That's it, then.

He stood watching the ride shrinking before his eyes, and it was almost by the horizon before traveling on and out of sight. He felt it an eternity, until the ’89 Lincoln finally lapsed into nothingness, as he waited for the desert silence to engulf it's purr and again he waited as the dusty, greyed, squared silhouette of the All American, of which he’d grown somewhat familiar and fond, abandoned his world. That’s it then, he thought to himself affording a sigh.

His right hand shielded his stinging eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, it was July and the summer kept it high for extended hours in the light blue sky, as he scanned the final reaches of views he could make out beyond the golden fields and plains bleached by sustained shine. Satisfied by the emptiness, he turned to look from where he’d come; and he had come some distance. The road mirrored almost perfectly; to the degree that, beyond the scattering of dilapidated farm houses, it converged on itself, lined by burgeoning copper cornfields, as far in one direction as the other. Despite not knowing exactly where he was, traveling east for so long had bothered him greatly and necessitated a change.

The surrounds were barren but he didn’t doubt the assurance of life; the number of pickups and old four-doors in respective yards vouched for a community of a decent descript. Standard Southern affair of red state America was unnatural and unfamiliar, and he as wary as he was curious in seeking out the unknown. By custom he had always avoided these parts and these people his entire life; of white picket fences, modest homes, dusty pickups, and washed Cadillacs prepared for the daily or weekly (whichever it is) church commute. 

He was best served prepping for when the folk do appear; he knew they’d be wary and think it queer to have a man of his portrait appear alone, on foot, out of nowhere. It was surely a matter of time before he was greeted and offered some assistance.That was one thing he knew first-hand from Southerners; when they saw something unusual or unfamiliar, even when it was threatening, they confronted it. He recited his familiar alibi, strolling down the road on slight edge, passing huge barren lots of brown grasses and dirts and black-grey gravels accommodating small brick houses and fading barns of peeling white, his rubber soles heavy on the steaming tarmac. 

He felt a sensation of great sickness and stickiness about him as beads of sweat collected and rolled off his forehead. There was little to distract from the suffocating heat: a small trad-brick house of the two bedroom variety fronted by a wooden porch shaded by an acutely slanted roof; three cars at idling out the front amongst a yard of gravel and dirt; two Ford pickups of maroon and white, a silver Chevrolet van. This is American oblivion. Sitting opposite, on his right, another brick house of similar size but with a kind of thatched roof was obstructed from view by a cluster of frail ironwoods and elms: the cluster of struggling, fading beings somehow heightened the desolation he felt. 

A sign by the roadside up ahead read in bold thick black print “Harry Hickey’s”. Finally, perhaps something abstractly representing civilization. It was the finest house on the street; a two story colonial with unspoiled white paint and its windows and doors intact. He trudged hopefully up the gravel frontage, watching his feet in ditches carved by thick-wheeled workers’ trucks, and onto the porch. The front door was open and he could see through the screen door a spacious restaurant floor. It appeared empty, as did the bar hiding in gloom along the back wall. He entered upon finding the door unlocked.

It was cooler inside, a corner fan sat on the wall slowly oscillating, quietly murmuring. The restaurant was homely and the liquor bottles along the wall behind the bar beckoned his attention. ‘Hey - hello - is there someone here?!’, he waited as no response was forthcoming, ‘what kinda people leave their restaurant open! Hey!’ Damn it, just great.  He walked behind the bar and fixed himself a drink of bourbon, cola and a ton of ice. What kinda place is so deserted for lunch anyway.. how the hell do they survive?  He must have a day job. He knew he could be waiting a while for company and made his way to a table that viewed out the generous windows onto the road. It was comfortable.

This place is alright: eight tables plus a space at the bar; and you could fit more in. And heaving on a July evening: with Southern tunes of blues, jazz, rock n roll - whatever they’re feeling; young waitresses in wispy dresses taking orders, collecting bills and workin’ hard for their tips; the whiskey flowing as round after round is shouted round the room by the local sycophant. Hell, after dark it could flow out onto the porch, into the yard. It could be something. He drew a long drink, the ice had already taken hold, and rejuvenation flew around his nerves. Within moments his eyes closed and his head tapped the window pane.

The sound of a rumbling ‘76 Chevy shifting gravel had his eyes alert and expending a moment to retrace his movements. The dull canary yellow Malibu pulled up slowly beneath the porch. A man of his forties, in blue flannelet and jeans and heavy boots, got out before bending down to release a discernibly younger and thinner man from the backseat. A woman in a floral dress emerged from the passenger side, also younger, tanned, with long wavy blond hair. He watched her as they approached the house and took another drink; it wasn’t as refreshing, there was no longer ice.

The young woman entered followed closely by the young man, they greeted their guest with a smile and a nod as they continued on into the back. The woman’s red heels caught his gaze as they clicked on the floorboards past the bar. ‘How do you Sir, can I help you?’ the old man offered, appearing at the door, as he considered the image of the young man with the disheveled thin, black tie over a soiled, white button-down, with sleeves half-rolled up, half-tucked into tanned slacks resting over brown leather shoes, that rested at ease on top of table eight. For sure you can.

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