[ITALY] Writing Task: Identity Monologue

From: Professor Christopher Kelly

Sent: Saturday, June 17, 2006 8:48 am

Dear Tara,

Outstanding work last night. Very theatrical, moving, honest, and funny.

Well done!!!!

Congrats!

best

cbk

***

Writing in Florence/Professor Chris Kelly

June 13, 2006

“Acting Piece: Identity” by Tara Rose Stromberg

PEACE BE WITH YOU
NOTE: This piece was preformed in front of a student audience for critique. We each picked a theme out of a hat. Mine was "Identity."

NARRATOR: Just like every God-fearing Christian in town, Mrs. Claire Newman takes great pride in attending Sunday mass.

[Outer Claire begins to stroll and greet “church-goers” in the audience. Inner Claire is hidden behind her, following suite.]

OUTER: Hello there Anne Marie!

CLAIRES: (Inner slides to the left of outer, as she simultaneously does the same, waving gesture) How lovely to see you!

[Inner, still somewhat behind of the Outer Claire, continues to imitate each gesture and facial expression as Outer.]

OUTER: Oh, Ms. Nesbit, I’d love to talk with you later about this week’s St. Peter Pot Luck...

INNER: (shakes head for a moment, embarrassed, then mumbles) St. Peter Pot Luck....?

CLAIRES: (Inner returns to cheeryness and follows Outer)...don’t forget to remind me!

OUTER: Martha you look positively darling in that dress, why you look twenty years younger-

INNER: -Older....(grimacing in disgust.)

[Outer giggles nervously and tries to compose herself.]

OUTER: How do you stay so fit? Are you on a new diet?

INNER: (sarcastically sweet) The Hostess plan; ten Twinkies per meal?

OUTER: Oh you’re too much! Heaven’s no....not me. (proudly) I’ll never diet-I don’t deny myself of any food...

INNER: (thoughtfully) ...unless it has calories...

CLAIRES: (doting) Oh, Father Pat! How good to see you again....

OUTER: Oh, I’m doing wonderful.

A beat.

CLAIRES: (changing her tone) Oh...my family...?

[They both freeze. Outer stands smiling, but stiff. Inner wears a threatened and fearful expression, standing the same way. ]

OUTER: ..yes, the rest of the family is a little busy today, I’m afraid, so they won’t be coming. Last night, Harold was simply drowning in paperwork...

INNER: (through her teeth) ...and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s...

OUTER: And the kids are at my mother-in-laws for the weekend.

INNER: I have no idea what my children are doing.

OUTER: Oh, well of course!..

CLAIRES: ....Bonnie is doing so much better now! She’s out of the hospital and back in school. She was a bit ill, and had felt a little faint-

INNER: -on account of the all the acid she took-

CLAIRES: -but she’s fine now!

[They wave goodbye to Father Pat, adjust their clothing, and breathe in deeply in preparation.]

NARRATOR: During mass, Mrs. Newman always prays with great admiration and love towards the Lord.

[Both Claire’s kneel, one next to the other, hands folded. Outer Claire’s eyes begin to wander along with Inner’s. Outer Claire tries to resist but is obviously distracted.]

CLAIRE’S: Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

INNER: (annoyed) Jesus, I thought we said this one already...

CLAIRE’S: Thy kingdom come,

INNER: (rolling eyes) This is fucking dumb...

OUTER: On Earth, as it is in heaven...

INNER: (looking around uncomfortably) ...and I’m in hell...

OUTER: Give us this day our daily bread...

INNER: (looking at someone in congregation hungrily) Oooh, Ben Harper, hottie at twelve o’clock...

OUTER: ...and forgive us our trespasses....

INNER: I’d like to get my hands on those hot buns of his...

[Outer begins to say the prayer towards her inner self, trying to shut her up.]

OUTER: As we forgive those who trespass against us...

INNER: (her face becomes horrified) Is he sitting with that tramp Carrie??!!!

OUTER: And lead us not into temptation...

INNER: I could bang him better than she ever could...

OUTER: ...but deliver us from evil...

INNER: I will kill that slimy little bitch...

CLAIRES: (standing up, triumphant in those words) Amen!

[She freezes, feeling stupid.]

NARRATOR: Ms. Newman always enjoys sharing God’s blessings with others.

[Outer and Inner Claire both shake people’s hands, each next to eachother, both smiling sweetly, while Inner Claire mumbles through her teeth.]

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...Peace be with you...

INNER: I don’t even know who the fuck this is...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

INNER: This chick’s in desperate need of a manicure...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

INNER: Eww, your hands are GROSS...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you..

INNER: I hate you’re guts...

OUTER: (whispers) Peace be with you...

[They each sit, Inner plopping down looking annoyed and exhausted.]

NARRATOR: At once, Mrs. Newman is filled with the joy of other’s love.

OUTER: Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

INNER: (head in hands) I feel so goddamn retarded right now....

NARRATOR: Peace be with you.

OUTER: And also with you.

INNER: Oh, just shut the fuck up...

NARRATOR: And when the time comes for Confession, Mrs. Newman withholds nothing from the Lord.

[Inner Claire goes behind Outer Claire, as she sits as in a confessional, both their hands folded.]

CLAIRES: Forgive me father for I have sinned

OUTER: (hesitant)...uh...twice...

INNER: Ten times.

OUTER:....three times...

INNER: Seven.

OUTER: Six.

CLAIRES: Five, five times this week.

OUTER: I took a grape from the supermarket without paying for it.

INNER: I also pocketed a grapefruit and a box of Advil.

OUTER: I lied and said that the slice of cake I gave Anne Marie was fat free.

INNER: ...after I spit in the batter.

OUTER: I believe I was a little too harsh with my children. I told them to shut up Wednesday morning...

INNER: (trying to get closer to screen to speak) I told them to shove a goddamn sock down their throats....

OUTER: (swatting her away) I was trying to shoo my little one away from the hot stove...

INNER: (now proclaiming it into Outer Claire’s ear)...using a four inch butcher knife...

OUTER: I was on the phone with my mother, and I was very disrespectful.

INNER: I made her cry.

OUTER: She wasn’t being fair. 

INNER: She was being an insensitive whore.

OUTER: (shaking her head, getting upset, trying to cover it up) Uhh...and the other day Mr. Harper was helping me with groceries, and he kissed me...

INNER: (she clenches Outer’s shoulders, holding her back) I kissed him!

OUTER: (resisting) I...I put my arms around him-

INNER: (clenching her harder) -put my hands down his pants!

OUTER: (fighting her) I didn’t know he was married!

INNER: We hid in their bedroom closet when she came back for her keys!

OUTER: (almost breaking down) My husband means the world to me!

INNER: He’s a useless pile of shit!

OUTER: I think about him all the time...

INNER: ...only when I’m fucking someone else!

OUTER: He’s always there for me! -together- INNER: He’s never there for me!

OUTER: I love him! -together- INNER: I hate him!

OUTER: I love my life! -together- INNER: I hate my life!

CLAIRES: (They are holding on to each other in grief) I’m lonely!!!!

[ITALY] Writing Task: Character Piece 3.0 - FINAL

And finally, here's my finished character piece....this time with a little more character.

Florence in the American Imagination/Professor Lisa Cesarani
June 19, 2005
“Assignment #1: Character REVISED” by Tara Rose Stromberg

At first I was startled to see a man in uniform. I suppose the war had rattled my nerves a bit, and I wasn’t too keen on having such a stark reminder of its presence so nearby. Of course, we had seen our share of soldiers in the past years; thankfully, not on unfriendly terms. However, every single one, some old, some terribly young, had all seemed so very distant, as if they were desperately trying to forget something. They were never very social-polite, of course, even unbearably so-but these passing words of acknowledgment were all I ever came to know of them. It was unsettling for me, being a very talkative and inquisitive person by nature, to live amongst these gentlemen who seemed so very dead inside.

And thus, these were my rather disappointing expectations of Mr. Douglas, or Norman as he would have it, and how thrilled I was to find that I was wrong. For not only was he conversational, but was more full of life than a child at play. Even through the many trials he must have endured amidst the long, grueling war, his spirit seemed to be desperately trying to hold on to all that he had once held sacred.

He came to Villa Varone in the month of March, after a harsh winter in Siena. He wore the weary face of a traveler, but his blue eyes were wide with wonder as he climbed our small hill. I was standing by the window, spying as it was, after hearing their low voices and the sounds of crunching gravel in the evening air. We had expected him to come much earlier, and were somewhat concerned when we hadn’t heard anything for days. But as he and his guide trudged through the weeds, their weight shoved onto their tall walking sticks, I had no need to question why. Still, Norman appeared very fresh looking in his army uniform, and slightly younger than his actual age. Though he was absolutely tired, as I could see, he also had a little spring to his step, which went perfectly with his blatant awe of the tranquil view of nightfall.

The madam and I both stepped onto the porch to greet him when they had reached the lawn. The air was crisp and damp. We both had brought our shawls with us, and now clenches them around our shoulders. But Norman approached us with a perspiring brow, his guide also dripping sweat from the end of his nose. His eyes immediately met ours with a jovial smile, and panting breathlessly, managed to greet us with a friendly hello in Italian. His wonderfully merry mood, despite his positively awful physical state, startled me so that I giggled a bit, before catching myself in embarrassment. The madam wasn’t too pleased with this outburst, but Norman didn’t seem to mind much, as he smiled even brighter and began to apologize.

“Yes, I would think my appearance is less than presentable,” he began with a laugh. “Alberto and I had to walk quite a ways uphill from Florence, since there was no one to take us from the train station at this hour.”

The madam immediately heard the faint call of her motherly instincts and fell into a state of pity. “Oh signore, mi dispiace. You must be so very tired! Come in quickly out of this cold air and Caterina will make us some hot coffee.”

At this, I took on my role as chambermaid and out of my girlish curiousity. Taking Norman’s baggage with a small curtsey to excuse myself, I reluctantly averted my eyes to the ground, away from his contemplative eyes. I heard him call “Grazie” as I hurried to the parlor, wishing I could stay to reply.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long until we had a chance to speak. It was after dinner, when I was making his bed ready in the guest room upstairs. I had been desperately trying to catch its of his conversation with the Madam about his journey the past week. It was surprisingly easy to make out the words; his voice was so excited and full of vigor. It was as if he hadn’t spoken to a soul in ages. I could almost picture how taken aback the Madam was at this sudden burst of energy in our normally quiet Pratolino inn.

When I heard him excuse himself for the night, I busied myself with the linens and quietly anticipated his footsteps up the steps. He entered looking even more tired than before, and jumped slightly when I greeted him. He hadn’t known I was there.

“Oh! Scusi signorina...I’m a bundle of nerves today it seems.” He laughed a bit and straightened himself up against the doorway, as if to keep out of my way.

“Oh no, please, no worries. Make yourself at home,” I insisted. I was hoping this didn’t exclude me in the process. So I continued to explain that I would only be there a minute more, wondering how he would react.

I was promptly reassured. “Take your time,” he answered, loosening up a bit. “It would be nice to have some company other than Alberto after so many weeks. Not that I object, but I do miss speaking my native English. And I gather that my need to recount the past few days of my journey came as somewhat of a shock to the Madam. I suppose she wasn’t expecting someone so long-winded.” He grinned sheepishly, and try as I might, I couldn’t help but laugh at his modesty.

“If anything, one should consider themselves lucky to be so conversational,” I assured him.

He looked at me, puzzled. “Well, sometimes I think I’d be better off keeping quiet. It’s harder for people to judge.” He sat down on the bed and looked down at his shoes.

I put down the extra coverlet I was folding and stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t expected such a comment from someone that seemed so very sure of himself. I tried to maintain my politeness, but a little of my surprise still showed through my attempts to ask why.

“Oh, well that’s not true for everyone,” he explained. “I’m not of the ordinary sort of people, however. I guess the best way to explain it is ‘I’m a writer.’” He took out a cigarette and nestled it into the crook of his mouth, giving me an awkward grin.

“And that makes you unordinary?” I laughed. “Why you should have more to say than any other ordinary person normally would.”

“Writers aren’t supposed to talk. They’re supposed to write.” He produced a small matchbook from his coat pocket and lit one quietly. I had the slightest feeling that he was becoming uncomfortable, which was odd since he had seemed so very sociable at first. I guessed that perhaps I was prying a little too much, so I decided to change the subject. At least for the moment. I was much to interested in him to give up, and I knew that he probably didn’t want me to either.

“So is that why you came to Pratolino? To write?” I had finished folding and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the room in the vanity chair. He looked up at me with a much brighter face this time.

“If by writing you mean ‘an escape’ of sorts, then yes, I suppose that’s true.” He smiled slyly. I returned the gesture.

We continued to speak for a long while afterwards, and I came to learn that he had been placed on leave after serving for two years in the army. He joked that this was due to his lack of skills in anything else but the written word, which had little to do with such an advanced age of warfare. So he had planned to put together a series of journals on his travel experiences in hopes of securing a publisher, and eventually, employment.

He was from England, and had attended college until his financial situation forced him to leave. He seemed rather forlorn about his lack of education, which he suspected was the reasoning for his inability to maintain a steady job. He considered himself lucky to be drafted, since he was hardly doing much of anything at the time.

Of course, I didn’t see it this way, since his life seemed so very carefree. He had no familial ties to burden him, no career to busy himself - his lack of direction in life was simply captivating, for it opened so many opportunities for discovery and travel and self-examination. I tried to convince Norman of this fortunate quality, but he would not have it. I was beginning to notice the degree to which he belittled himself, even while he was so highly regarded in other’s eyes.

“Trust me, it isn’t enough to have time,” he explained. “One has to know what to do with it. And I haven’t seemed to figure that out for myself quite yet. Which makes for a lot more wasted time.” At this point, he had propped his feet up on the ottoman, and was in the middle of smoking his fifth cigarette. Most of the time, he stared at it’s burning tip, as if lost in thought.

I was watching him intently. He seemed to have slipped into his own mind for a moment, because it was very quiet. I was trying to think of something comforting to say, but somehow I didn’t think anything would help. He reminded me of a sulking child, stuck indoors on a rainy afternoon; had all the time in the world ahead of him, but he had no way of knowing what to do with it. And it seems that perhaps when he was that age, he did know...that at one time in his life, he had wanted to do so many things. It was so easy to imagine things then. But as you age, thought slowly turns to action, and Norman was still only imagining what could happen, instead of living it.

I decided that perhaps it was best for me to leave then, so I bid him goodnight, at which point he thanked me again for my company.

“If I may be so bold to say, you are quite the fervent talker,” he commended. I knew he meant this as a compliment. “I believe I’ve met my match.”

We often talked during the nights thereafter, mostly about his travels through Italy, as well as some of the places he visited during his service time. He always had such vivid stories to tell, and I encouraged him to write them down in his journals. Yet, as the weeks went on and the inn acquired more guests for the spring season, he spent less and less time speaking to others. After meals, and even when the gentlemen would gather to smoke and drink, I would find Norman by himself, usually outdoors. Perhaps it was just that I was unaccustomed to being near a writer (since that is what he spent most of his time doing), but I felt so very solemn for his alienation. I knew that he would have had so much to say, so much to teach to everyone, and so much admire, but that ultimately, he could not stop himself from disappearing into the conversations within his own mind.

[ITALY][Rome][Pompeii] When in Italy....

From: James Morrison
Sent: Sun 6/11/06 2:35 AM
To: Tara
Subject: woooo baby‏

Tara,
Can hardly put anything down here. I'm okay; doing well. Am using a friends computer from a town in east desert california. Miss you very much; sorry I haven't been writing at all the past few days. We're almost done shooting; we have been in towns where computers do not exist, seriously, like ghost towns. I hope haven't yet given up on me & decided to run away with some Italian loser. Hope you are well; on the look out for a letter. Will be able to write a real message in days to come.
kisses,your grandma

Heheh...that's sort of gross.

take care,
james

From: Tara Rose Stromberg
To: James Morrison
Sent: Mon, 12 Jun 2006 12:56:49 -0400
Subject: he lives!!!!! :P

i was almost expecting one of those sad telegrams to come knockin' at my door to tell me you were lost at war or something...

heheh. i joke because i care.

james,

(figure i should include the formal greeting, so you know the sarcasm is over)

i wish emails could hug the people they get sent to, but I'm sure that is in the extremely distant technological future, not to mention it would be sort of creepy.

but all ha-ha's aside, i did get all excited like a girly girl when you e-mailed me, so I'm going to continue to blush and admit this to you, because i missed you boy! missed you like the deserts miss the rain. and you know how they miss the rain.....a whole damn lot.

i wish i could talk to you more often, but i only have two more weeks (!) and then I'm homeward bound. plus it sounds like ur really busy, and of course i absolutely expected this, and i say this all the time, but it still kinda sucks.

but it sounds like ur really getting things done. (this is my time to say i-told-you-so :P) so there it is: i told you so. although you havent given me the gruesome details yet, so im sure it wasnt without lots of sweat and pain and tears and blood and such.

am i gonna see pictures? i hope you tell me all the low down in ur letter, cause i wants to know!!!! i feel like im always telling you about my adventures (as if they could be called such) and u never get to tell me about all the commotion over in Cali. because the eating of wine and cheese can only be exciting for so long.

speaking of my misadventures, since i should get it down before i forget the little details, and because i love to entertain you so, i went to Rome this weekend. i actually got your e-mail last night at midnight when i got back from the train, and after my explosive display of happiness, during which i sat on and broke my sunglasses like an idiot, i went to bed aching like a....i don't know i was supposed to think of something clever to say there, but it didn't happen.

Postcard from Pals in Istanbul, Turkish Bath

so yeah, i went with these ppl from the school i sort of know, but not really, because all my close friends went to Istanbul, Turkey (i couldn't afford it, and we were sad, but I'd rather not spend my money on Istanbul anyway). it was kind of weird because i had to be super careful with the money i spent because i am nearly broke, and have no idea how much money i have in my account. and they basically can spend whatever they want, and i don't think they understood my whole ordeal, and it was awkward.

I took my own food and just paid for the train and a hostel, but still ended up shoveling out some for food, because u cant go eating out with ppl at a restaurant and whip out a loaf of store-bought bread and PB&J. (and believe me, i thought about it) but we got so much done, and it really was one of the nicest trips i had so far, minus the fun people. we saw the Roman Forum ruins, the Colosseum, and the Vatican (where the Sistine chapel is).

I am a sucker for archeological stuff, and i swear i was beside myself in glee seeing all those ruins. they still have people digging it all up too. oh man, i can't wait to tell you about it. typing it all out wont do it justice because i must display my awe to you in person, so until then....


But then sunday we also went to Pompeii, which is just a train ride away. Pompeii is one of those places i always wanted to go to as a kid, and even though it was supposed to rain, i was determined to go. and of course, rain it did, poured actually, for at least two hours. i had to buy a pair of sneakers to wear cause it was so cold and wet (but they was some slammin' sneaks, let me tell you), and an umbrella. but it was so worth it. mostly i walked around by myself because i take forever to actually stop and look at stuff. but oh lordy, was it amazing. i am gonna give you some Pompeii lovin when i get back. there was such cool stuff there. and i went in the closed off places like the bad girl i am, and just explored on my own, and i felt so proud of myself, and by that time the sun had come out and the sky was clear as hell. it actually passed over us and you could see all the mountains and the volcano steaming on the distance, and the town was just HUGE. oh, i gotta stop. but remind me to tell you about it when i get back.

so aside from the rain and the endless amount of walking and spending it was a very good trip. also i went to burger king and they wouldnt give me a vanilla shake, because they said it was "broken." now, this is the third time I've went to get a milkshake from someplace, and i havent gotten one. McDonalds first said they had "stopped" making them for the day (who stops making fucking milkshakes!!!), and then they said they didnt have vanilla (only strawberry and chocolate-and who fucking likes strawberry milkshakes????), and then this place that was supposed to have american food no longer existed, and now this. its always so close yet so far away. all i want is a milkshake. the world is against me.

so anyway, sorry, that turned out to be a very long rant ^.^ other than that ive been pretty busy with writing. i had to do this script for the actors that are here to perform about "identity". i just finished writing it, but it took me forever to get the guts to do it beause i was afraid it was going to suck , yada yada yada. but now its finished in all its horrid glory. u can tell me how bad it is later.

I talked to my dad and things seem okay. my parents keep telling me that i never email them, but i send them one every week so i dont know what they're takling about. which reminds me, how is ur family doing? have you had a chance to talk to them? are you going to visit them before you come to ny? they should come visit you, and u guys can go sightseeing and stuff.

Speaking of this summer, I've been really worried lately about what the hell I'm gonna do about my money situation. i need to pay for so much stuff, and then i start classes and it's just bothering me. i know there's nothing i can do about it now, but i still can't get it off my mind. how is ur budgeting going? (see, i shouldnt complain, because u have it ten times worse ^.^) every time i worry that i dont have money, i think of you, and how we are too kindred, penniless souls. :P but still content.

Welll it seems i went on another tangent, so i will stop here and just wait until i can write again, and then continue my woes and worries and thoughts etc when i come back and tac kle you to the ground. i hope your letter gets to me before i leave, cause i dont know how long it takes this postal system to get to the US. i still have a postcard to send you and some for chris too, so ill try to get those out soon.

XOXOX (just like grandma used to write :P)

tara

[ITALY] Writing Task: Character Piece 2.0

Below is the rewrite of my character piece. Don't remember much except that it still wasn't what the professor was looking for. I got a little carried away with personal emotions....

Florence in the American Imagination/Professor Lisa Cesarani

June 19, 2005

“Assignment #3: Character’s Memoir” by Tara Rose Stromberg

Is it possible for a man to think too much? The question itself, of course, could have arisen at a time when I am doing just that. Or rather, when I think I am doing such. 

And there’s the deplorable word again. 

I suppose it seems a bit silly for the “writer” (as I am so self-entitled, for better or worse) to be asking such an odd question, as it is quite normal for most writers to be thinking something at least some part of the time; in fact, it seems to be that the way in which one’s mind processes the world is a personal quality that sets men apart in their livelihoods. I doubt very much that a financial advisor would find it productive to sit and muse over the myriad of emotions that a single rose petal brings to light, or to ponder the curious lives of the critters that scamper through the floorboards and walls of his city office. A man of such a trade would be more apt to the subject of numbers and figures, and other such logical tasks. At least, such has been the case with all financial men I have known. 

Perhaps I am not giving enough credit to those men who find themselves with the misfortune of being stuck within a career they are dispassionate towards. I’m sure there are a great many poets building bridges and counting digits, all the while secretly wishing to become the next Shakespeare. And maybe I am one of them. For who is to say how a writer should think? All I can say for sure, is that when I’m not doing anything else particularly productive, I am either writing or contemplating in that deep, philosophical (and sometimes bewildering) way that I do. And since one can’t be talking, or running errands, or paying bills, or washing, or sleeping, or writing all day long, I believe that most of my day-to-day time is spent thinking. 

Even during my sleep I am thinking. Though they are somewhat unconscious thoughts, they still occur, and sometimes if I’m lucky, I remember them as well. My mind cannot rest even when at rest. It’s as if my brain has brought out all those thoughts that were considered insignificant or unworthy of pondering during my conscious state. Probably all of those rather important emotions and ideas that would seem so very pertinent as a child, but now, in the midst of adulthood, are so easily forgotten. 

Now I am finding that these are most frequent when I am traveling, since I have found myself wondering back and forth across the Tuscan countryside for what seems like my entire life. In actuality, it’s only been a number of weeks. But oh what effect a small amount of time can have on a man’s mind! Being in a foreign land, away from the familiarities and comforts of home, it’s as if your thoughts could only turn to matters of the unknown and the often forgotten. You are out of your element, helpless and unequipped to deal with a society you are so unaccustomed to surviving in. Some of us haven’t even begun to live comfortably within our native cultures, let alone another. In my experiences, living the life of such a quiet and contemplative person leaves me alienated by others. I communicate better through written rather than spoken word. And so coming to a place where the spoken word is ultimately foreign, the desire to communicate is all but lost, in a hopeless breath. 

It may be my own fault really. Even those times as a young boy when I wished so desperately to be accepted by my other schoolmates, my actions ultimately failed. But what actions did I take? Maybe I was just too afraid to act upon those thoughts, and instead was left to ponder them for the rest of my childhood, without ever knowing what may have been. And here I sit, nearly thirty years later, still wondering the same thing... 

Yet, I seemed so content to be on my own most of the time. Though there was a part of me that still longed for companionship, it was my ability to imagine that became the source of all my enjoyment. I thought that by thinking so deeply about the things around me (the people, nature, the inner-workings of things; everything that others my age could easily ignore) I was more in touch with the world. The trees were my companions, the grass my support, the animals my teachers. Who needed human interaction when nature was speaking to you from the very depths of your soul? Better to sit and listen, and wonder, and write about all that you knew, and all that you would ever need. 

Then how is it that I am still in need of more? I can sit under a tree in a Florentine valley, listening to the wind as it cascades down the field of tall grass, befriend a curious snake as it wanders up my arm and through my sleeve, absorb the colors of the different shadows as they crawl over the mountains, and can think even further about how these smells, sights and sounds feel inside of me, where I am suddenly at peace with everything around me but myself. And as soon as I leave this place, and return to my villa on the hill, and dine with the many interesting visitors that have decided to stay, I will still do the same. Observe and ponder, always alert to the emotions and feelings and ideas of the moment. 

Perhaps I am just searching for a way to capture this place in a way that is my own. Just so I can have something to hold onto when I’m gone, so that I can feel what it’s like to have been in Italy, smell it’s air, hear it’s breeze, see it’s beauty. Often times it’s as if I don’t really feel that I am here, on this land, at all, because I am missing too much of the natural world, and the secrets it hides beneath the layers of tourists and chit-chat and war and politics. What are its raw qualities? What can I bring to life on paper that will last long after I have gone away? 

I have been trying to do so through sketches, but of course pictures never do the scenery justice. Not only do they lack color, but they lack the depth, the air, the smells that only that place could give you. It’s strange, but often it hardly feels as if you’re in a foreign country as you stand on its native dirt and see it with your own eyes, because you are trying so very hard to see it right. And what is the right way to see a place? For me, after writing and sketching all day and still feeling the same passivity that a tourist must feel after seeing so many famous monuments just as they have appeared in so many history books, I find that just letting my thoughts run rampant is the most natural way for me to immerse myself in my surroundings. 

I decided to take a detour today in my normal walk along the dirt path down the hills of Pratolino, and in doing so I came upon a very exciting discovery. Stone steps led down to a deep stone basin, at least twelve feet below me, and empty except for a single palm that grew from the ground below. There were steps leading down into the bottom, which led me to believe that perhaps it had been a pool or a reclusive courtyard at some point in time. I thought of sketching it at first, enjoying the peculiar shape and design of the thing, but I didn’t believe I could live up to its grandeur. The trees were harboring it from the afternoon sun, and dapples of sunlight were covering the ground and the leaves of the palm. I seriously considered taking up my old childhood pastime of climbing trees, but I didn’t trust my thirty-year-old body to make it all the way down without falling first. So I simply sat there, gazing at it, wondering how I could bring it to life. Wondering how I could remember this wonderful sight for always, just as I was seeing it at that moment. Before I knew it, I was thinking of how it might have been used by the great wealthy leaders who owned this land ages ago, and if it had been a place where lovers could meet, schemes could be planned, youths could dream. And by creating this idealized view of what this place had been to others, I realized that it was coming to life through their experiences, and then somehow through mine as well. That this long line of action upon action throughout history was making this place different from other places I might have known. 

So what is my story? What do I want to tell the future about my experience here? What can I tell them? I only wish that they will put themselves in my shoes and feel what I am feeling. So that perhaps I can prove that all this walking around and thinking and observing is worth something...not just for them, but for me. 

My mind is always interested in the story and life of the people and places that could be, instead of the things that are. And while I am thinking up these fantastic fantasies, though it is giving me more material than a writer could possibly ask for, I worry that it is also tearing me away from the world I’m in now. What if it is passing by, just like my childhood has long since passed, just like the dreams that appear and disappear, what if this life will seem like a passing dream as well? Will Italy only be a distant memory in the future? Even if a writer does preserve the moment, how can he absorb the moment within the moment? Am I missing something or simply taking in everything? 

As a child I watched the world through eyes that saw possibilities of the future. Now I see things as if they are possibilities for the past, or for a world that I create on my own. And here in Pratolino, the serene display of nature only makes it seem even more dreamlike in quality, as if this is something I’ve created in my mind that will dissipate the moment I step out of this beautiful place. All the places I have been are only a memory now, perhaps sketches or words on paper, and traces of senses buried deep within my mind, but no more. How do I make them real again? And as I write this down, I suddenly realize that this is what I wish to do with all my memories of the past. And this is why I keep writing; in hopes that I will someday capture that perfect semblance of recollection and nostalgia.