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.
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