I almost didn’t post anything because I’m slightly overwhelmed with everything I could tell, but at the same time I really do work all of the time and haven’t done anything except the usual living stuff. Being sick has caused me to live more like Dickinson and less like Whitman and I would try to come up with some Italian counterparts but don’t really feel like it.
But in my hermit-like state of late I have tasted arancia torocca (which is blood orange) and I’m think FFCoppola but all those oranges in his death scenes not because of the lovely color or the fact poppy for heroine was grown in orange fields but because they are really, really, really good and he may have wanted to snack on them between takes. And then there are the grapefruits, which the pink ones are more coral colored in the sweet inside and are not sour at all, some subtle tart, but it’s just for effect. If I were an artist, well, I’m sure I’d mess it all up but they are beautiful and worthy of your saliva, attention and time. Florida has nothing on citrus, sorry.
The other recent joy is the hiring of 6 student assistants. I love having help. And they are so young and diligent. I’m going to make every effort to relinquish some control and leave the library for things like lunch or to learn the language. Working from 9 to 6 or 7 is cutting into my wow time with the city.
And I finished a book, A Million Little Pieces, which has nothing to do with Italy and is slightly graphic in its depiction of drug addiction, but has passages in it that make you burst inside. A few involving the dawn. A lot involving fear and need. Anyway, if you have a strong stomach, try it. . . . and speaking of dawn, watched it this morning illuminate the top of Santa Croce and rearrange my inner being for a moment into something like light.
Sorry you only get morning posts. That’s all I have time for. Maybe one night I’ll try to post something, but for now, the nights are all mine — secret and safe.