On time

January has quietly slipped by with me taking little notice except to mark a few important days. I find myself constantly amazed at the rate at which time glides by. At one point a single day was the entirety of my existence and since that point it has been infinitely dividing into smaller portions. It seems now that there barely exists enough time in a single day to wake and fall asleep, and there are days when precious little happens between these two obligatory acts. What must if feel like to be 50 or 90. A day will pass in the time you can blink, constitution practically nothing of your life.
At the end of each month that passes I find myself taking a quick count of how many more months until I set eyes on green Ohio, till I'm held in familiar arms, and until I'm forced to confront at least a piece of my past. Four months until I board that long flight and four months since I left. Seven months of living in Europe and seven more to go. Surely those seven months will flash by like the last seven.
The other day something brought to mind, I can't remember what exactly now, a conversation I had with my father the summer before my senior year at Denison. We were sitting outside of Victoria's having breakfast with Kathy in Granville, discussing my life after Denison. I remember, a bit absent-mindedly telling them that I was going to live in Europe for a year or so after I graduated. I don't know that I understood the possibilities contained in that statement, the potential realities that existed therein. I wonder what else I have said in passing without understanding what the suggestion really implies...

Being missed

I think it is a privilege to allow oneself to be missed. I suppose at no point can we control when another thinks about us or what that memory conjures up, but we seem to have the power to decide when we interject our actual presence into the lives from our past. And whether we want to admit it or not that rate at which we interject that presence has a profound effect on the memory.
I'm finding that those who refuse to attempt some effort to force the recollection of memories being to slip away. Each of them consciously or not pushing memories further and further into the abyss of my mind. And like the abyss of the sea there are moments when it seems to spontaneously spring to life with a mysterious light that has no apparent source. It is an effort to cause oneself to be missed, to find a way to call forth an image and longing for yourself, frequently and nostalgically. Oh what a power that exerts, what an influence in the life of another. A power I wish some would make greater use of and others I wish would stop trying, as there effort does little good combined with my effort to forget their attachment to this life.

A list

I haven't made a list like this in a while, so I think I'm in need of one.

Things I love at the moment

1. my personal size teapot
2. tea and biscotti
3. being called "stellina" at least once a day
4. the moment when the sun perches atop the mountain outside my window and finds its way in even through the curtains
5. Beautiful films in bed
6. handwritten letters
7. the sounds of pen against paper
8. the start that replaces the sun at night
9. being coy in Italian
10. being one of the guys
11. being desired
12. teaching some one soemthing
13. finding some one who can teach me something
14. being strong
15. surprise visitors
    

I'm looking forward to one day in the future when I don't shovel snow, when every part of my body doesn't ache. There are moments when I like that my body feels lived in, that the ache reminds me I live inside here, but there are also days when the aches is annoying and I am unable to forget it. I was content with the soreness from skiing, but today I spent the latter part of the morning and the afternoon shoveling snow from the roof. The snow was like rocks after weeks of melting during the day and refreezing during the night and the effort of throwign it away from the house was exhausting. Instead of feeling better, like my muscles are streched and reposed there are just more sore muscles, different muscles than yesterday which effectively makes my entire body hurt. This constant dull ache has become part of my everday existance here, I think the day I wake without some pain in my body I won't know quite what to do. I think this quote from Memoirs of Hadrian sums it up rather well...
"This morning it occured to me for the first time that my body, my faithful companion and friend, truer and better known to me than my own sould, maybe after all only a sly beast who will end by devouring his master"

I've discovered, or perhaps I've known and I'm just now putting into words, that a women needs a few things to live in this place...Strong legs, a strong will, an unnatural lack of fear, and open heart that she is willing to have broken when she leaves here, and the ability to become ambiguously gendered.

On writing

There are moments when I 'm absolutely certain that the only reason I write is to feel the pen against the page, to create something, to see words become manifest. Now I don't know that I have much to say, or anything to say for that matter, but the gentle scratching of my pen against the paper is comforting to my soul. I like to see the page filling up, feel the little bit of resistance as the ink bleeds into the paper. It feels good, feels like home, there is something in the ounce of resistance in that melody of scratching that is the action of my soul. There is always a bit of resistance: to routine, a bit of resistance to change, a bit of resistance to comfort, and a bit to discomfort. But once I've committed I gently bleed into everything and I can no longer imagine myself having not pushed into something. The same way I can no longer imagine the page blank after it has been filled with words. I can always cross them out, I can always change the words, but the page can never go back to being blank.

Siamo in tutti

Adesso siamo intutti. Victoria arrived yesterday and now I live in a house of women, a house of strong capable women. And for the first time I'm okay with that. Those petty figths and jealousy that seem to characterize many of the women I know in the States don't seem to exist in our house. I don't want to chalk it up to cultural differnce, but to that fact that to live successfully in this place those characteristics are less than useful.
Victoria reminds me much of a young Auntie Robin, with a frantic need to move and her hand rolled cigarettes, it makes me miss my favorite hippy. I love now that there are more languages filling our house, it's the essence of this place, difference existing together in a conscious effort, all under one roof. That doesn't mean it's always easy or harmoneous, but thus far it's been working.
I can't imagine how strange it will be to live alone after this. I know I have my own room here, but I haven't been alone in the house since I arrived and I'm okay with that. I like living this life of necessity, but there are moments when I find myself struggling against the mentality of want. Living here helps.

casa nostra

Casa nostra e una casa di abastanza, non troppo, non di bisogno, di abastanza. I spent the eveing eating Uruguan food, listening to French music, smoking shi-sha, and speaking Italian. My life is beautiful and I live with the whole world in one house.
Smoking hookah together took me back ot my final visit to Madison before returning to Europe. To smoking a little blue hookah on His pation, to ultimate relaxation slipping through my veins, and finding its way into all of my limbs and finally to my head. To crawling lazily into His bed and shhing each others laughter as we giggled at the thought of waking the neighbors. I feel such nostalgia for those nights, for the mornings after when He would brush my hair out of my face, kiss my forehead, and leave me slumber as he slipped off to work or to make me pancakes with fresh blueberries...and I wonder about my return.

Always aching

Always this body of mine aches, shoveling snow, skiing, dancing until the wee hours, hunger from the work, or standing all day at the bar. Perhaps it sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. It's these aches that make me aware of living inside a body, let me know I'm not just head and heart, but muscle and sinew as well. Some how all of these pieces fit together to make this being. It's good to be reminded of these individual parts, of the way they work together. Although I ache, I have relief unlike a good portion of the world. I have a bed to rest these bones and food to fill the rumble in my stomach. Those things that could be complaints are in reality a reminder of the gifts I've been given.
This week has had a few moments when I needed to remind myself that this life is good. Theoretically I know it is, but I've been missing the familiar a bit lately. It's in these moments I find myself needing to adjust my concept of what is familiar. If feels a bit strange now to have a conversation only in English and I find Italian words slipping in when I stop paying attention. I know in a few short months my phone calls will suddenly mean mess and speck and brei sandwiches won't always be a few steps away. In a few months my life will suddenly be consumed with the activities of being a somewhat conventional adult. And maybe in these moments I'll yearn for the familiarity of waking up to a mountain view, of pasta at nearly every meal, and a house filled with the rest of the world.

Ero la altra donna...lo ha sentita impossible, pero e vero. No lo capito e pui importante no la voglio. Abbiamo finito.

This body is growing hard and stale

rotting from the inside out

stinking of the fish

I've had to fill it with

Wanting desperately to be fished

out of the gaping river

swelling mountains.

This body has become the river

and the fish

and the slime and rotten wood

that sink to the bottom.

It is the rocks that the damned tourists

use to cross.

It's the ice

slapped on the top

keeping the muck from

stinking up the village.

The water is in my eyeballs

and always in my bladder

I can't seem to get rid of it

constantly pushing its way out

yearning, smashing against the banks

against the outside of this corspe

A swollen bloated body

with a putrid stentch

stinking up my river

my body

How do I fish a body

out of my body?

How can I rid it of stagnent

waters and force the spring?

A few things

Since living in Italy I've started marking my books with old dollar bills, ones that had stowed away on this trip in pants and jacket pockets unnoticed. Maybe I'm doing it to remind myself that gobbling down these books is worth something, maybe not at this moment, just like this dollar is worthless in this moment. But at some point I'll go back to the US, maybe not for good, but at some point I'll go back. So maybe all these English words aren't doing me much good at the moment but sometime (maybe in the near future) they'll serve me.

Also I've recently become aware of how many Italian men are inviting themselves to my bed. I know I often complain that American boys are too shy, but this seems to be crossing some sort of line. Maybe it wouldn't seem so strange if they were inviting me to sleep in their beds, but I've never had someone invite themself to my bed. Is this some sort of cultural characteristic I'm not aware of? It doesn't seem to matter that I live in a house with 7 other people and privacy is practically nonexistant. Maybe that is part of the draw, maybe I'm attracting an unusual amount of exhibitionists...Oh the Italians, what's a girl to do except take several lovers and learn how to desire and be desired and equally important be fulfilled in all that desire.

exhaustion

Absolute exhaustion, my hand can barely hold the pen, it aches with every other part of my body. The cycle in Prali continues -- shovel snow all day, eat whatever you can, drink Genipi. Right now I think I"m too tired tto complete the last two parts. I shoveled snow all day and the thought of finding food or making it to the village to drink Genipi is even more exhausting. I'm almost to tired to sleep. I tried to lay down this afternoon for a bit and could only manage and hour or so of fitfull sleep filled with dreams that wouldn't let me rest.

A list

A list we compiled last night at the pub...

Things most discussed in Prali (winter)

1. Food
2. Genipi
3. Snow
4. Avalanche
5. Trees inside of an avalanche
6. Wolves

Things most discussed in Prali (summer)

1. Food
2. Genipi
3. The effects of Genipi
4. Snow from last winter
5. Snow for next winter
6. Wolves

I'm quite sure that the drinkin of Genipi led to the construction of this list but it's true nonetheless.

I feel like all I can write about is the snow. It's relentless and beautiful. The rumble of avalanches fills the valley...all night, throughout the afternoon. The roads are closed, school cancelled, there is no hope of anyone comeing into or leaving the village before Wed and even that looks doubtful. Fra, Jaouad, and Corinne are stranded in various places, which leaves me, Davide, J, and Marianna (the new resident from Uruguay). All goes on as usual. This morning it took the entirety of the morning to clear a sliver of a path from here to the center. The snow is up to my shoulders. This afternoon Davide and J were jumping from the ballcony of the belltower into the ocean of snow below. Fortunately it isn't too cold, on -1 or 2. We're warm and cozy in the house, fireplace crackling, cat napping on the couch...
I remember I time I complained at the thought of moving to Madison because the weather was so foul. Now it seems like a short winter of only 5 months. But despite the incredible about of snow life is still rather pleasant. No intense wind, no bitter cold (at least for now) and fortunately I don't have to make a commute to work. I suppose there are some advantages to living and working in the same place.
Oh how easily we forget the summer. The heat of the sun quickly turns into the heat from the fire. Long nights of parties and dancing simply slip into long dark nights. Summer romances turn into winter cuddle buddies. And when June rolls around these things will once again merge into each other and we will forget the worries of winter, of snow and shovels, the laugher of sled riding in the stree and live fully into the sun and the ability to wear only one pair of clothes. How this life slips one season into the next without anyone noticing until we are in the middle of the next. I suppose the seasons of life and of the year are on in the same...

I sleep under a palm

in a forest of pines

and I know that time will teach me

all I need to know,

let me be possessed

as I pine

While I dress for an expedition

in my bed

under a flock of geese

and a coop of chickens

On Being Known

"Mostly what people want is to feel known" -- Nicole Krauss A Man Walks Into a Room

Do I want a love that is the merging of two souls into one, the same way two bodies glide together in the cover of night. Do I want my soul to gently absorb that of another at the some moment mine is being raptured into a secondary existance? Or do I simply want to be known, known intensely and fully, but known nonetheless...

A little off subject

I know that this blog is generally a bit more poetic than the one I keep for my family, filled with private thoughts, and shared with only a few. But, I just can't resist sharing this. So a few weeks ago my father asked me what I would like to have in my Christmas package and seeing as we'd be having temps around -13 the only things I could think of were long under wear and base layer type clothing to try to keep some heat in this body of mine. The next logical question of my father's was "what size" I thought "hmmm I'm tall, let's say a large just to be sure they're long enough." Well earler this week my Christmas package arrived and since it was absolutely freezing and everything inside the box has to be written on the customs form I thought I would go ahead and open it. Inside among a number of useful things I found a pair of old school waffle style long underwear. Needless to say I was pretty pumped about this. However I thought it a bit strange that there was a picture of a man on the front of the package. Upon turning it over I realized that my father thought it a good idea to purchase me a pair of MENS large long underwear. Now I know that I gained a few pounds while living here for the first few months but never in my life have I been in need of a pair of pants that would fit a 38-42 waist.

But I thought "hey they're elastic right, they might be able to fit" That was until I noticed the enormous pouch in the front of these pants.

My friend Francesca suggested we run to the grocery to buy a bunch of bananas to fill it with, but reason got the better of us and we decided against it. However I would like to know at what point my father thought I was a rather large man with a huge package and that this would be an appropriate gift...

Real life

I am having a difficult time defining this place and time as real life. I don't know how to live outside the conventional constraints most people have in their lives. Theoretically I know they don't apply to me in this moment, but I don't know how to operate outside of them. I have no model for behavior in what i recently learned was the "alternative" lifestyle I'm living. I suppose the beauty of it is that I get to make my own rules, be me own guide, and that is wonderful and beautiful and absolutely terrifying. How does one live fully into all possibilities when you can't even conceive of all the possibilies that lay before you. I don't fully grasp the beauty of living without judgement, and when judgement isn't present possibilities seem endless, they are endless. I just don't know how to being to imagine living into all of them. I'm constantly having to remind myself this isn't just a go-between, this strange period between graduation and starting "real life". This moment too is my real life, I'm living through real events, building real relationships, having real emotions...
I need to learn how to embrace these moments and not let myself hide behind the fact that because I'm scheduled to leave in a year. I have the responsibility to myself to take in everything and give all of myself to this place, time, and people. What am I saving it for? It's not as if I live fully and with all of my being that there won't be any left for the rest of my life. There will always be more of me, my soul is not an expendable resource.
It seems a bit of a crime if I don't figure out how to let it out to roam freely, to explore, find desire, fulfill it, and grow richer for the experience. I'm not actually protecting myself from anything if I refuse to define this as real life, I'm depriving myself of the ever more incredible beauty that could fill myself.

My bed is barely cold and I ache just a bit for someone to fill the space beside me. I am intoxicated with the thought of his desire for me. I want to press the tips of my fingers into his joints as he tells me the stories of the paintings on his body. I want to leave my print there, want him to feel my presence the next time he absent mindedly runs his fingers across his skin. I want him to be drunk with the memory of me, overcome with the need for our skin to touch, for him to draw in my presence with every breath.

And I feel no guilt for this, I think about Him, but feel not guilt for these moments which are honey for my soul. I'm sad that He is more in love with work than me, that He loves the idea of me more than the actual person that I have become. But, I have not ounce of regret for these moments, I want more of them. I'm ready to share my bed with this human being I've found a way to lay open my soul to. I want to continue to let him open me in places that have been locked. I want him to understand how he has created a space for the expansion of my being. I hope he feels the way not just my body relaxes in his presence but the whole of my being is some what at ease. I have no explanation for the comfort, perhaps the lack of judging eyes, perhaps I think he understands me in a way that no one has yet to because he has to gain entry without sight. He has no idea whether or not I'm beautiful, but he feels the lengths of my skin and interprets a beauty that is understood only by him. He hears my raspy voice in the evening and holds it in his ears where others would disregard it. I feel like he guards every ounce of knowledge of me as a treasure he is privledged to possess. He asks about my rings as he remembers the fingers they wrap around, runs his fingers across my collar bone and pulls the image of my pendant through his skin.
I feel like I must feverishly write these things before they escape me.
I am yearning for more.