~swifts of siracusa~
October 24th, 2019
O Cuntadino Sutta lu Zappuni by Sicilian Soprano of the South Rosa Balistreri.
~ze voluptuary~
- everything here abouts:
~ciao, italia~
October 24th, 2019
The view from our best dust, mid-trip, with gorgeous light and a murmuration of swifts.
~also ravello~
October 24th, 2019
…and then you drive out of Ravello by way of the Amalfi coast, cleverly avoiding the inland mountain road you travelled the previous day, which made the hairpin turns of the coastline seem child’s play, and your wife eerily silent, but for tiny gasps.
And then, perhaps 45 minutes into your journey, the road you’re on is abruptly closed for construction, requiring a hair-raising three point turn and travel back to that other so-called road, your wife cursing all the way.
~pondering prophets~
October 23rd, 2019
As we moved through Modica’s melancholy decay and many shades of green, I pondered the possible significance of the gifts of Siracusa, two of which tie to melancholy myths of prophets—one beheaded, one disbelieved and eventually murdered.
I love the notion of being a conduit for messages from the beyond, as writing sometimes feels. I admire these figures’ courage, which writing also requires. For now, I’ll presume these gifts were calling me—in no way a prophet, it’s a metaphor, man—to return to my desk.
~maestro of modica~
October 23rd, 2019
We drove to the hillside commune of Modica, and while hoofing up the mountain to check out the Baroque alta (upper region), befriended a man who guided us to the main (and most decorative) drag.
He showed us various buildings, including his own, once housing his medical practice (now retired), and when departing, gave me the oldest seed in the world, pulled from his pocket.
I later identified it as the seed of carob, or St. John’s Bread (so named b/c John the Baptist is said to have survived on carob pods—aka locust and wild honey—when in the desert. This was apparently some time before Salome danced with seven veils and demanded the prophet’s head on a platter, on behalf of her vengeful mother.)
It’s the third such gift (the seed, no head) I received on this journey—along with an offer, by the artist, to make a wish at his altar to Casandra (the Greek prophet who spoke truth that no one believed, and so thought her mad), and a leather keychain hand-tooled with my astrological sign, from another artist and fellow Cancerian.
(To say nothing of ghost fox and owl visitations.)
~a word from our sponsor~
October 20th, 2019
Sometimes when travelling, one must pause and be dazzled by local television.
We discovered wine-making human grapes competing internationally,
women dancing in aprons, women dancing in bubbles, women selling voodoo amulets,
and, Boy George.
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