the Now

Already, the day is done and the darkness falls on the wings of night (in Longfellow fashion). It's ten-o-clock and I've promised myself I would actually go to bed. Not at midnight or 0100 when my mind finally succumbs to my fatigue. Then I'm left with only 5 hours or so of sleep and this is not enough - particularly when the gap accumulates.

It rained today. I changed the bicycle saddle last night and put wax on the chain of my bike - but the rain was so excessive I gave up the effort of the 13 mile ride and simply took the train to "V" station and rode my second-hand clunker bicycle with the tilting seat and broken kickstand the 5 miles in the downpour.

I ran on Saturday. with the club. Afterwards, bicycled back home with "F", a nice guy who shared coffee and then came around for a turkey salad lunch at my place and helped me hang mirrors and pictures.

I've been listening to "The Sudden Appearance of Hope" by Claire North. (I'm a big fan of her work - even if this wasn't her best writing. "The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August" was excellent.) The concept is interesting: Hope Arden is forgettable. Immediately after interacting with anyone, the other person forgets her - forgets the conversation and her existence. So her relationships are one-sided and short-term because the other person can't remember her long enough to form an attachment or be impacted by their interaction. It's an interesting concept and perhaps a bit more resonant because these are the relationships I form. Of course I can talk to my family and friends - but they are far away and my relationships are so short: the man next to me on the train or bus; Maya who is my running companion on Saturdays; the women in the gym locker room in the morning who chat with me while we shower and get ready for the day; the men at the music store who sell me guitar strings and give me coffee and try to talk me into buying the electric piano; and the dozens of people in coffee shops and restaurants with whom I chat comfortably, and then leave as easily. There is only this moment. This now. Now I am interested in your SCUBA diving lessons and the man you like at work; now I am interested in your dog; now I am interested in your mathematics course in college; now I'm interested in your love of baking. These relationships are unfulfilling but they are what I have and so I cling to them.  At some point, a few of them may grow into something more. But now, tonight, I am alone.

 My apartment is full of boxes. My mind is also full of boxes. It's better to be alone when you would just spend your effort apologizing for all the clutter and knowing you don't have the energy or time to sort things out just yet.

Glimmer of interest

Work. International. Compound or campus. I keep calling it "the base" because my mind is so geared to military structure I can't conceive of any fenced in place with security guards at the gate and flags as anything other than a military base. If I'd had my way last year I would be on a military base in Afghanistan or Iraq, and not bicycling to work as I do now, listening to audiobooks and watching the summer burst out around me.

Groups of Ex-pats cluster together as though shielding themselves from the culture. Today I had lunch with the Italians, feeling strangely at-home with their gestures and expressions and the quality of their jokes. Afterwards, we had coffee together. Of course we did.  What is lunch to an Italian if it isn't chased down by espresso afterwards?

Fabio, with his usually exuberant bush of curly hair looking more streamlined and tamed, said, "My wife set a trap for me. She left a piece of cake on the table and, like any fat person, I sat down to eat it. When I reached for it, she cut a hole in my hair. So then I had to let her cut all of my hair."

Of course, in addition to being Italian, they're all scientists and engineers - so we talked about recent Sci-fi/fantasy television, and about recent science news: the second successful penis transplant, and the upcoming head transplant. All these men had a surprising amount of knowledge on this bizarre topic.

This hasn't really been the job for me. Long hours and more tasks than I can reasonably manage - but nothing that requires I use my brain. I'm occupied, but not engaged. I've held out - returned to the tedious, relentless tasks, hoping for some improvement. I gave up my work because I thought I had this job in October - but didn't actually get to start work until February and spent more than five months without pay or expectation of work. I make 20% less than I did at my last position - and that job required only 26 hours per week. This one takes at least double that - often 55 hours or more. When I worked in Italy, my salary was 2.4 times this. Sometimes I get sick to my stomach thinking about what I lost.

Then I remind myself: this was my choice - and I never choose the obvious path. I didn't come here for money. Sometimes I forget why I came, or I remember and try not to feel hopeful since my reasons are so unreasonable. Instead, I focus on the beautiful apartment, the gorgeous commute, the long bicycle rides and the creative efforts I'm doing again in the evenings. I paint and write and bought new strings for my guitar. At work I'm glad to be doing something completely different.

Yesterday, I made a new friend at work: the director of an adjacent division. She and I chatted for two hours about processes and objectives and I began to feel a glimmer of interest. I think I may be able to redefine this work. I may be able to turn it into something I can get excited about. This brings a sense of relief, even as I get back to gun-decking. Maybe there will be something else in my future.

Assessment

They wanted an equation. 

Children of industry; grown fat in military quantities.

Measure us, they said. How tall? How fast? How many? How much?

Tell us the breadth of our reach; the completeness of our dominance.

Excessive in their self-evaluation. Stingy in their trust and will to partnership.

But a relationship is not an equation. Except that it sums to zero when you invest money, and demand faith as compound interest. 

The only machine you can purchase here is fed by coins and its cogs will stop when the lucre fails, or easily change hands with a higher bidder.

This is a marriage, a dance. Not a game. Not an equation. I trust you, when we run up a mountainside together, chanting in the African heat, trust that you will bring me safely down again.

Island hopping

One week ago I was back home in Pozzuoli. God, I miss that place. Walked down to the waterfront, strolled along Via Napoli. Ate dinner at Acqua & Farina. I stayed at Villa Avellino - where Eve used to live and where I spent my last few days in the country.

The visit had the possibility of bitterness - and that first night it overwhelmed me as I walked, tired from the day in Rome and long train rides south. I was here. I lived here. My work was so important (it seemed then, and still seems now) and it was important to me. This was where I truly was me. I existed. I was real. I mattered.  My work mattered. How could god allow people to strip me of everything? How could people I trusted be so cowardly and cruel? How was it possible that my programs - that SAMP would be cut off before it had a chance to grow? So many things I wanted to do and I was stopped. I've recovered none of it in the intervening years. Nothing that has come since seems to have mattered at all. I spoke with god, arrogant as I am, as though he was across the table from me, and the taste of my wonderful, long-craved food was seasoned with anger and pain. Why did you let this happen? What the fuck am I doing now? It was a mistake, I thought, coming here. Now I work programs that matter too little to me for people who want too much of me and I resent them for their relentless requirements.

In the morning, it was difficult to get up. Too much bitterness washed down with wine had soured my mind. But I opened the door, smelled the sea air and Solfotara, and heard birds that only sing their songs in Italy, and a measure of peace stole over me. I showered and grabbed the next ferry off the mainland. I stopped in Procida first. Procida is more rural and less commercial than the other islands. The heat of the day began to build and the stone streets and brightly painted houses, roses, lemon trees heavy with fruit, and everywhere the sounds of the ocean, made me remember myself. I was here. Pieces of myself were there, in the air. I breathed them in.

Rome

The train hurtles. Rumbling. Shaking. Gaining speed. Flickering light and shadow. Vestigial Roman aqueduct out the window parallels our southern journey. Red-brown crust, remnant of an ancient engineering feast that unsettles and shifts the imagination and then makes it soar.

Today I stood in the Pantheon. In the center with the perfect circle that the Romans drew: a clear path of sunlight. Beauty that outshines the pious paintings mounting the walls and dusty saints lurking in alcoves: insecure religion painting its signature on the secular perfection. Caked powder and garish lipstick on a five-year-old beauty pageant contestant.

Up with my alarm at 0800 to drink in as much of the city as I could. I bicycled past the Borgia galleries (save that visit for another trip), the Zoological gardens, the Borgia gardens, then down, down, down. Spanish Steps, Trevi fountain was being vacuumed by maintenance workers. I chucked a coin in anyway.  The Pantheon, and towards the Roman forum.  I ran out of time. Checkout was noon and it was 11:30. I raced back along the winding and one-way streets, fighting traffic, trying to find the hotel.

Showered and checked-out, I walked towards the bus stop and stopped for a cappuccino and chocolate cornetto. At the last minute decided on a taxi instead. And maybe different plans. Maybe not the train station. Maybe I cross the Tiber. Maybe I can find my lawyer’s office again and maybe he is still there and maybe I can speak with him. Find out what happened with my case. 

He exists. The office is still there. He was out, but his assistant spoke with me and he’s promised to track it down. No hope of any help. That died long ago. then what? Curiosity, I guess. Did it simply disappear? If so, why?

There are purple and gold and bright red flowers everywhere. I love this country. I love it in the Spring.