how i spent my summer vacation – 2008
the flicker of light off the field of woven golden grasses was akin to an afterlife. the endless tucked bails of hay in sharp shadowed sides of rectangular scatter lent an air of symbolic eternity, seemingly uncountable. the deep green rolling hills framing the field below had the feel of a painter’s brush stroke. the sky above a brief acknowledgement of the brilliant blues of heaven you thought it would be. clouds blotted for the sake of atmosphere. this was what it could look like once dead. at the very least, this image beheld could possibly reoccur at the exact moment after this life has faded to act as a pre-curser of what was ever imagined heaven could might well be.
it was stunning.
i stood there in the shadowy grove of the trees about a meter or 3 up the hill from it all. here in the contrasting darkened edge to allow the contrast below to inspire such majesty.
the devil appeared in apparition only, as if to make an appearance based on traditional union regulations. at first a crack in the field appeared. a black crack in the earth of no specific shape, thin at first and thicker with each moment as if rising up from the depths. the movement of a serpentine it became. long and slinking toward the hill where i stood. it came as if to startle the vision of the field and whomever took it in. specific in its direction, then it turned and showed off its improbable length and then gone it became, without a trace.
i suppose i began to breathe again then, took another bite of the pasta there on the plate i was carrying. squinched up my eye brows and shuffled from side to side to see better through the blocking brush in hopes to get another sighting of said serpent in slithering flux. but no. it was not anywhere to be seen again. the tangled vine on the edge of the steep slope dared you to slip into its traffic of knotted rooting so it might leave its kiss of rash and tumble upon any tendered flesh.
the snake was gone son. like it was never there gone.
the field glowed. the bails remained uncounted. the hills whispered a bit with the lucky wind.
i turned back then to rejoin the lunch in progress. i only left the table as an appendage that moves across a room, not really needing to know where the signal was coming. i moved to the field i didn’t know was there in a way that no one could have seen me disappear.
now, back at the long table made of plank and pasta, i approached as if by invisible manifestation. unnoticed at first and able to drink in the gather of people and their chatter like an angel might have to endure when gravitating toward.
it was a long endless plank filled with a bounty of rich simple pleasures. fresh pasta and oil with plates of grilled eggplant, aubergine and melonzoni.
we were in the middle of nowhere, italy. the emiliiagna romana region just over the eastern edge of toscanno where tourists were non existent because of the bigger then life reputation that tuscanny attracted instead.
this invitation of this impromptu lunch came as a token of glee from the festival played out the night before that we all were apart of. here, the promoters delighted in our delight of their delight in our delight. this was their lunch for us. it was more then we could absorb on the rictor scale of beauty. it would take some digestion.
the old building that surrounded the yard we ate in had been erected over a 1000 years ago. after the meal, the caretaker of the structure offered us some of the homemade brandy and port he made in the confines of those old walls. then came the handmade tour, the kind that is impossible from museums and guided walks. this one of a kind once in a life time moment of true audience in his presentation of its history. did he just say 200 years after Christ ?
he continued, eventually ending up in the year 1300.
on the walls were some paintings that were slowly leaving their original stroke of placement. the roman centurian carrying his own head after he was executed standing after it was discovered he was praying to jesus. he woke up after that about 10 in the morning, picked up his head, walk on the water across the river and eventually fell dead at 4 in the afternoon.
there was also a painting of an angel of klimt like proportions and color. but that came a couple hundred years later he said.
the reverb in that small ancient church was thick and dazzling . the kind that makes you dizzy.
outside the sun sparkled and the walls kicked back a soccer ball to oblivion as if to jump at the chance to partake in the game, but also to remind us of its sacred intent and not just a convenient ball stop.
the ball disappeared down an impossible steep hill in endless roll.
i suppose its rolling still.
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the night before we played an impossibly beautiful piazza in a hidden village of impossible beauty. desoto caucus opened up with marie frank. then alex chilton played next. giant sand closed the night. at dinner, alex gave us some free italian shoes someone had just given him. i will never wear these shoes. they look like a very shiny mistake. but i took em anyway for the sake of one day telling someone, alex chilton gave me these shoes. i liked his rhythm and perplex.
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