warm italian day, capri, summer island, boutique windows reflect back tanned skin and dripping gelato, inside -crimson coral gold rings, linen fabric folded, draped, elegant, expensive, clothes no one wears except on yachts in mediterranean opulence, then there is Kris Jenner, like a native, she belongs on the other side of the glass, her bodyguard in black t-shirt hovering nearby, no one notices, until they do, they, meaning my wife, a quick elbow to my ribs, that’s Kris Jenner, and I should care because I know Khloe, Kim, Scott, versed in keeping up with flat screened family drama, but i’m sweating, ready to sit poolside back at the hotel, yet she, my wife, is feigning interest in the shop where Kris is trying on jewelry, enters to browse, to linger near, and why? as if some scent of fame might rub off on her, as if she really wants that cloistered, sunglasses, hat-wearing life, this goes on for several minutes, until finally, like a hunter, my wife gives up, leaves the tracking of prey to others, who now notice, stare, elbow their partners, as I walk away I can only imagine how this will go on and on, from store to store, as Kris ignores the tourists, buying everything under the sun.
Tag: Italy
American Woman In Italy, 1951
you’ve seen the photo, perhaps in an italian restaurant somewhere, the story begins much earlier, ruth orkin, the photographer, at age 17, rode her bicycle from los angeles to new york, this was 1939, before europe was a rubbled graveyard, on the journey she captured images of everything, living passion in wheeled motion, fast-forward, war over, florence, italy, friendship formed with jinx allen, all 6 feet of her, striding through streets, mid-century beauty & grace, like a sandaled beatrice, dante’s imprint ever alive, allen walked by the italian men twice, the 2nd photo is shown above, portrait of harassment, but in every interview allen insisted the whole scene was playful, this image has been interpreted in a sinister way but it was quite the opposite. they were having fun and so was i, her narrative, two independent women making art together, the men? no one remembers their names.
I’m Writing To You
are you checking up on me? i hope so, that means i’m competitive, no, we both know i’m losing, instagram always wins, or tiktok, or, for a few outliers, maybe even facebook, or whatever elon musk calls his platform now, anyway, thanks for visiting the written word, i don’t have much to offer today, just black and white, nothing like that woman who moved to the italian countryside, the one who dated ryan seacrest, you know her, the one with lots of followers, anyway, you can imagine her, living the beautiful dream life, that’s why you scroll through her photos and videos, to catch a glimpse of something better, right? anyway, maybe you are in australia, or the united kingdom, or ghana, or topeka, kansas (loretta lynn reference), and maybe you don’t own any expensive products or travel on a yacht, maybe you are asking, is my life really that great if i don’t look amazing on instagram or go anywhere exotic? you heard it here first, yes, your life is great, the invariable mark of wisdom is to find the miraculous in the common, i didn’t say that, emerson did, but i agree, wherever you are, have a wonderful day, and by the way, i’m not saying you are common, what i really mean is that i hope you are at peace, i wish that for you.
Meditating In A Church
Rome in the summer is heat and tourists. The crowds are always too much for me and I don’t shop. My favorite thing to do is simply sit in churches, breathing, meditating. Most people enter the churches with their cameras, meaning their phones, they shuffle around, snap a couple of photos of the stained glass and leave. Others approach the image of Jesus and make the sign of the cross, perhaps kneel. Occasionally, a person places two hands together and prays for several minutes. For the first few moments I notice these things, then they disappear as my eyes close. I focus on my breath, but often my mind wanders and i become someone else, perhaps a parishioner from the 18th century, or perhaps it is easter mass 1946, just after the war, i imagine myself in time, of time, back in time, the musty air speaks to me. This traveling can last 50 minutes, maybe longer, i’m there, but i’m not there, like the shoes moving around me, they exist, but only when i open my eyes. This has become my Roman ritual, the highlight of my summer vacation day. After almost an hour, i open my eyes, bow my head, silently pray, walk back out into the ancient Italian piazza sun.
When Capri Spoke
i have seen the goats nibbling on me, and the tan skin glistening with mediterranean sea that surrounds me, i grow perfect red and orange tomatoes, green arugula, and lemons, never to be forgotten, my sun is famous, kids even drink it with a straw, i’ve changed since the roman days when tiberius used to throw unfortunates from my steep rocky cliffs, now yachts undulate near my shores, celebrities film me with their phones, visit me in july and august, i am the mastic trees, bougainvilla, the bees, and cicadas, i am shady pathways through woods, and luxury hotels, i am the smell of grilled octopus and aperol spritz, summer in the square, i hear it all, dutch, spanish, italian, german, english, arabic, french, tamil, russian, swedish, i am the world on an island, but when winter comes i hibernate like a bear, rain, fog, and wind engulf me, daylight disappears in the afternoon, the caprese families stay on me, i hear their children, watch them walk to church on sundays, they slumber softly at night, i bless them all.
Above Rome
Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli
Trevi Fountain
Colosseum: Roman Sunlight
Daniel W. Polk 