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.
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