Underneath The Tuscan Moon

It rained today, and I thought to myself, “these puppies probably have no idea of what is happening at this moment.” It is somewhat unfair that we experience most things for the first time, then grow old and forget the sensation of discovery, and I suppose it is that to which I am addicted: new ideas, new flavors, new emotions, always turning over the soil. To do this, one must sometimes play dumb, play empty, play passive, in order to allow new things to come toward us. Other times, it is necessary to seek them out aggressively while treating the banal, the quantified, with disdain. It is beautiful when something cannot be explained. It is difficult and it is frustrating, but it is magical just the same. Why is that flower blue and orange, its stamen so alien, so harsh, when itcould have been brown and lustreless? This is a question I’ve tangled with for most of my life, long before adulthood, and to varying depths. How is it possible to find such balance in nature — that hummingbird is as small a a bumblebee, flitting from each lavender bud, a match of perfection — whilst we are so rarely at peace? It is a constant struggle over personal greed, wanting what we don’t have, ever projecting ahead, ever looking past what we’ve got, keeping us from happiness. We, as humans, are flawed, probably irrevocably, to misery, to disaster, to destruction. That is okay in moments such as this, I think, for me. My music sits idle, unused, in its iPod next to me, for the birds and breeze are enough. The sun is coming out, but at 7pm. Horses graze just past the herb garden, tails wagging behind them like those of dogs, and beyond them roll the Tuscan hills, to which light responds in a manner completely different from the rest of the world. Dew seems omnipresent, the green and gold somehow shining together brightly, velveteen. There is an entirely different depth to the sky, where other places seem to hold clouds and mountains together on a single plane. The landscape looks edible, like something to be rolle around in; the garden is alive: watermelons dance with peppermint, while the zucchini flowers shine brightly, stars in a verdant sky. Somewhere nearby, that hideous brown feline ball of hair peers blindly at me from his milky cataracts, and soon the dalmation mutt will slink, defensively, teets shaking back and forth, sneering in defense of her newborn pups. This place tends to be crowded by people, each responsible for their own, but not right now. Even the rich German tourists are nowhere to be seen. They say that the villa, dating back to the 12th Century, was once occupied by the Third Reich. In the farmhouse behind me, I’m told, the Nazis would conduct their interrogations for the region. Now, when I sit in the villa ourtyard early in the morning, peeling potatoes, I listen to those wealthy Germans talking, laughing, and I imagine them saying, “ha! Yes! We’ve got that blonde Jewish thing just where we want him!” This entry just took a weird turn.


~ by nearhelsinki on July 20, 2011.

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