4/6/10

i will miss this place. i will come back, but it will not be the same. the stuff will still be there: the bars, restaurants and fields and stadiums. but the people change; the context and structure of the relationships change. to leave is ultimately a selfish act; And there are traces of guilt. one comfort is that what is will change; it cannot be preserved. it is best just to be enjoyed, and then remembered.

and so to all the people in whom i love so much, i will see them again. it will be different, but it will be enjoyed just as much.

so we move on, and forward, and continue. what's next.

Firenze.

Firenze is a town I'd heard so much about without ever having visited. I’ve had friends who’ve travelled there, friends who’d lived there, and I’d only ever heard wonderful things about the place; about its beauty, its artwork, its buildings, even simply, the general vibe and feel of it. The feedback's always been consistently positive. As a result over the years I’d compiled these “kind thoughts” (thanks Russell Brand) and developed a pretty concise picture of what Firenze was actually like in my head. Then at times I would hear someone talk about their wonderful experience of the fanciful Florence and I would react in an almost knowingly ‘oh yes, isn’t it wonderful’ nod type of fashion as I played out my own imaginary scenes.

Of that magical Tuscan city set on the auburn plains of country Italia; with its wide boulevards of faded greys and whites; of flowing streams, and stunning cathedrals and shrines built of such extravagance with the sole purpose of housing the finest of artworks. The Florentines, all of whom I had down as artisans, poets and philosophers, sauntered around contemplating higher realities and confronted the problems of the divine that unwittingly affect us all; or something like that anyway – who knows where my mind is. Basically it meant that to be heading there after having heard so much brought on a sense of great anticipation. It was the case for the three of us, especially considering the disenchantment we’d felt in Verona and then Venice after the greatness that is Milan.

It was inevitable then when I stepped off the train from Venezia with Drew and Bob that I was ever so slightly disappointed with the greeting of a humble, square-ish and brown station of aged modernity and not the pre-1600 (+ or fantastical lord of the ring facades - there was no white gold anywhere. Actually I’m pretty sure that I had dreamt of a city plated in white gold come to think of it) architecture that I had anticipated.

The reality check continued as we made our way to our hotel; first negotiating the traffic-heavy roads encircling the station; then feeling our way up through the old cobbled streets lined of Louis Vuitton, Armani, Gucci, Ferrero Rocher, Ferrari, etc. stores. When we reached our desired street, it took another half hour to find, thanks to Drew’s keen eye, the size-8 font handwritten hotel sign hidden within a door buzzer. We ditched our stuff in nice enough digs then made for the Chinese across the road.

After lunch we relaxed, contented with further Asian cuisine (it was the same in Venezia), and began to open our eyes to the medieval streets of our surrounds. We wandered the afternoon away awhile then dove into a bar for the early evening espresso (for €0.70 cents - grazie Italia ♥), Bob with his Latte and Drew his hot chocolate and cake (that cost him something like €8.00 ha). The sun was setting as we emerged, and with my caffeine dependence becoming ever more apparent, we made for the spot on the edge of our tourist map marked as a lookout.

With Drew leading our trio we wound along the narrow paves for the X in our usual march formation: of Drew and I chaperoning Bob as he dawdled behind yet always, somehow, remaining in touching distance and able to tell us should he feel an aspect of the daily proceedings be objectionable. We crossed the river to meet the park on the edge of town and scrambled up the well worn tour-bus path to its summit. We reached the top to find a deserted car-park with just a handful of people milling about. The park appeared to continue on the other side of the concrete expanse before being enveloped by the wild hills of rough terrain that followed. There was cafe in the centre that was closed and a statue of some non-descript and I had the impression that this place would buzz in summer. I turned and headed for the lookout. And finally there it was: a small medieval town formed by the renaissance nestled in a low valley as if precisely placed by an artisan having carefully studied her subjects’ most complimenting features.

The town appeared as if it was a model of papier-mâché. Its surrounds stood as if delicately composed from fine brush work abstracting the subject. We found a spot to watch the sun fall. The tones of nature and man converged into a seamless composition. The aged autumn colours of early December, enriched by the late fading light, mixed with the redbrick, and yellow and brown wood and plaster, Florentine rooves. Il Duomo was undoubtedly the centre point of all focus standing above all else; its faded white, green and red facade flourished under the sun’s final gaze like a perfect sponge to its environment; the famous redbrick dome dominated the view as if an alternate source of the heightened colour of the scene. A few small groups of people had turned up for the display though the majority had come and gone after a quick glance and photo. Calmness and serenity were afforded and we stayed watching and musing and photo taking until the hills behind us eclipsed the light. It was chilled and snow peppered all around us. Satisfied and content, equipped with a knowing that this place was indeed exceptional after all, we made our way back to town to begin the chase for some proper Tuscan wine. 

To be continued.

.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.

The light of day.

The light of day

It induces all;

Of the sun resting

Gently on the streets;

Illuminating the canvas; and

The souls’ will to create;

The stroll checked though

For now it is blank;

And to paint the light

Nothing can be done.

Promise must flicker.

Oh Barack, it’s been a year almost to the date since I, in a gush of I think you can emotion, wrote your praises so. I cherished your inaugural speech to the UN. I lauded your ambition and, for me, your unprecedented audacity in that speech in Cairo addressing the other world. I was so taken with you, so sure of you, so instilled with the sense of hope that you'd instilled in most of us. 

Now, gone by a year has and, well, it has been a struggle. A year of protracted defense in many ways.  The said majority have been behind you, remaining loyal and explaining and justifying the days away. Dark days it was that enveloped the Bush years. All but diminishing the shining star over three interminable terms. The inherited remnants; a hollowed, depressed and tortuous, slow-ebbing silhouette of what once was, ungiven even a chance to consolidate ahead of further coming afflictions. No longer, for certain, the pioneer of our hemisphere; the peak ambition of Team America World Police once classified as simply foolhardy now looks a rational folly attributed only to the clinically insane.

Lit expectations, as bright new spark, you have been entrusted with a lot. Though much, I dare, your own doing. Yet now, till date, we need a renewed strike; an act, no promise, of change. And while nocturnal forces, which’ve been ever-present, have been staved off and such lawn-laying villains are surely only detrimental to their own cause. Your troops, I fear, grow weary - libertarians and others who stood for the cause begin to wane and develop their right to question and doubt.

Most minds appreciate the mire of multiple wars along with the impeccable timing of the GFC are the thick clouds blanketing return to brilliance. Though it is unknown if the shine is still there; if it is true and hidden. In any case, to continue in this manner indefinitely is impossible . Clouds shift, and promise must flicker.

The strides and efforts of moving the shadowed masses, to be used as evidence in our defenses, are not enough apparent. There is an emerging clarity in all of this. The administration has seemingly baulked at the sound of thunder fearing the threat of lightening. Promises are unfulfilled: Gitmo; heath care reform; financial regulation; don’t ask don’t tell. I believe the intentions remain and progress progressing; but idle threat has seen to your surrender.

It may be unfair to expect ALL promises be realised. We are only mid-term. Still will be time to deliver and make good for the next campaign. Not everything is in your control also. But appearances tell you aren’t doing enough. This is the real concern. My concern. PR is failing you. 

One of your recent speeches, addressing college students, had you acting out an analogy of surviving a car crash in a ditch. The Republicans had stumbled off in drunken haze while you, I suppose grateful to have survived the impact, are left with the responsibility of getting back on the road. It was then you proceeded to literally roll up your sleeves. Before stamping around the stage as if trying for that firm foothold in the mud. Then raising your arms to attend the bumper and heave it back on the road. Oh dear. The students were not laughing with you, they were laughing at you, in an awkward kind of shock. 

A far far cry Barack, from those lofty pillars you outlined in NY before the world leaders. Now you mime and scramble in a ditch. The fact is, no longer does one care how you found yourself in there. It has been enough established. We only care how you're finding your way out.

Café Nero.

The old, plump man stands animated; arms flailing in an emotive gesture. Attentively the woman is listening as if infatuated on every, single, word.  Friends contrived. An odd encounter sustains a relationship. But there is no context, missing, and as such permits the (re)uniting of kin. And so parley the state of the mother, of the children, of the shop: fine and tidy and just getting by with its top quality produce and reasonable prices. Some Marxist fantasy land. The altruistic delicatessen you wish to meet. But you cannot - no context.

The right’s corresponding: here the abundant Italian facade's spelled out. The store sign in rich gold plated lettering. Specials and offers and menus in delightful Italian speak of the finer things, without any requirement of translation.  The wares without distinction to the store, left, and similarly arranged. Though the trader finds himself a more streamlined industrious fellow; the type of Italian endeavoring to work twice as hard to vainly spur a leaky economy.

Both scenes are trying. It has all been done… over and over… and over again. It is fitting, then, that the bland freeze-frames are incorporated to such a significant (and arrant) extent to compliment the fresh burgundy, the fading wood, the worn brown leather. It is further fitting, then, that these pieces are overlooked.

Principally ignorant of the unworthy attention is an animated young pair. They sit under the passionate encounter deep amongst the leather, swept in conversation as heads bop to and fro and limbs figuratively fly to illustrate the most worthy lines of reason. They aren't here for the coffee.

In the opposite corner, to the dynamic duo, on chairs by tables, sits an overweight, middle-aged couple subdued under newspaper and books and coffee cups. Underneath decadent latin romance, the man nose deep in a miniature guidebook squints at the finer print. The woman, blank, poses a tough question in which he must delve deep and squint harder to reference. Excuse for silence. The answer, eventually, bricklane.

Obscuring the couple of pairs, and the aforementioned pair, sit three. Three: the all-consuming epitome.  One shrieks in a joyous high-pitched wail of pub crawls, walking tours, poor housing, lack of work, of new farm, of townsville, of brisbane, of portugal, of paris, of contiki, of an apparent perpetual undying… The others nod.

The brown leather lounges, bejeweled by the flailing philanthropic Italian and his ceaseless ability to surprise and enthrall through pithy comment and contentious opinion and his one-woman fan club, hosts a new couple, bringing identical cups of black tea, identical outfits and identical glasses, shoes and homely hair. Behold. They acknowledge each other rarely. Secure in each others committed presence, they sip their tea.

All with their chosen supplements considered worthy investments. They take. They talk. They listen. They reflect. One by one a couple leaves. A new party arrives to take their place. On-going til the lights are dimmed and the scenes shadowed. Then the chairs returned to order, the cups cleaned, the tables wiped, the floors washed. For it all beings again tomorrow...

Over and over, and over again

Lord's.

Sitting at Lord's and vitalising the spirit in the way only cricket can achieve. Basking in the glorious sun and tightening as passing clouds linger too long. Some sit absorbed in The Times and latest paperbacks. Others engage disengaged gazes. Sip teas and coffees, though most likely tea. And I sit here scribbling away.

We look up sporadically to observe the state of proceedings. Fixed with interest after the thick crack of a drive through cover or a forceful square cut guided behind point (all the shots worth playing are on the off side after all). Before singles and dots send most back to their literary worlds and blank distant thoughts; fading the play to conscious’ edge. The waves of cloud, endlessly passing, blunt the sun’s shine.

A juggled catch has disturbed us all. It was brilliantly taken: first slip managed to get his finger tips to a nick high above his head before spinning around and diving to the grass, clasping the leather before the bounce. Brilliant! And the next batsmen in is James Cameron much to everyone’s grin and idle comment. Worcestershire 104 for 5.

London and clouds are seemingly inseparable. And I don’t refer to metaphoric darkness of hard times. There are clouds FOREVER over London. And not like the everyday clouds witnessed over other sunburnt lands, but big, thick, menacing masses. Most queer is the phenomenon’s not only found in the sky; it comes up in everyday conversation as the locals seek to whine you of the presence above, of omnipresent tormentors seeking to haunt the city (and our lives!) below. 

Fortunately enough the rain's remained a rather distant threat to the afternoon session. Though the already dimmed September sun has been well contained by the sentinel spirits; sending a chill around the ground. The few hundred in attendance have felt fit to rug up, as English as they may be.

As a good ball invites a leading edge to second slip. Textbook. And then another, identical! The next ball is again caught by second slip this time slightly lower. Collins’ on a hattrick. For yet another nick too! Though the hattrick ball flies agonizingly between diving wiki and first slip. Groans followed by the wildest of cricket applauses sound around the ground. Mini collapse. Worcestershire 155 for 7 in their second innings and leading by just 76 with Middlesex having their second inning still to come. One only wonders what the state of the day four pitch will be like tomorrow. 

Most in the sparse crowd appear to have come straight from work serving corporate digs, or’ve since met with retirement and rejected the optional attire that such an arrangement affords. Very proper and well to do. Though I daresay many are failed attempts at the Pavilion.

The Pavilion is the members place of worship within this English Cathedral of cricket; the only remaining Victorian piece of architecture and resembling more a mansion than anything else. It hosts the team dressing rooms, trophy rooms and some fantastic viewing areas. One also finds many bars, a rooftop terrace and even lounging areas with wifi within the multi-leveled warren of winding passageways. Its main viewing room is the literally named Long Room: situated behind the bowler’s arm it features broad windows the length across and the players’ walkway from the field to their dressing rooms. The institution of tradition is abundant throughout and seems to seep through the muted walls and floorboards. It is all that one would come to expect from the refined English. Though making it inside is the tough part. 

The doors are guarded by the toughest bouncers of all: two critical, cordial, and constitutional grey-haired men pushing personal centuries sporting suits from the last. Access is granted solely on their discretion. Principally one must be a member, or be signed-in by a member, finely dressed with an EVENLY PRESSED (yes...) suit and accompanying tie and polished black leather shoes (shininess!).  Furthermore one must also be humble, know one’s place, and appreciative of the impending grand gift of tolerance that one is about to receive (it’s okay, they will suffer gallantly). Preferably also one mustn’t be from Pakistan descent or, undoubtedly, a woman. Then, and only then, will one have access to the overpriced bars, tweed fabrics and free wi-fi that one’s heart such desires.

Sometimes you don’t know how much you love something until it’s gone and then reappears; or at the least are usually served well with a reminder. At ten minutes to six, with seven overs to go in the day, the sun has reemerged at strength to bid farewell and to cast long drawn rich shadows across the field. Its warmth lost only by the Pavilion already shrouded in shade. 

Of course, the tradition of the Lord’s members and the Pavilion is effortlessly admirable: it’s typified in its façade. The Pavilion’s brown brick, outlined by white terraces and palisades, looks a majestic chronicle of history as it overlooks the vast expanse of pure green; bothered only by a scattering of white animations that draw in and out of formation every six balls. In a city of 12 million people it’s a haven, a heaven. Today especially as the stands, mostly empty (for only half have been opened), sit as fortifications of sheer, plain and uninterrupted white against the greys of beyond.

Only the alien craft hovering over my head reminds us this is London and this is twenty ten. The white pod with its glass face that is the media centre sits at the opposite end to the pavilion in remarkable contrast. It’s not even for public use. The scene is the epitome of London as it stands. Further reflected by the fact the Worcestershire batsmen Ali who’s raising his bat after a nifty 50 off 53 balls is also wielding a tremendous thick black beard.

And as the players saunter off to their rooms after earnest efforts to a round of applause, it is time for all to make their way from the sanctuary and back, revitalised, into the world.