on the road

besides capturing a certain amount of heritage or maybe a past life, i feel a fascinating mystique with Italy that keeps encouraging my return to a life of unexpected surprise and wonder. this, despite the corruption in government which has been lamented for centuries by citizens so much so that it has become the fodder for political disgust, debate and dissent. old men still crowd around i bar caffé to animatedly contest the newest government faux-pax from right or left. strangers smile and attempt to start a conversation with buongiorno, di dov’é Lei? a charm to life and secret to living encase the simplest espresso, a flirty glance from an interested stranger or rows of jammed FIATs traveling home on the autostrada from Via Salaria or Via Nomentana in Rome. a part of me stirs from the past and possibilities entice me towards a future each time i walk and turn the corner on another cobblestone street. somewhere, that part of me needs reclaiming.

wee hours

there is something stirringly surreal about embracing a new day at an early hour. screaming silence harmonizes with the rhythm of what sounds like hundreds of crickets chirping just beyond the bedroom walls. espresso rises, bubbly in the small caffettiera, encouraging movement with its aroma filling the dimly-lit kitchen. and the moon winks smilingly through the morning mist of clouds. from the emptiness of the suburbs, i realize, i am not alone.

whispers of ivy

among the palazzi of Vatican City, ancient walls testify to withstanding time. brilliant green ivies have been encouraged to continue their natural grace with a message from rooftops to the masses below. among the many there are those who pass by daily focused on their lives, hell-bent on yet another day, and there are those who hear the ivy whispers throughout history and their tales of quiet perseverance.

life

a ginger root bursts with life despite the crunching brown leaves underfoot and harvested tomatoes gracing our kitchen tables. life always stirs – whether it be in its exuberance from spring to summer or, just under the surface from autumn through winter. no matter how diligently we try to control our lives, we must understand with a degree of faith, that much is outside of our control. “We are becoming what we are meant to be.”

waiting….at dusk

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/27/daily-prompt-waiting/

Moses on Mulberry Street

 

Many who have been to Italy nostalgically miss a good cup of espresso con schiuma, the rich flavor of San Marzano tomato sauce on freshly-made pasta cooked just al dente, and the jovial smiles from strangers, or expressive gesticulating as directions are explained to the profane.  In short, Italy is a land that, for many, holds a particular fascination with a siren echo in your heart always to return.
During shorter, darker autumn days, nostalgia seems to creep back into our lives.  While a quick trip to Italy may not be possible or affordable, a trek into Manhattan just might be. And with that trek, indulge in an Italian lunch while touring and engaging in the hustle and bustle of Gotham City.

While the Little Italy quartiere keeps getting smaller and smaller, there are still signs of a vibrance that reclaims what little of nostalgia we can find. Occasionally, a dialetto meridionale  can be heard among the many languages that waft on the downtown air.

As is customary, during walks through urban areas, I always like to take a moment of rest and reflection and find a church to enter, to discover or to revisit in a momentary silence amid outside confusion.  Right on Mulberry Street in Manhattan’s Little Italy, you will find a treasure unlike any that the City would hold. Sitting boldly in the apse of the Church of the Most Precious Blood sits a life-size, bronze replica of Michelangelo’s Moses. While the original is still found in Rome in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in Chains), this replica sits in a veritably empty church with just a few visitors at any given moment unless Mass is being said. People who are art aficionados or merely italophiles can be as close to this statuesque treasure as physically conceivable, take photos and tangibly experience the power of Michelangelo’s talented hand in Moses’ creation.
For the past two Decembers, when I have managed to eek out time to visit Little Italy, I have found the strength of Moses waiting for me to return to that quiet sanctuary. I revel in his form, the life of his creator and the legacy he left behind.  As the holidays approach, I know that I will once again be in Little Italy in December this year. As I stop in to either La Mela or IL Cortile for un pranzo as close to Italy as I will be able to get during this year, I will decidedly amble south on Mulberry Street and stop in to the church to marvel at the strength of such a figure and the spirit that created him.  As I breathtakingly enter the quiet, desolate sanctuary, something, someone extraordinary waits for me there.  Again, I hope to catch a glimpse of history, of genius, of faith and of passion that rests waiting for me, for any and all to experience.

 

giving peace a chance

Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned, prudish…or maybe the correct descriptive is prudent.  Or potentially there just might be something radically warped about the direction of contemporary society. In work and social circles, I overhear conversations about bladder-busting excitement and anticipation for television programs that I consider a veritable waste of time leading to an unfathomable downward spiral to all sorts of ills.
As a child oh-so-many years ago, the likes of “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone” would send electrical shivers throughout my body and keep me from tranquility before bed. I soon learned that my sleep proved more rewarding and refreshing than lying in bed wide-eyed for hours, watching shadows which seemed to move and create a paranoia forbidding a restful night state. Self-infliction of pain for a momentary thrill or scare didn’t create a neurological pleasure circuitry for me. And so the phase passed to a profound abhorrence of films dealing with horror, violence and sensationalism for effect that has endured to this day.
My confusion arrives at present day, when we have intricately well-woven stories on TV series that seek to blur the confines of pleasure and violence and incredible masses of TV viewers who thrive, veritably LIVE FOR, the pleasure of engaging week after week, riveted to a television set in HD, absorbing murder, blood, gore, killing, retaliation, unspeakable violence and gain pleasure (yes, I think it’s crazy!) in the process. Special effects are created with a reality that would rival a med student’s first autopsy session. Sinister music and moments of pause before a brutal murder scene heighten the synapses of living room viewers across America with apparently nothing else to do. And if the gore and violence aren’t enough in the miserable hour dedicated to wide-eyed attention, the evening’s episode becomes fodder for conversation the next day at work.
What makes it more confusing to me, is the complexity with which this genre noir on big screen or television is written. There are hints of goodness within the atrocity of the most vile characters. A murdering sociopath who gets revenge on other killers with the eye-for-an-eye retaliation in all its grotesque violence crosses circuitry from “good” to “evil” so that little distinction between the two exist anymore.
Maybe this kind of disempowerment of the mind and psyche has reached such an unbearable level that people no longer discern differences between actions based on a moral standard and reactionary deeds of violence that become equated over time with pleasure and entertainment.
I am constantly amazed at the lack of vision all too many colleagues, neighbors, students and their families uphold as normal today. I find nothing normal in enjoying scenes in a film or on television in which someone (justly or unjustly) is inflicting pain and torture upon another creature of God. I see nothing pleasurable in spending an hour of my hard-earned “downtime” mesmerized by a torturous homicide scene, whether it be in vigilante retaliation for something or not.
And I continue to wonder as these lines become even more blurred, how anyone will ever remember the blazing reality of how we all desperately need and must seek peace in our lives.
How, in this kind of a world, can we ever give peace a chance?

 

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only you.

It is neither the elegance of the house and its furnishings, nor the rich extravagance of the banquet that nourishes the innermost satisfaction of the soul, but the simple warmth of sincere sentiment, waiting…just for you, for only your smile, for solely your love…that indescribable feeling that you are uniquely special in the eyes of your beloved!

lasciami in pace…

Even shopkeepers, such as this gentleman-owner of an inviting trattoria on a quaintly winding via in the heart of Trastevere in Rome, understand the impact of taking a stance for peace and justice.   Why, then does it take catastrophic measures for leaders of countries to cease with the adolescent bravado and overdrive of testosterone in seeking resolution to problems and conflict?

optical delusion

There is some magical, spiritual quality that sparkles in the eyes of a child despite layers of
dusty skin and mismatched, unfitting clothing. Supplicating brown eyes languish through the pains of poverty, clasped hands urge to pray away the ceaseless wars, standing at attention for time immemorial to wait …for something, anything to counter the lack of opportunity for education or what is commonly known in our world as normalcy.

“But what can I do?” His shrill voice strained with a crescendo of annoyance, as if it were a pest he’d rather swat away with a word or two. “..Can’t change the world….”

“No, you can’t,” she whispered slowly with calm resolve, her eyes bowed to the earth. “But you can be aware, feel and know that in every child, a part of you also exists.”