Pointless, really. I’m confronting an impossible task trying to articulate Rome to you. I’ll try, but this may have to come in stages. Actually, maybe it’s best to do it this way . . . the Forum — rain, history crumbling at your feet and rising above to the sky meeting balloon pines. Cypress lined walk in shadow and damp to Coliseum filled with arches and hateful, animal rot past. Mental exhaustion.
Collapse on hotel mattress, balcony outside a stage for tiled rooftops ascending, climbing, trying to reach the seagulls (paper white thoughts at night) flying up, up, up. Rest, food (the best — do I keep saying that?), wine, 50 twenty-year-olds singing “Happy Birthday” in the candlelight, fountains (the Four Rivers, Trevi) at night reflecting, reflection, wishing. More wine, talk, walk, sleep. Sleep.
Turn 35 looking up at the Sistine Chapel. Can’t see it all — the color, the time, the effort. I want more space between God and Adam. I want to see the space but my eyes aren’t large enough. I want to touch Raphael’s version of Michelangelo in the School of Athens. Want, want, want, until the Pieta. Satisfaction. Michelangelo’s sculpture takes my breath away. But the sadness and love and fear and tenderness of marble; how? I’m ashamed for not trying harder at the same time overwhelmed anyone could do that.
There is more, but I’ll leave it at that, for now.