wish each other 'buon compleanno' and 'buon natale' - happy birthday and merry christmas, respectively, and that's familiar enough to a native english speaker - but they also feel so free to use 'buon' with almost any noun. the textbook example is 'buon divertimento,' which literally translates as 'happy [as in happy birthday] - happy fun time.' and so, tonight, we took it to the next level, and i'd like to send out those same wishes to the virtual community tonight: God bless us every one: merry harry potter.
2. the conditional past
to continue the grammar thread, while recently reading the end of an italian short story, it really jumped out to me that the whole paragraph was in the conditional past. and so it seems, despite my best efforts to the contrary, that i am becoming an adult. just making sure we're all on the same page, there are three types of hypothetical phrases in italian. the present: if x happens, then i do/will do y; the possible: if x were to happen, i would do y; and the impossible: if x had happened, i would have done y. and let me interject here that hypothetical phrases are my personal everest of the italian language, my personal standard of fluency. if i ever am irritated with someone, bring my hands together as if in prayer and rock them at the wrists and bust out a hypothetical phrase without effort, i will be celebrating at the summit baby.
in the 'impossible' variety above, 'i would have done y' is an example of the conditional past. if the conditions had been different, i would have made a different choice. but that's impossible. there's no turning back. the conditional past is grammar's recognition that our choices have consequences, that these choices matter, and that time travel doesn't exist: past choices can rarely be undone. with all this in my head, reading the last paragraph of that story, i surprised myself by saying, 'oh SHIT!'
3. jogging part II
although it's been very hot, i've been running more and more. this is partly because exercise helps me unwind and work out the stress of my projects, not knowing when it's appropriate to address someone formally or informally, and continually attempting and failing to construct correct hypothetical phrases. but it's also because i want to sort of stay in shape, and i don't want to eat less, so i have to run more.
weeks ago i was talking with one of the neighbors who is a runner and he asked me about my route. i told him i go down to the roundabout, over the bridge, and then loop back through a rather industrial area. he looked at me incredulous, his disgust completely unmasked. that part of town? it stinks! and he made a move as though to hold his nose. i run for an hour down at the park. why don't you run there? i shrugged. well, angelo, because...i don't like running in a small circle and i like to be surrounded by heavy machinery when i work out, ok? there, i thought it. i couldn't figure out why he was so up in arms about it.
so, it's taken me weeks, but i may have had an insight into this. and may be an insight into other italian mysteries such as 'why do people wear such nice clothes and sunglasses all the time?' and 'why do people always bring coffee to the table on a tray?' if i probe angelo a little more next time i see him, i bet he would translate his disdain for running on the wrong side of the tracks as 'you run there? that's 45 minutes of your life - you could be having an experience that would be so much more aesthetic than that!' it comes as no surprise that italians are sensitive to beauty. i mean, they have some of that here. but what impresses me is the tenacity of their commitment to it in the most quotidian arenas. you're going to the store? why not put on your new shoes? some jackass american kid is coming over? why not use the best china? every moment is an opportunity to experience something beautiful - why not take another five minutes of thought and planning to make the afternoon something to write home about?
tonight i went with some friends to see harry potter 5 e l'ordine della fenice at the multiplex. on the ride there, i got a phone call. at the end of the conversation, my interlocutor signed off saying 'ci vediamo domani, buon harry potter.' now, the sense of this was totally clear and translates perfectly into english as 'see you tomorrow, enjoy harry potter.' but literally (i find literal translations so very much fun), the phrase renders as 'we'll see each other tomorrow, happy harry potter.' italians wish each other 'buon compleanno' and 'buon natale' - happy birthday and merry christmas, respectively, and that's familiar enough to a native english speaker - but they also feel so free to use 'buon' with almost any noun. the textbook example is 'buon divertimento,' which literally translates as 'happy [as in happy birthday] - happy fun time.' and so, tonight, we took it to the next level, and i'd like to send out those same wishes to the virtual community tonight: God bless us every one: merry harry potter.
2. the conditional past
to continue the grammar thread, while recently reading the end of an italian short story, it really jumped out to me that the whole paragraph was in the conditional past. and so it seems, despite my best efforts to the contrary, that i am becoming an adult. just making sure we're all on the same page, there are three types of hypothetical phrases in italian. the present: if x happens, then i do/will do y; the possible: if x were to happen, i would do y; and the impossible: if x had happened, i would have done y. and let me interject here that hypothetical phrases are my personal everest of the italian language, my personal standard of fluency. if i ever am irritated with someone, bring my hands together as if in prayer and rock them at the wrists and bust out a hypothetical phrase without effort, i will be celebrating at the summit baby.
in the 'impossible' variety above, 'i would have done y' is an example of the conditional past. if the conditions had been different, i would have made a different choice. but that's impossible. there's no turning back. the conditional past is grammar's recognition that our choices have consequences, that these choices matter, and that time travel doesn't exist: past choices can rarely be undone. with all this in my head, reading the last paragraph of that story, i surprised myself by saying, 'oh SHIT!'
3. jogging part II
although it's been very hot, i've been running more and more. this is partly because exercise helps me unwind and work out the stress of my projects, not knowing when it's appropriate to address someone formally or informally, and continually attempting and failing to construct correct hypothetical phrases. but it's also because i want to sort of stay in shape, and i don't want to eat less, so i have to run more.
weeks ago i was talking with one of the neighbors who is a runner and he asked me about my route. i told him i go down to the roundabout, over the bridge, and then loop back through a rather industrial area. he looked at me incredulous, his disgust completely unmasked. that part of town? it stinks! and he made a move as though to hold his nose. i run for an hour down at the park. why don't you run there? i shrugged. well, angelo, because...i don't like running in a small circle and i like to be surrounded by heavy machinery when i work out, ok? there, i thought it. i couldn't figure out why he was so up in arms about it.
so, it's taken me weeks, but i may have had an insight into this. and may be an insight into other italian mysteries such as 'why do people wear such nice clothes and sunglasses all the time?' and 'why do people always bring coffee to the table on a tray?' if i probe angelo a little more next time i see him, i bet he would translate his disdain for running on the wrong side of the tracks as 'you run there? that's 45 minutes of your life - you could be having an experience that would be so much more aesthetic than that!' it comes as no surprise that italians are sensitive to beauty. i mean, they have some of that here. but what impresses me is the tenacity of their commitment to it in the most quotidian arenas. you're going to the store? why not put on your new shoes? some jackass american kid is coming over? why not use the best china? every moment is an opportunity to experience something beautiful - why not take another five minutes of thought and planning to make the afternoon something to write home about?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
il crudo sasso
monday morning i left early from arezzo and took a train/bus north to stia, a small hamlet in the casentino valley. i walked from the station to the Castello di Porciano, of which only a single tower and a lone wall remain. but on the north side, the stone that remains was covered with a blanket of ivy that moved slowly from a green that was almost black in shadow through a fire orange into a deep blood red. i don't know what has caused this change in color: it's still july (even in italy), and why is the only west side so eager to get on with autumn?
i took some pictures for the dante project, then talked to an old man at the fountain. he was filling up a blue plastic watering can and had four more patiently waiting, their long spouts all in a row. he was very inviting when i asked if i could fill my water bottle. he gave me directions to the trailhead where i could start up towards monte falco, one of the high peaks of this region and of in the appenine mountain range. i'll gloss over that part of the journey, suffice it to say that it was steep and took a long time. when i came out of the oak forest into this little bald meadow at the top, to my left was all of eastern italy. the appenines run down the spine of the italian peninsula, and on a clear day, they say you can see all the way to the tyrrenian sea, and from monte falterona (the peak just to the east), you can see to the adriatic. really fantastic, even with a little haze.
from there i followed the appenine ridge for about 15 km until i more or less slid down the eastern side to the sacred hermitage and monastery at camaldoli. i spent two nights there in the guest house of the monastery, where i had a cell to myself. this made me very happy, despite the fact that the bed was about 4 inches too short. after walking more or less 30km, i slept great. tuesday i ambled in the forest and chilled out by the little brooks that dante describes running down the mountain; at a pasture hidden in the forest, i stood shyly at the fence while two horses nibbled at hay from my open palm.
in the afternoon and evening i sat in on two sessions of a national conference on liturgy. i heard an architect's fascinating talk about the centrality of the altar, how the altar defines a church as 'lo spazio in attesa,' the space in waiting. space waiting to be actualized, made into a place.
yesterday i left camaldoli shortly after 6, taking a different path to the southeast towards la verna, the summer retreat of St. Francis of Assisi and the site of a beautiful monastery that sits on what dante calls 'il crudo sasso' - the raw rock. that seemed pretty spot-on to me: approaching through the forest, there were huge boulders everywhere, covered in moss and jutting out of the ground like impacted teeth. i don't know much about geology, but from the extreme angles of the striations in these stones, the area seemed like the place tectonic plates come to party. either that, or it is the scrap heap of the LORD.
rising out of the canopy, the forbidding surface of the largest boulder was chosen by Francis and his closest followers as the site of their retreat. at the time, they simply spent the summer months each crouched in his own hovel. standing beside the site of francis' first cave, one of the friars explained that it was chosen for him by his brothers as the most luxurious: only a little rain would come in when it was windy. a nice gesture; it is always windy.
il crudo sasso figures prominently in francis' hagiography as the place he received the stigmata, the spontaneous appearance of the wounds of Christ on his hands and feet. i knew that. i did not know, as padre gildo explained, that in the last years of his life St. Francis wanted only two things: first, to know in his heart the love that Christ had for all people. and secondly, to know the pain that Christ experienced on the cross. i don't know how to react to that.
i took some pictures for the dante project, then talked to an old man at the fountain. he was filling up a blue plastic watering can and had four more patiently waiting, their long spouts all in a row. he was very inviting when i asked if i could fill my water bottle. he gave me directions to the trailhead where i could start up towards monte falco, one of the high peaks of this region and of in the appenine mountain range. i'll gloss over that part of the journey, suffice it to say that it was steep and took a long time. when i came out of the oak forest into this little bald meadow at the top, to my left was all of eastern italy. the appenines run down the spine of the italian peninsula, and on a clear day, they say you can see all the way to the tyrrenian sea, and from monte falterona (the peak just to the east), you can see to the adriatic. really fantastic, even with a little haze.
from there i followed the appenine ridge for about 15 km until i more or less slid down the eastern side to the sacred hermitage and monastery at camaldoli. i spent two nights there in the guest house of the monastery, where i had a cell to myself. this made me very happy, despite the fact that the bed was about 4 inches too short. after walking more or less 30km, i slept great. tuesday i ambled in the forest and chilled out by the little brooks that dante describes running down the mountain; at a pasture hidden in the forest, i stood shyly at the fence while two horses nibbled at hay from my open palm.
in the afternoon and evening i sat in on two sessions of a national conference on liturgy. i heard an architect's fascinating talk about the centrality of the altar, how the altar defines a church as 'lo spazio in attesa,' the space in waiting. space waiting to be actualized, made into a place.
yesterday i left camaldoli shortly after 6, taking a different path to the southeast towards la verna, the summer retreat of St. Francis of Assisi and the site of a beautiful monastery that sits on what dante calls 'il crudo sasso' - the raw rock. that seemed pretty spot-on to me: approaching through the forest, there were huge boulders everywhere, covered in moss and jutting out of the ground like impacted teeth. i don't know much about geology, but from the extreme angles of the striations in these stones, the area seemed like the place tectonic plates come to party. either that, or it is the scrap heap of the LORD.
rising out of the canopy, the forbidding surface of the largest boulder was chosen by Francis and his closest followers as the site of their retreat. at the time, they simply spent the summer months each crouched in his own hovel. standing beside the site of francis' first cave, one of the friars explained that it was chosen for him by his brothers as the most luxurious: only a little rain would come in when it was windy. a nice gesture; it is always windy.
il crudo sasso figures prominently in francis' hagiography as the place he received the stigmata, the spontaneous appearance of the wounds of Christ on his hands and feet. i knew that. i did not know, as padre gildo explained, that in the last years of his life St. Francis wanted only two things: first, to know in his heart the love that Christ had for all people. and secondly, to know the pain that Christ experienced on the cross. i don't know how to react to that.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
falcons
party people (and those who would not identify as 'party people'):this is the casentino valley, which follows the route of the arno river south from its source in the appenines towards arezzo. this is twilight. this is gherardo, who goes to art school by day and by night is one of italy's most accomplished falconiers. and this is a falcon. in italian, un girifalco grigio.
last night i found myself at gherardo's house chatting with his parents and drinking coca-cola, watching as gherard set his two prize falcons free to float about on the evening air, watching him swing a logoro - a length of cord with a baby chick tied to a weight on the end, watching the falcons scream down from on high to claw the chick to shreds in midair. their rear claws (which correspond to human thumbs, i suppose), are muscular and the talon is longer and much more intimidating than the others, which were already considerably intimidating. at the last possible moment, the falcon's feet drop down from their aerodynamic tuck to thrust these rear claws into their prey. when i saw this happen in living color, the force of the falcon's descent and the strength of the claws ripped the chick's head off.
it was awesome.
as gherardo eloquently explained, falconry has been an art since the middle ages, with rich traditions in the west and in asia. the logoro he used with the chick was a western design, but gherardo also showed us a logoro that falconers have been using in pakistan for centuries. a length of flexible cane with string on the end, it allowed gherardo to simulate the flight of smaller birds by using a real bird's wing instead of a weight at the end of the cord. he handled the cane with practiced grace; his motion reminded me of flyfishermen. then, he reached into a small pouch at his belt and pulled out another chick, which he pulled apart with his bare hands, throwing pieces to the falcon, who caught them in the air.
it was awesome.
although gherardo has established an obvious intimacy with the birds that he's had for a long time, he was very frank about using hunger as a means to keep his new acquisitions close. the falcon comes back because of the chick, whether he tears it to pieces or whether gherardo does the job for him. in the end, that only increased my appreciation for what these falcons are capable of. birds of prey seem to be machines of desire. when they flew towards their prey, it was as if every feather was perfectly aligned towards their aim, as if every atom of their bodies were drawn effortlessly along their line of sight.
tomorrow i'm going up to camaldoli, a benedictine monastery in the northern casentino valley, and on wednesday i'll be at la verna, St. Francis of Assisi's summer refuge. thinking of the falcons, it makes more sense why monks everywhere take a vow of poverty, and why perhaps St. Francis, who spoke of 'lady poverty' as his beloved, was able to revolutionize the church in his brief lifetime. i don't know if it's 'right' to deprive falcons of food to bind them to you. i've tried to starve a few girls into liking me, and it didn't work very well.
but watching those falcons, i felt free. the grace with which they moved their wings to catch the currents, the speed and control with which they approached, the ferocity of their attack: the air is their element, and they can do almost anything they want up there. being in the presence of that power, i felt a part of it. but also because it's slowly becoming real to me that my desires are my own, that i can make choices. i don't intend to take any eternally binding and highly uncomfortable vows in the next few days, but i want to take a long look at these monks, who have pointed every fiber of their being toward their desire and are living in the consequences. to be really free, does one have to choose to live in desire?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
hot bodies
hello, it's 00:20, and i am sitting in arezzo. i should go to bed, but the last two days are worthy of description, so here we are:
i spent yesterday more or less around the house labelling photos for the dante project and typing up a translation of a mario rigoni stern story that i'll finish tomorrow. around 16:30, i put on some clothes and walked in to the center of town, where i met up with a local poet and high school latin teacher with whomi had chatted a few times last year. she was going to give a lecture in nearby monterchi, comparing the work of two painters: in this corner, from 15th century san sepolcro, piero della francesca; trading uppercuts and color palattes with with the 20th century florentine ottone rosai. taking advantage of the opportunity to salute her, listen to some italian, and see some art all in one swing, i was going to check it out. i was getting a ride with her and her husband. it was very, very hot.
the ride to monterchi bordered on the surreal. i don't have time to do justice to the complexity of the personalities involved, but there were three principal players, plus me: professoressa verde, made-up to the max, expressing her anxiety about her lecture by confirming a series of superfluous details over her cell-phone. her husband, francesco, smoking incessantly, expressing his anxiety that we were running late. every 2 minutes, he would set his jaw and announce the time, followed by our expected arrival time in monterchi. with the interaction between these two characters alone, i was already primed for a spectacle. we left 10 minutes behind schedule, only for professoressa verde to realize 5 minutes into our 45 minute drive that we had forgotten a friend of hers from the previously mentioned provincial government, to whom she had also promised a ride. and so, another rapid, pointed telephone call. the woman was on her bicycle, on a nearby street. we would turn around and pick her up.
prof.ssa verde gave her husband a brief description of this alessandra as we went in search of her. she's passionate about art, specifically piero della francesca. she works at the provincia. she's taking classes at the university. she's a little...spaced out. she's rather fat. and there she was, waving at us eagerly on the sidewalk, next to her dilapidated bicycle. a brown skirt and leopard print top were stretched across her generous build. as she settled herself very close to me in the back seat, she chattered away; beads of sweat collected on her upper lip. somewhere in the middle of the unfiltered narrations of her consciousness, she made my acquaintance. no, really, the pleasure was mine.
over the next 45 minutes, prof.ssa verde became more and more nervous about her talk, and now having no one else to call, she turned to the two bodies in the back seat. she delicately took a book from her purse and did an impromptu commentary on some of the verses she herself had written inspired by these two painters. she encouraged me to buy her book after the lecture. alessandra kept interrupting with the most far-fetched mental associations ('listen, you know what comes to mind...?'); francesco was clearly furious about our continued state of tardiness and that this fat lady in the back seat - the reason we were so late in the first place - wouldn't shut up and let his wife read her damn poems. and all the while, it was very, very hot.
the sweat pooled precariously above alessandra's lips and then ran down into the folds of her neck.
today i got up at 6 and caught a bus to the marina di grosseto on the adriatic sea, italy's west coast. my host family has been there on holiday for the last 2 weeks and i went down for the day to be with them and take a dip. the beach was narrow and crowded, but the water was beautiful. i swam out to the buoy and floated there, looking back at all the people under their umbrellas, walking along the edge of the water, splashing each other. summer in italy is a celebration of the human body. every woman wore a bikini, regardless of age or physical fitness. every man over 25 wore a speedo. there were bellies that spilled generously over waistbands, thighs that slapped against each other. old women sunned their shoulders, their tops arranged in ways that tempted physics.
and i have to tell you, every body was beautiful. the sun was high and the water calm and blue all the way to elba. many of these families have been coming to this beach their whole lives for a few weeks in july or august. and it is very, very hot. what a wonderful freedom, to lay down your weight and have the sea take it. to come back under the umbrella, and read the afternoon away in magazines.
i spent yesterday more or less around the house labelling photos for the dante project and typing up a translation of a mario rigoni stern story that i'll finish tomorrow. around 16:30, i put on some clothes and walked in to the center of town, where i met up with a local poet and high school latin teacher with whomi had chatted a few times last year. she was going to give a lecture in nearby monterchi, comparing the work of two painters: in this corner, from 15th century san sepolcro, piero della francesca; trading uppercuts and color palattes with with the 20th century florentine ottone rosai. taking advantage of the opportunity to salute her, listen to some italian, and see some art all in one swing, i was going to check it out. i was getting a ride with her and her husband. it was very, very hot.
the ride to monterchi bordered on the surreal. i don't have time to do justice to the complexity of the personalities involved, but there were three principal players, plus me: professoressa verde, made-up to the max, expressing her anxiety about her lecture by confirming a series of superfluous details over her cell-phone. her husband, francesco, smoking incessantly, expressing his anxiety that we were running late. every 2 minutes, he would set his jaw and announce the time, followed by our expected arrival time in monterchi. with the interaction between these two characters alone, i was already primed for a spectacle. we left 10 minutes behind schedule, only for professoressa verde to realize 5 minutes into our 45 minute drive that we had forgotten a friend of hers from the previously mentioned provincial government, to whom she had also promised a ride. and so, another rapid, pointed telephone call. the woman was on her bicycle, on a nearby street. we would turn around and pick her up.
prof.ssa verde gave her husband a brief description of this alessandra as we went in search of her. she's passionate about art, specifically piero della francesca. she works at the provincia. she's taking classes at the university. she's a little...spaced out. she's rather fat. and there she was, waving at us eagerly on the sidewalk, next to her dilapidated bicycle. a brown skirt and leopard print top were stretched across her generous build. as she settled herself very close to me in the back seat, she chattered away; beads of sweat collected on her upper lip. somewhere in the middle of the unfiltered narrations of her consciousness, she made my acquaintance. no, really, the pleasure was mine.
over the next 45 minutes, prof.ssa verde became more and more nervous about her talk, and now having no one else to call, she turned to the two bodies in the back seat. she delicately took a book from her purse and did an impromptu commentary on some of the verses she herself had written inspired by these two painters. she encouraged me to buy her book after the lecture. alessandra kept interrupting with the most far-fetched mental associations ('listen, you know what comes to mind...?'); francesco was clearly furious about our continued state of tardiness and that this fat lady in the back seat - the reason we were so late in the first place - wouldn't shut up and let his wife read her damn poems. and all the while, it was very, very hot.
the sweat pooled precariously above alessandra's lips and then ran down into the folds of her neck.
today i got up at 6 and caught a bus to the marina di grosseto on the adriatic sea, italy's west coast. my host family has been there on holiday for the last 2 weeks and i went down for the day to be with them and take a dip. the beach was narrow and crowded, but the water was beautiful. i swam out to the buoy and floated there, looking back at all the people under their umbrellas, walking along the edge of the water, splashing each other. summer in italy is a celebration of the human body. every woman wore a bikini, regardless of age or physical fitness. every man over 25 wore a speedo. there were bellies that spilled generously over waistbands, thighs that slapped against each other. old women sunned their shoulders, their tops arranged in ways that tempted physics.
and i have to tell you, every body was beautiful. the sun was high and the water calm and blue all the way to elba. many of these families have been coming to this beach their whole lives for a few weeks in july or august. and it is very, very hot. what a wonderful freedom, to lay down your weight and have the sea take it. to come back under the umbrella, and read the afternoon away in magazines.
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