PosteItaliane

There is a lot I could say about what I feel right now, but I’ll spare you all the emotional ramblings and tell you about the minor misery.

My mother mailed me a package.

Vitamins, Cetaphil lotion, aspirin are incredibly expensive here and in the case of Cetaphil lotion you can’t even find it. So that is what she mailed. Unfortunately, the postal employee in the US decided to be nice and instead of writing “used personal items” actually warned Italy that aspirin and lotion were in the box. You know, those dangerous narcotics — aspirin and cetaphil.

So, I get a 6 page form from Milan where I have to explain exactly why I need lotion and aspirin. Then I have to fax it (6 euros). Then I wait. Then I get a note on my door saying it was trying to reach me. Then I get my 2nd note. So, the 3rd day, I’m here, waiting, looking over the balcony, salivating at the thought of my much needed lotion. Finally a call was placed. The courier claims he tried to deliver the 3rd time. He lied.

Next step, I have to take a train to outside of Florence. Confusion. I’m not where the package is. I miss a class I was supposed to teach. Work is pissed. Luigi is yelling at postal employees. A futile day is gone.

The next day, with location clarified, I take a bus. 50 mins later, Luigi and I arrive. We walk on a highway, cross a bridge in the blazing heat. This is where we are supposed to be. And yes, the package is there. They give it to me. All is well with the world. My skin is rejoicing for the lotion and chance to unfold into its healthy state. Until . . . I talk to my mom later and she verifies that she sent me vitamins which weren’t in the box. Vitamins, in case you are wondering, for about 30 of them — cost around 18 euros here. The US dollar is currently at 1.42 to 1 euro. You do the math.

So, my point being, I love this place. But, I have recently discovered Dante’s unmentioned 10th layer of hell. The hell of the postal system.

Cost of items — mom won’t say  / Cost of mailing — mom won’t say / Amount of time spent trying to retrieve package — 3 days / Energy, stress, etc. that was sucked from my soul — only therapy will tell / Lesson learned about mailing “drugs” overseas — priceless.

And really, I know, there are bigger fish to fry, but this is a fish that almost cost me my job and definitely took a lot out of me and everyone around me. Hope those couriers are enjoying the benefit of a vitamin boost, cause I’m sending them all of my negative vibes right now.

Thank you Michelle

For leading me to the Jena 6 madness. As a Southerner with a capital S I constantly try to explain that really racism is a problem the whole country faces. Unfortunately this story seems to prove me wrong.

And, as the article points out, it did not get the press coverage it deserved. Everyone needs to be aware of misconception and alienation and ESPECIALLY racism. North, South, Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, all of us, etc. This is what I’m talking about. Why? Why? WHY? Why do we continue to allow these things to go on?

Read it people, respond. There is no problem voicing your opinion to your senators. No one can hurt you for that (unless you threaten — which . . . anyway). Send an email. Write. Call Whatever it takes. Wars big and small (and there are no small wars) need ALL attention. Here’s the link to write or email any (pseudo or real) representative. (Click here! NOW)

Now, something that has been bothering me. Yesterday I posted and it brought out a comment that seemed to disparage a friend of my parents. Honestly, I admit I only met Jackie Malone once or twice, so I’m no judge. BUT, first and foremost, I’m a daddy’s girl and I trust my father about his opinion. He, like me, holds out till the very end. You really do have to prove yourself with us. Sad, yes, but true. However, I respect any differences to this perspective. That is who I am. Yet, I’ll put it this way. I wrote poems about Reagan-nomics, I used to refer to Nixon as the first evil; but then they died. And, whatever anyones’ grievance is against the dead — they are dead. To bastardize the dead is cowardice. So, if you have a problem with leaders in your community, or in the administration, or in any other living facet — BE BOLD. Let them have it. But once they are gone, they are gone. Let them rest in peace.

Love people! I’m having a revolution here. Hope you are doing the same.

Voice

DrugLord Comics posted a link to this story (click here) about the UF student who was brought down by security using a taser gun. After watching the video, I felt nauseous. I try to not comment too much on what is going on in America these days because part of me thinks I’m a wimp for being here and not arrested there.

But don’t you think this is a blatant violation of our first amendment rights? Or are we so removed from the ideology of 1791 (and the late 1960s) that we see the student as a problem? It was said that the student is perhaps a media hound, that he is an instigator of sorts (something about passing out the end of Harry Potter books), etc. But, at least just from the video, I saw someone who was fed up and using a public forum to be heard and to ask questions. Definitely not a reason to be tasered.

Most of all, I fear our voices have been dulled. The student protesters of the 60s (no offense to my generation) were highly educated. Yes, more people now attend college, but is college today the same as that 40 years ago? My mother was taught Latin in high school (something not even conceived of in today’s public education system). And then we are fed by the media and our current administration selected audiences who would never raise a debate, let alone their voice. So complacency seems normal. But should it?

Soldiers and citizens around the world are stuck in a war. They are dying and they are killing; and everyone is mourning. Can someone tell me why? I really do not understand. Where is an Owen Meany that can speak to us in all CAPS and see what is wrong? Where is our VOICE?

And can we find it soon?

Cursed blessed day

It is a day of black and white (so far).

Had to come back to Coverciano this morning at a little past 6 after falling asleep downtown. Early morning dark and the fading stars; lovely. Napped at home, dreamed of old friends, nostalgic. Bathed, went to teach a class back at the train station that wasn’t really meeting; frustrated. Took the number 10 bus, that then broke down; irritated. But the walk home was brilliant, leaves falling in the light, presence of god blue sky, cool wind; soothed. Only to arrive back at home an hour after the PosteItaliane tried to (for the second time) deliver a package I’ve been anticipating for 3 weeks. Sigh.

With all the peaks and dips of the day’s first half, I’m wondering what will happen this afternoon.

Tomorrow I camp out on my stairs until the package arrives.

little h — hope

An Emily Dickinson poem for this Friday. Here, it is sunny and summer has fallen. Some near friends are having birthdays and my far away friends are healing. So, enjoy, take care and have a good weekend.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Vacation is over

Well, my month and a half vacation (unpaid of course) is finally over. Started teaching again and yesterday found out I’ll have a few more classes and hopefully others coming in.

Unfortunately, that means I must actually get dressed. My pajama lifestyle was suiting me just fine and now the process of leaving and getting ready, though normal behavior in the real world, is making me long to pull the sheets over my head. Of course, all of this makes me wonder, “when did I get so lazy”?

Really, seriously, I actually am happy to work again and there is that thing called rentfoodwinelife that requires some wallet attention. Still don’t want to get out of my pj’s though. The joyous days of yoga pants and cotton t-shirts are over. Sniff, sniff. Send sympathy stat.

Madeleine L’Engle

Patty Lou, a friend of my parents’ when I was the magical age of eleven, was a reader. She was also a smoker, a drinker, an intellect and had one of the driest wits on Lookout Mountain, or maybe even in the southeast. I have no idea where she is now, but I do know she did one thing that made the difference and will forever separate her from most of my parents’ other smoking, drinking, fun friends — she gave me a copy of A Wrinkle in Time.

And maybe, perhaps, assuming we are not just some genetic being, but also beings of the light, air, and literature around us, that book made me who I am today. So, thanks Patty, wherever you are.

Hopefully all of this explains why I have tears in my eyes this morning when I read that Madeleine L’Engle died at the magical age of 88. So, thanks to you too Ms. L’Engle, wherever you are. Thanks for teaching the world that love can overcome almost anything.

Drafting

So, I know the title and maybe the message are going to offend about 75% of you, but wrote a quick poem for Shelby. It’s really for all of us that have had to mend (so all of us). And I know that is humans’ work, not just women’s. But oh well, I like my title better this way. And yes, I wrote it in about 5 mins. and yes, I know it isn’t publish worthy — but people, this is a blog. If you want the good stuff, you must go out and buy a journal. Having said all of that:

Women’s Work (for Shelby)

All this mending
The pulled and picked gaps showing
An ugly absence with pale
Flesh peeking through.

We try to tie it back together
Recreate the former structure.
Yet, after a cycle (even on delicate!)
It’s there again, larger.

If only an expert would appear.
A real woman, knowledgeable,
Deft fingers, and silver
Full of stories with pins in her mouth.

She’d know what to do.
Done it forever.
Taking these sweaters, wool socks,
That favorite skirt

And the holes vanish.
Stronger, no longer headed off
To charity, or the trash.
A perfect garment (again)
Where no wind blows through.

But now — late for work and rushing
This quick knot and loose stitch
Must make do.

Slippers

So, I know anyone that has had to suffer in the heat recently really doesn’t want to read this post. Unfortunately, I’m a mere vessel conveying information to you. More to the point, when I woke this morning I had to put on these (note the flannel):

Not only that, the view from my bedroom looked really chilly to me:

And of course, to take this shot, I had to put on a jacket (could have used a scarf).

As for other things, I got a free bike yesterday. No, I didn’t steal it. Just one of the many benefits of having friends in the academic cycle. Seems a student that was here in the Summer didn’t feel like selling it back before he left. And now I am the lucky one. Well, lucky may not be the word. It is kind of a rattling thing and I don’t think I’ll attempt to take it into town. But it’s blue and it works and I feel like I’m 12 again riding the roads, wind in my hair, cruising. OK, maybe not 12 — but still, bicycle, bicycle!!!

(yes mom, I’ll be careful—see, I am 12 again).

Spontaneous September Saturday

Above is the little town of Consuma that I went to yesterday on an unplanned journey. Only a short bus ride away and I made it back to Florence by 8 pm. The weather is gorgeous here and in Consuma it was cool enough for me to wear a jacket. They are famous for their schiacciata (a flat bread made with olive oil typically Tuscan). Schiacciata means crushed, squashed, or flattened. Beyond simple meaning of the word, it is a tasty bread—especially when stuffed with all kinds of goodies (salami, prosciutto, cheese, veggies). Naturally, me being all about mountains, picnics, vino, and cool air, and having a companion similarly inclined, full advantage of the situation occurred. Case in point, below is a picture of our picnic, umm, bag:

I don’t know if any of you count carbs, but clearly I don’t. All in all, it was a great unplanned breather. Even saw my dream house:

Exhausted after the day but so worth the bus ride there. Whoever visits me next, be prepared for a side trip back (only 3.10 euros there). But for now, it’s back to writing time. The British Library opens tomorrow and I’m joining it. Got to get my hands on some WWII books. I’ll keep you posted how that goes…