Firenze
I
The dreamship lands in
Florence,it
is a one way
trip. Now
that I've arrived why
would I decide to ride
the nightmare
back. I
blink
to chase away the dream.
Opening, closing the lens to change the slide.
Click, rotate, scene reappears. It
is no dream it is dream come true. I
stand upon it, I
do not sink.
I see it, hear it, smell it
real, just as solid, certain, as
the nightmare I've crawled out of.
II The nightmare I've crawled out of,
just as solid, certain, as the heavy-hewn timbers of
my father's and his father's before him
dairy barn, where I was penned in
like the other beasts, the
manure-paved concerete floor dense
as granite, the barn
loomed around, above, beneath me with its
intermingled hums and belches of
cattle and machines, its
insipid, peutrid air-- stale, damp, dense
intense, stifling. The barn: the metaphor.
The boundaries, burdens of my life.
I blink. This scene. Just as
solid, certain.
The barn: Incubator
of my dreams, where
I talked out loud to myself while
shoveling shit in the piss-pit, talked
out loud fearing any dreaming in
that place
must require the added resonance of sound to
survive the stifling, trifling atmosphere as if
merely thinking it, seeing it, would never be
enough.
I had to say it strum it on my lips,
the song of my heart repeat,
repeat like a matin, like a mantra, then
imprint it there, make it a
prayer, a dare, make it the kindling for
my rage, rattle the cage, let it
pound, pock like monsoon rain though
it feels like pain, though it
makes me crazy it is all that keeps me
sane. Sane enough at least,
at least to know the difference when I go mad,
enough at least to scare me, dare me
back from the
brink, to make me
think.
IIIThe dream that does not fade away, that
reappears each click, rotation of the slide tray
(eyes open, eyes shut, click rotate)
this dream that smells real, tastes, sounds,
looks real, looks
like real earth green, growing smells
fresh-bathed, breezy in the valley below, the
Duomo, centerpiece flower of Firenze's blazing
banquet as renaissance sparks
ignite the light, hot-bright in me...
(the sun burns passage through the crust of
cloud) and
I inhabit my dream.
I sit upon it: this bench.
I write upon it: this table.
I stand upon it: this rose-garden ground.
I see its real shapes, hear
its real sounds. I
inhale it and feel the breath paint the
rooms of my soul with
colors which
will not peel, colors you
can see at
night.
The nightmare now, unraveled like
a reel to reel picture left to run un-
attended, left to spill itself
ajumble on the
floor, projector
clicking, flicking loose
ends.
IVThe dreamship lands in
Florence. It
is a one-way
trip. Now
that I've arrived why
would I decide to ride
the nightmare
back
?
(Photos and poem originated at Pensione Bencista, above Florence, in Fiesole.) My trip to Florence was part of my year of solitude.
I traveled alone in Europe four times in that one year. Paris first. Florence second. It was an extremely moving and healing experience. I wrote about it in the poem Firenze. Until that year, I had lived my entire life with the belief that I couldn't follow my dreams, achieve my personal goals for life, that I was cursed somehow to have dreams and aspirations that would only haunt me but never materialize. During this year, I discovered the secret to making dreams come true. Buying the ticket. Simple but profound.
The dreamship has landed. "..this rose garden ground"
More Scenes from Italy:
Places. Continue the tour. Next Stop:
The Sea.