[Squishy] More adventures in Italia.

[Spencer Day]

Ciao Ragazzi!!! Sorry I havent written in a while
(been too busy having the experiences to write about
them,Im sure you will all forgive me) I hope all is
good with you. I cant wait to see you when I return to
the states!! Once again, keeping in mind i AM NOT a
writer, here are some more of my journal entries from
the last couple of weeks...im a little behind and
sitting in an internet cafe with very little time so I
dont know how much I can catch you up on..but I will
try. If you aint got time or aint interested...just
skip to the end where I tell you that I love you all!
un bacio,

Spencer


JUNE 3rd, 2002    ROMA, The Gianicolo park 2:00

   I am staring down at the most ancient city in
disbelief.  Disbelieving that I could really be
looking down at thousands of years of human life, I
search the corners of the sky, thinking I might find
the painting peeling, the edge of a gigantic set of
which this is only a small part.  but this is real. A
warm breeze blows through the Italian
Cypress and poplar trees, carrying secrets from the
Mediterannean Sea.  Another beautiful girl sits and
stares out at the rooftops, the hills, the endless
cathedrals and basillicas.  I call my friend Mino who
I had met online several months ago and we make plans
to meet in an hour.

June 3rd, 2002     LATER in the Evening.

Me and Mino (thats got a catchy sound to it) met up
and instantly hit it off. We met at the train station
and took of walking. Mino grew up in Southern Italy
and is a Japanese foreign language student at the
University of Roma.  Mino is balding on top of his
head with bright green eyes and an incredibly warm
smile.  Within what must have only been
minutes, we were strolling right beside the Colliseum
and the Foro Romano. It is strange to see something
you have seen your entire life suddenly appear right
around the corner, its never what you expected. Not
worse or better, just different. Its more real.  And
you are suddenly struck with the decay of it all, the
fact that what you marvel at is not what remains, but
what this ancient structure represents. Close your
eyes and you can almost hear the crowds roaring.  But
it is silent today, the sky has suddenly turned grey
and there are no tour buses and now crowds.  Me and
Mino only stay here for a moment before Mino informs
me that he has to head to his local gym.  (time for
HIP HOP dance class) and he asks me if I want to come
along.  Much to my chagrin, I was absolutely the WORST
person in the dance class, comprised of gorgeous young
Italians who were wanting to learn some of the hottest
American Dance moves....Maybe this was how you learned
American Hip HOp, but I had never seen any of this
shit before.  WE kept trying to dance to  that "Im
totally addicted to BASS" song and the teacher
sputtered off instructions that wouldnt have helped
me, even if I had understood...I think I just realized
that I just suck at following directions.  Me and Mino
both laughed about our inabillity to emulate any of
the instructors moves or instructions.  I didnt really
excersise in the Gym, I just
watched all the gorgeous Italian Boys and girls work
out and I ate some (more) bread at the cafe at the
front of the gym.  I left the gym to call Francesco
and let him know I was running behind heading back to
his house (I never can adjust to the sun setting at
9:00 in the summertime).  Me and Mino made plans to
get together later that evening and Mino said I could
stay the night at his place (since the key Francesco
had promised me could not be found...I didnt want to
wake him up).  I arrived at Francescos house
fashionably late and he had prepared a very nice
dinner which we ate with uncomfortable silence.  I
began to realize that Francesco was quite lonely and
was beginning to feel an indefinable pressure from
him.  I attempted to ignore this and bring up very
lame conversation startes like..."So, How was your
day??"  "Good" he would reply and this would be
followed by another 10 minutes of silence which was to
be broken only by the sounds of knives on plates and
the ice cubes in his glass of vodka.  I ran out the
door and told Francesco I would call him tommorow.  I
met up with Mino near part of the ancient city wall
which was lined with Cyprus trees and a small
playground.  Vines crept up over the crumbling arches
and cars roared by without giving these Roman Remains
a second thought.  We walked to a bar that Mino said
he didnt like (the music was cheezy and the clientele
were not attractive) primarily because he felt it was
one of the few places (on a monday night) that would
have much of a crowd at all.  Compared to many Cheezy
bars I have been to in the States (including San
Francisco) the music or the crowd wasnt that bad and I
could have stayed there a while longer nursing my 7$
drink which tasted like cough Medicine, but Mino
insisted we go and meet two more of his friends.  This
friendly couple immediately whisked us away in their
tiny but modern Italian car.  They insisted in driving
into the outskirts of the city where I was to try
(what they considered) the best sandwhich in the
world.  So we drove into a strange area of the city
which was built by Mussolini and frequented by
prostitutes and people (like ourselves) who, even at
one in the morning, wanted to have the best sandwich
in the world. And it was.  after this, we ride into
the center of rome, park our car by Hadrians castle
and walk to the tiber and into the ancient parts of
the city, I rattle of ridiculous expressions in
Italian that dont really mean anything and everyone
thinkgs this funny. we find a Manifesto writen upon an
ancient Roman statue. It isnt italian. roman dialect.
Mino informs me it has something to do with a labor
strike about minimum wage.  eventually we stumble home
to Minos home near the University of rome and I fall
asleep.  in the Morning, Mino takes me by his
University, where we eat for free at his cafeteria and
I meet some of his fellow classmates who are also
studying japaneese at the university.  In the
afternoon i meet some Japaneese girls who are learning
Italian. They do not speak any english and we have a
strange and silly conversation in broken Italian. we
get drunk on a very cheap bottle of wine.  In the
evening i return to francescos house and we share
another delicious but uncomfortable dinner.  I fall
asleep early tonight, the hardwood floors, luxurious
furniture and comfortable bed seem to provide little
comfort for me.  I fall asleep and dream of a voice,
somewhere in someplace safe and familiar, a voice that
loves me.


the Next morning june 4th (villa borghese)

the air in rome is filthy today.  The muggy morning
clings to the dirt and soot and weighs down on the
morning commuters.  The sky teases us with the promise
of rain. I pull out my umbrella once, but then think
it absurd. Heavy clouds. No rain.  My thoughts
suddenly stray to my friend George and a song he would
always sing. A song by the Magnetic Fields.  something
about..." All the umbrellas in London couldnt stop
this rain and all the drugs in New York couldnt kill
this pain." very clever.  I sit in this park facing
what I believe to be the old city wall.  I am happy to
be alone with the strange chirping of foreign birds
and the faint roar of the traffic.  Even the cars roar
by in a different way. Ferociously, more primal
sounds.  I begin to wonder if I am really here, or if,
unlikely as it may seem, I was struck by a car when I
was leaving milans Malpensa airport and now I am
simply waiting in some strange purgatory.  For now
particular reason (though there is always a reason) I
decided to wander down the via veneto this morning. 
perhaps I was curious to see the remnants of where the
Fellini depicted (in the epic, LA DOLCE VITA) the high
lives of the rich and famous.  today, it is an endless
parade of expensive high fashion boutiques and hotels
and as usual, more elegant restaraunts and cafes. 
Here, the Romans seem to step of their buses and into
a Fellini film.  tall. slender. Proffesional. Older.
smarter. Tailored and tucked and pressed and
timelessly Italian.  Everything matches.  I wear a
soiled tank top and my 6$ K-mart shoes which have
velcro straps.  But no one looks and no one cares, so
neither do I.
-a young foreigner with a huge red backpack passes by
me. He is holding an Italian phrasebook in hand.  i
wonder if he has spent the night in the park. i wonder
if I will ever have to.  
-I look at the many types of cypress and pine that
fill the park.  the Carabinieri ride by on their
horses.  the mounted police.  Clip clopping by.  NOne
of them are needed here. Not now. They are all dark
complexioned, but none of them are beautiful and
somehow, this is comforting.
 I walk through this ancient park feeling inconsolably
sad.  Golden leaves fall from strange trees and for a
moment, I can pretend it is winter and I am back in
Utah.  I think I would like to dissapear into the
park, stepping backwards, like a baby back into the
womb.  instead, I stumble stumble upon the National
gallery of Modern art. I buy a ticket.  I pass a
famous statue of Giordano Bruno, burned at the stake,
here in Rome in the Campo De Fiori. Now they sell
flowers there.  the statue fills the enormous salon
which serves as the entryway into the gallery.  the
salon is filled with plush, red velvet couches. I sit
here and write.  Me and Bruno sit and stare at each
other, frozen in Melancholy.  occasionally, the cool
clicking of feet echoes through the otherwise silent
halls of the museum. This sound is soothing. A high
heel, a cough, the rustle of a map or tour guide fill
the unsettling emptiness of the museum.  I enter the
"Giardinere" room, named after the van gogh paintin
which resides inside the small salon, along with
boldinis famous portrait of Giuseppi verdi and Monets
water lillies. I long to be in Paris, just for the
day. but then i begin to feel ungrateful.  all the
paintings are full of life, but it is Van Goghs
"gardener" that pulls me in.  The gardener swirls
inside his frame.  Despite his tired expression, he
looks as though he could come alive at any moment.  He
IS alive.  Van Gogh has made this so.  The trees and
the grass behind him seem so unextroardinary. it could
be a childs painting. What is it that burns inside the
frame that is lacking from so many other paintings
that were better, brighter, more complex? Why cant I
move? The trees begin to rustle and the grass shimmers
like golden sea waves.
-The soft clatter of the shoes on polished museum
floors brings me back.
rome, italy, 5th of june.
Now I see that the gardener is sad. he is too
thoughtful, too sensitive for the simple country life
he lives.  Still, he will tend these fields, accepting
his lot, pausing only for a moment to look down, onto
the cold floors of the museum, longing for so much
more. A moment, caught forever, sitting in the
national gallery in rome.  next door, two men sit,
mesmerized by their friend who is painting on a
canvas, but here in the silent museum, we only see the
back of this canvas.  Giorigianis, "il figliio,
lārchitetto, e il pittore Alfredo mueler." i think
this translates to..."the son, the architect and the
painter" i am not sure.  the one I believe to be the
son sits handsome and bearded with a cigarette,
resting his strong, suited arm on the chair.
  I could love him.  
His right arm dangles and his veins pulse through his
hand. He is very much alive.  In each room I felt as
though I have had my soul ripped out and then seem to
find myself (or whatever, thusfar, I have come to
believe "myself" to be).
-In the "Sala dei veneti" (the venetian room).  Many
beautiful paintings of venice, where, if everything
goes to plan, i should be in a few weeks, blowing out
my birthday candle on the grand canal.  I have found
however, that since florence, I am less exited,
anticipating the throngs of tourists that will be
flooding the city (more infamously than the tide in
the adriatic sea) around that time.  why should I
think myself any different?? I am just one of them. 
in the next room is a painting by Faccioli called
"viaggio triste" (The sad trip).  In this painting, an
exhausted woman looks down at a boy (her son I am
sure) who is sprawled lifelessly across her lap.  But
I know him to be sleeping.  He is not dead, he is
simply falling into the blackness of her coat and
dress.  They ride in a weathered coach, smoking
section. very little luggage.  The woman looks down at
the boy, so tired that i believe that she is being
forced to give him up, for reasons beyond her control.
 Perhaps he is an orphan now. regardless, she is
sending him away, of this I am sure.  I think about my
own mother and almost start to cry, but I do not.
>From here I wander through Gustav Klimt, giacamo
ballla, who has painted the "villa borghese" I am now
visiting.  but in Ballas world, the sky is blue, made
up like a monet, in a million little specks. so
simple, when you are standing up close to it. and I
wonder whether I am contrary to this painting. Do I
try to paint myself as an opaque entity?  do I flatten
my colors in hopes that , upon closer investigation,
no one will see my multitude of stains and cracks. It
gives me character, some have said.  But beneath these
lines, these contrived, perfectly placed dots of
color, I say that i am quite simple.

-If I was a woman, I would be married by now. To
someone who could handle me and all my eccentricities.
I am a man.

I stumble through the modern MODERN art section of the
museum and  tend to let the art speak for itself.  In
the post 1950s exhibit, the the beautiful beat of New
York Bop, the satirical and decadent art of Rome. 
Sick Oranges, sharp metal shards collide in perfect
symmetry, provided an uncanny sense of deja vu. all
this, for a few dollars, at the national gallery. For
a few dollars I feel I have undergone countless
transformations.  I see post modern pieces which call
to mind an old television which broadcasts nuclear
fallout where somewhere in the distance...A radio
plays "Johnny Angel" That seems to sum up the 1950s
for me. Innocence and artifice. 
Well anyways, it was a beautiful day and i could go on
forever but I will wrap up by saying that my trip has
gotten much easier, it has taken me to Barcelona, the
isle of Capri and now...to the amalfi coast to a small
fishing villiage where I have sat every night to
witness the moment when the sea and sky become
indistinguishable in the milky mist of twilight. I
have begun to feel at home, I talk in my sleep. In
Italian. I travel this beautiful country with
confidence, realizing, or rather, remember who I am.
but I am exited to be home and to channel all this
beautiful experiences and to transform them into music
that, hopefully, I will share with all of you.

all my love,

Spencer

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