American Girl in Italy

How does the blue mold get in Gorgonzola? Have you ever heard the rocks at Castiglioncello sing and why do writers always seek solace in Italy? Time for me to find the answers to these and see, if in doing so, I also find my home.

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Location: Rome, RM, Italy

i am actually the lost royal heir to the small kingdom of Birundi...having been secreted away by my wet nurse when mean overlords arrived turning our little known, yet terribly chic fiefdom into a nasty republic. now my people sit glued with their eyes glazed.....dreaming of distant IRA's and stock options, having long forgotten the taste of sweet green olive oil and the scent of rosemary.

18 July 2006

Sometimes a song

walking down yet another subway corridor.....MP3 headphones jammed in my ears to make me forget (or remember) my breath is always taken away, when the song that randomly shuffles into my ears mirrors my mood, bringing me to hot wet tears.

i guess this is one of the reasons i listen to music in solitary spaces....because it slices through all my best laid defenses and when played out through instruments or other voices, speaks so many things i often can't find the words myself for.

sometimes life gives. more often however, it takes. and often in red raw strips of pounded flesh. and for me, it is always the goodbyes that are best to be avoided. be they on snowy winter eves, Milan airports, or even a taxi stand near torre argentina. for me they are best remembered with violins and guitars, in a crowded Roman metro, where for once i am glad to be standing, squished with my face against a wall.

l'ultimo bacio

Cerchi riparo fraterno conforto
tendi le braccia allo specchio
ti muovi a stento e con sguardo severo
biascichi un malinconico Modugno

Di quei violini suonati dal vento
l'ultimo bacio mia dolce bambina
brucia sul viso come gocce di limone
l'eroico coraggio di un feroce addio

ma sono lacrime mentre piove, piove
mentre piove, piove
mentre piove

Magica quiete velata indulgenza
dopo l'ingrata tempesta
riprendi fiato e con intenso trasporto
celebri un mite ed insolito risveglio

Mille violini suonati dal vento
l'ultimo abbraccio mia amata bambina
nel tenue ricordo di una pioggia d'argento
il senso spietato di un non ritorno

Di quei violini suonati dal vento
l'ultimo bacio mia dolce bambina
brucia sul viso come gocce di limone
l'eroico coraggio di un feroce addio
ma sono lacrime mentre piove, piove
mentre piove, piove
mentre piove, piove

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